The Angel

“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.

Chapter 8

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 headquarters 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 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 otherwise. 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.

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 the full attic, one-story sunroom and attached two-car garage. “What do you think, Bob—five, six bedrooms?”

“At least, except they won’t all be bedrooms. No wife, no kids. Retired at fifty. He’ll have a library, a game room, a dead-animal room—you know, to display stuffed birds and deer heads.”

“Think he was a hunter?”

“Didn’t have to be.”

From her years working with Bob, Abigail knew he wasn’t being literal. He was sizing up Victor Sarakis as a moderately wealthy, eccentric loner who probably had serious amateur interests—ones that probably didn’t include gardening, she thought as she noted the dandelions, crabgrass and bare spots that dominated the small front lawn. His was definitely the ugly duckling house on the street.

She rang the doorbell, the faint sound of a ding inside the house telling her it worked.

“Tomorrow’s the summer solstice,” Bob said next to her, as if that explained an unusual death in the Boston Public Garden.

Abigail glanced back at him. “Don’t start that again. The summer solstice is a happy time. Lots of sun, flowers, bonfires, dancing.”

“Too much daylight, people go nuts. They can’t take it. Brings out the worst in them.”

She had no idea if he was serious.

“I know what’s eating me,” he said simply. “The summer solstice, and my crazy niece chasing fairies in Ireland. You, though. What’s going on with you?”

“What’s going on is that I’m trying to do my job, and you’re here interfering.”

“That’s not what’s going on. You’re used to me interfering. You know you don’t have to be here. You’re letting a straightforward death investigation consume you.”

“What was Sarakis doing that close to the water? It must have been raining when he ended up in the lagoon.” She knew she’d said lagoon instead of pond just to get on Bob’s nerves. He deserved it. “You’d think he’d have stuck to the walks and gotten to shelter as fast as possible.”

“Maybe he was feeding the pigeons.”

Just as she reached for the bell again, the door opened. A trim man with close-cropped graying hair stood on the threshold, looking tired, grim. He wore neatly pressed slacks and a loose-fitting silky sweater. From his expression, Abigail guessed he already knew who they were, but she showed him her badge and introduced herself and Bob.

“I’m Jay Augustine, Victor’s brother-in-law.” He stood back, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Augustine,” Abigail said.

“Thank you.” He waited for her and Bob to enter the foyer, then shut the door. “Why don’t we talk in the sunroom—”

“That’d be fine,” Abigail said.

He led them down a center hall. From what she could see, the interior of the house was immaculate and tastefully decorated, a decided contrast to the ratty exterior. They went through an elegant dining room into a small, adjoining room with windows on three sides and French doors that opened onto a brick terrace. Abigail noticed Bob was paying attention, taking in every detail—habit from years on the job, she thought, if not any real interest in her case.

Jay Augustine stood in the middle of the sunroom as if he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Victor spent a great deal of time in here. It’s the only casual room in the house. He—” Augustine’s voice cracked, and he paused, clearing his throat. “Every room in the house is crammed with his various collections. Except this one. Funnily enough, he spent most of his time in here.”

“What did he collect?” Abigail asked.

“My brother-in-law had many interests and the time and money to indulge them. He went all over the world. My wife and I are dealers in fine art and antiques, but Victor bought most of the pieces you see here on his travels. He lived a full life, Detective Browning. That’s at least some consolation.”

Abigail didn’t respond.

“Well.” Augustine took in a breath. “You’re homicide detectives, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “It’s routine to conduct an investigation when—”

“When a man trips and falls in the Boston Public Garden?”

She noted the slightest edge to his tone. “Where do you and your wife live, Mr. Augustine?”

“We have a home in Newton. Our showroom is in Boston, on Clarendon Street.”

“When did you last see your brother-in-law?”