Free The Angel by Carla Neggers Page B

good-night, and as they ambled down the gravel track, she felt more relaxed. It wasn’t as remote out here as it seemed. She’d come prepared. She had food, water, a flashlight, a first-aid kit and a whistle for emergencies.
    “You’ll be in Ireland on the summer solstice. Look for the angel then.”
    The summer solstice wasn’t until tomorrow, but Keira figured she’d have a good look around tonight, get the lay of the land. With a little luck, maybe Patsy’s story would lead her straight to the hermit monk’s hut. Regardless, it was a beautiful evening, and Keira was enjoying herself on her first full day of what promised to be a perfect six weeks in Ireland.
        Cambridge, Massachusetts
    3:00 p.m., EDT
    June 20
    Abigail parked her unmarked BPD car on a quiet street off Memorial Drive lined with mature trees and stately homes. Very Cambridge. Victor Sarakis’s house was a traditional Colonial with gray-painted shingles and black shutters. He was relatively wealthy, she’d discovered, and also something of an eccentric.
    She turned the engine off and scowled at Bob O’Reilly next to her. He’d jumped into the passenger seat at BPD head
    quarters a half second before she could hit the locks and take off without him. He was getting on her nerves, but wasn’t everyone? “Shouldn’t you be pushing papers somewhere?”
    He opened his door and glanced over at her. “What did you do, sit there stewing all this time and thinking up that one?”
    “No, it just popped out.”
    “Good. I’ll pretend it didn’t.”
    Abigail didn’t respond. She knew he objected to her
    THE ANGEL
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    coming out to Cambridge. He had good reason. The medical examiner had determined that Victor Sarakis had drowned. There was no indication of foul play, a contributing natural cause or the involvement of alcohol or drugs, illegal or oth
    erwise. A full autopsy report, with the results of more tests, was in the works, but everything still pointed to a bizarre accident. From past death investigations, Abigail knew it was entirely possible they’d never figure out the exact sequence of events that had led to Sarakis’s death. Bob had already made clear he didn’t care what the exact sequence of events was. He wanted Abigail to focus on clear-cut homicide cases. She didn’t report to him, but he’d been charged with improving BPD’s percentage of solved versus unsolved homicide cases after a withering series of pieces in the media and figured that gave him license to get in anyone’s and everyone’s face, including hers. Abigail had hoped to get to Cambridge and back without Bob ever knowing, but that hadn’t worked out. A middle-aged man in apparent good health drowning in two feet of water was provocative—worth a bit of follow-up, at least in her judgment. Bob was free to disagree, provided he stayed out of her way.
    She got out of the car, shutting her door with more force than was necessary. It was hot—too hot for June. Tomorrow it’d rain, and then she’d be griping about that. Given her mood, she had to admit that Owen had picked the perfect time for a quick trip to Fast Rescue’s Austin headquarters.
    She went around the front of the car to the sidewalk. Tom Yarborough, her partner for the past six months, shared Bob’s opinion of the Sarakis drowning but hadn’t made a stink when she’d said she wanted to head out here on her own.
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    CARLA NEGGERS
    Bob motioned for her to go ahead of him up Sarakis’s front walk. “It’s your investigation,” he said. Ignoring his sarcasm, Abigail took in her surroundings. The brick walkway was chipped. The front door needed a fresh coat of its dark green paint. The iron railing was loose on the steps. She had no cause to look into Sarakis’s finances yet, but she wondered if eccentricity explained the run-down condition of his place. Everything sagged or was in need of scraping, paint, a good carpenter. A termite inspection wouldn’t hurt, either.
    She took note of