The Angel by Carla Neggers Page A

Patrol officers were at his house in Cambridge at
    tempting to notify next of kin, but, so far, no one was home.
    “Keira arrived at the party late. I wonder—”
    “Don’t even go there.” Bob’s tone had sharpened. “You have no cause to push this thing.”
    Abigail wasn’t intimidated. “A dead man. That’s cause enough.”
    He tilted his head back slightly in that way she knew so well. It said that he knew she was deliberately pushing his buttons, that he wasn’t saying anything now because he was going to give her a chance to dig a deeper hole for herself. So she did. “I wonder if Victor Sarakis was on his way to the auction. Maybe he was going to bid on one of Keira’s paintings.”
    Bob rocked back on his heels. He and Abigail had 60
    CARLA NEGGERS
    worked together a long time, and she knew her comment would set him off. He could be volatile, or he could be patient. The choice depended on what he wanted, what tactic he thought would work to his best advantage. He wasn’t unemotional. He just had his emotions under tight wraps.
    As far as Abigail could see, Bob had never known what to make of his niece. At almost thirty, Keira was a success
    ful illustrator and folklorist, but with no roots, no sense of place. She’d been on the move since high school. Bob, on the other hand, had never lived anywhere but Boston.
    “I doubt it was the only event on Beacon Hill tonight, but go ahead, Abigail,” he said. “Check the guest list. Knock on every door within ten blocks of here. It’s not like you have anything else to do, right?”
    She had a full caseload. Every detective in the depart
    ment did. But she shrugged. “I’m trying to remember how I heard about the auction. I don’t remember getting an actual invitation. I think it was just an announcement.” She sighed. She didn’t know why she was antagonizing Bob.
    “Forget it. I’m getting ahead of myself.”
    He seemed to soften slightly, but that could be a tactic, too. “It’s the time of year. Summer solstice is getting close. It’s worse than a full moon. Too damn much sun, I swear. Brings out the weirdos.”
    Abigail couldn’t resist a smile. “Bob, nobody says weirdos anymore.”
    He grinned at her. “I do.”
    “What’s with you and the summer solstice?”
    “Nothing.” He yawned—deliberately, Abigail thought—
    and did a couple of shoulder rolls, as if he needed to loosen up. “I should get back. When you see Owen, thank him for giving Fiona a ride home for me.”
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    “Sure, Bob. I’m sorry Keira got here when she did. It’s not an easy thing, coming upon a body.”
    “Fiona wants to spend a week in Ireland with Keira visiting pubs and playing music. Can you imagine the two of them?” He wrinkled up his face and blew out a breath.
    “Fiona keeps telling me I worry too much. Maybe I do. I don’t even like her taking the subway alone, never mind getting on a plane to Ireland by herself.”
    “She takes the subway all the time. She’s a music student. She’s got lessons, ensemble practice.”
    “Plays the freaking harp. You believe I have a daughter majoring in harp?” He rubbed the back of his neck as if he were in pain. “And I have a niece who paints pictures of fairies and wildflowers and collects loony stories people tell by the fire.”
    “They’re both incredibly talented, and Keira’s success
    ful in a highly competitive business. Plus, they both get along with you, which is saying something.”
    Bob let his hand drop to his side. “Wait’ll you have kids.”
    His words were like a gut punch, and Abigail looked away quickly, muttering a good-night and making a beeline for the crime scene guys, thinking of something she could ask them. Anything. Didn’t matter what. She didn’t want Bob to see her expression, to wonder what demons were haunting her now.
    This was private, damn it. Personal. Up to her and her alone to figure out.
    Kids .
    She pictured herself with a big belly, Owen with a