Free The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) by Luanne Rice Page B

wouldn't be able to see the panic flooding through her, “I would tell you.”
             
    AS JOE HOLMES BACKED OUT OF BAY MCCABE ' S DRIVEWAY, he
saw her friend Tara O'Toole watching him from her house across the marsh—the
consiglière
. Her eyes were dark blue, her gaze so penetrating even at this distance, he felt a shiver go down his spine—Bay had a true friend. Joe had the feeling Tara was barely holding herself back from sprinting across the tide flats to confront him herself.
    He'd like to tell Tara that this was one of the parts of the job he hated most—questioning fine, innocent people about their spouses' criminal activity. The look in Bay's eyes was enough to make him think about taking the next month off. Hitting some golf resort in Tucson, somewhere far from here, where all he had to do was tee off and work on his game.
    His father had worked for the Bureau, and he'd been the one who first taught Joe that golf went far toward easing the stress of the job. Joe had grown up thinking his dad was the coolest hero, a spy just like James Bond only bigger and stronger and without an English accent, and there had never been a chance that Joe wouldn't follow in his footsteps.
    Maynard Holmes had wound up head of the New Haven division. They had lived in a big blue house on Main Street in Crandell, between the store and the library. While other fathers went off to be schoolteachers, bankers, lawyers, mechanics, Joe knew his father was heading off to catch bad guys.
    “How do you know who's bad?” Joe asked his father once.
    “Not by how the person looks,” his father had said. “Never judge anyone by their appearance, Joe. Or the car they drive, or the house they live in, or even by the words they say. Judge people by their actions. That's how you know whether they're bad or good.”
    Joe had always remembered that. He thought of his father's lessons every day, working for the Bureau. He wished his father was still alive; he would really like to discuss the McCabe case with him. But that was the least of it. Joe missed both of his parents. His mother had died of a stroke two years ago; his father hadn't lasted six months after that.
    That's the kind of love Joe wished he had. But, investigating white-collar crime, he saw so many liars and the broken hearts they left behind, he wasn't sure love like his parents' existed anymore. He viewed most of the people he met with the same intense suspicion he had seen in Tara O'Toole's eyes just ten minutes ago.
    Passing through town, Joe's next stop was Shoreline Bank, to question Fiona Mills. The receptionist waved him back to her office, and he walked in. She had striking blue eyes and chestnut hair held back by a sterling silver headband; she wore a simple, expensive pin-striped suit.
    “I have a few questions,” he said.
    “I have a very full plate today, Mr. Holmes,” she said, gesturing at her desk. “With Sean gone . . . and with the mess he left behind . . . Of course I want to do everything I can to help you, but I don't have much time right now.”
    “I know,” Joe said, thinking of how different her dark blue eyes were from Tara O'Toole's. He swallowed, settling down. “Thank you for cooperating. We're just going over the latest details, trying to get to the bottom of everything. First of all, is there someone named Ed who works here?”
    “Edwin Taylor, in the trust department,” she said. “And Eduardo Valenti, a summer intern from New York. His parents live in the area.”
    Joe made notes, then looked up. “Can you tell me a little about yourself, and what you know about Sean McCabe?”
    Fiona had arrived at Shoreline Bank about five years ago, and everything had seemed great. The bank was a terrific place to work, she had liked her colleagues, everyone had seemed to get along and worked together to keep the bank growing.
    “Sean is always very competitive,” she said. “We're about the same level, came up for vice president at the