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.“Will Matt be all right if he doesn’t get back to the hospital?” Richard asked, white-faced.“He won’t be comfortable, but he won’t die.”“Emile couldn’t have done that to him.”“No.”“I want my daughters safe.Just tell me what to do.”Richard looked as if he’d be sick.Straker had seen both his daughters get sick, and they’d had that same aura about them.But Richard held on, and they reached Abigail’s office.It was her father’s old office, tucked in a corner down from the main administrative offices.She had no regular hours, no full-time secretary.She wasn’t in, and the door was locked.Straker held on to the doorknob, glanced at Richard St.Joe.“You up to a little breaking and entering? If not, look the other way.Is there an alarm?”“No.Security’s not that tight once you’re inside the building.If you need an extra shoulder—”But the door came with one good, hard shove.Richard St.Joe followed him inside.“What do you expect to find in here?”“I don’t know.Matt was attacked at Abigail’s, and she and Henry have worked hard this past year after the Encounter tragedy.”“She’s devoted to the center, as much as her father ever was.She fought long and hard to get him and Emile both to pay more attention to membership.She wants more programs, more community outreach.”“You?”“That’s not my area of expertise.”Straker sat at her desk.The furnishings were surprisingly utilitarian, the view spectacular.He tried to get into her computer, but it was password protected.He spun around in her chair, St.Joe pacing nervously.Definitely rusty, Straker thought.He could sense the connections spinning around him, but he couldn’t put them together, make any sense out of them.He stood up, examined Abigail’s wall of framed pictures.“Are these her pictures?”“No, they’re still from Bennett.She’s hardly changed a thing in here since his death.” Richard smiled wistfully as he fingered a vase of flowers.“A new computer and flowers.”“Who’s this?”Straker pointed to a small framed picture of a man in fire-fighting attire.Richard peered over his shoulder.He was fidgety, a little less green.“That’s Henry Armistead—and that’s Bennett next to him.” He pointed to a tall, white-haired man; Straker realized he wouldn’t have recognized Bennett Granger.St.Joe went on, “Bennett had flown out to California during wildfires that threatened delicate stretches of the coast.He wanted to see for himself if there was anything the center could do.”“When was this?”“About four years ago.Henry was the executive director of a small, private California marine research institute.He trained as a volunteer firefighter for those wildfires that get out of control there.Bennett liked him, and when the job opened up here, he brought Henry in.”Straker continued to stare at the picture.An administrator-oceanographer who would know ships.A firefighter who would know fires.And a man in love with a wealthy woman whose father wasn’t killed in an accidental explosion, after all.The puzzle pieces stopped spinning.They settled, connected together.“Here’s what you can do.” Straker started for the door, feeling a sense of certainty he hadn’t in days.And a sense of urgency.He glanced back at Richard St.Joe.“Call the police.Tell them to pick up Henry Armistead.Tell them I said so.Throw in that I’m a damned FBI agent if you need to get their attention.”St.Joe paled.“John? What the hell—”“Just do it.I don’t have time to explain.I have to find your damned father-in-law.” And his daughter.Riley.She’d be right with Emile, barreling in because she was an optimist, because she believed in her grandfather.“Go,” Richard croaked.“I’ll call the police.”When Straker reached his car, Matt Granger was struggling not to let his pain get away from him.Straker understood.He’d fought pain on every level for months.For a while he’d let it get away.But he couldn’t let empathy affect his need to act [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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