The Angel by Carla Neggers Page B

toddler on his shoulders—the three of them in the Public Garden on a beautiful June day. But it was a fantasy. Reality was so much more complicated. She and Owen weren’t even married yet, and babies would change her life, change his life. 62
    CARLA NEGGERS
    Abigail turned her attention back to the pond. What had brought Victor Sarakis to Boston tonight? Never mind her mood or Bob’s mood, it was a question that needed an answer. She spotted a crime scene guy she recognized. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. He was new. Really young. Grew up on a tough street in Roxbury.
    “Malcolm,” she whispered, then raised her voice, calling to him. “Malcolm—hang on a second.”
    “Yes, Detective?”
    She glanced back at Bob, who pointed a finger at her and shook it—his way of telling her he knew what she was up to and would be watching.
    Malcolm frowned at her. Abigail pointed to the side
    walk. “I just want to make sure we get photos of any cracks in the walks that could trip a guy running in the rain.”
    “Of course. No problem.”
    “Thanks.”
    Bob continued across the picturesque mini suspension bridge over the pond. With a sigh of relief, Abigail studied the spot where Victor Sarakis had come to the end of his life. There was no fence on this section of the pond. If he’d tripped—or whatever—on the opposite bank, the knee-high cable fence could have broken his fall, perhaps kept him from drowning. But the water was so shallow—he must have been unconscious, otherwise why didn’t he just get up? The autopsy would tell her more, but she had to agree with Bob and the medical examiner that Victor Sarakis’s untimely death was likely an accident.
    In the meantime, she had work to do, and a long night ahead of her.
    She touched her cell phone, but decided—no. Owen already knew she had a case and would be back to her place late. He had an early start in the morning for a Fast Rescue
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    meeting in Austin. He was always on the go—Austin, Boston, his place in Maine, disaster sites and training fa
    cilities all over the world.
    Let him get to bed, Abigail thought, and not worry about her. She wouldn’t want him to hear anything in her voice that would tell him she was gnawing on a worry, a problem. Because he’d ask her to explain, and she wasn’t sure she could. Whatever was going on with her wasn’t about him. It was about her.
    And in those long years after Chris’s death, she’d grown accustomed to working out her issues on her own. She wondered if Victor Sarakis had left behind any children, but pushed the thought out of her mind as she joined Malcolm in looking for cracks in the walks.
        Logan International Airport
    Boston, Massachusetts
    10:00 a.m., EDT
    June 18
    FBI Director John March greeted Simon with a curt hand
    shake in an ultraprivate VIP lounge at Boston’s Logan Airport. March had flown up from Washington, D.C., that morning specifically for this meeting. He had an entou
    rage of hulking FBI special agents and staffers with him, but they stayed out in the hall.
    He was sixtiesh and trim, and although his hair was iron-gray, its curls reminded Simon of March’s daughter, Abigail. But March wouldn’t be seeing her today. He wouldn’t risk it. Simon knew it wasn’t just that March was protecting a classified mission. He didn’t want to have to explain his complicated history with the Cahills to a daughter—a cop daughter, no less—who knew nothing about it. It didn’t have to be a secret. It just was one.
    “Some days, Simon,” the FBI director said, “I wish you’d decided to become a plumber.”
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    “If it’s any consolation, some days I wish I had, too.”
    Simon had been fourteen, crying over his father’s casket at a proper Irish wake in the heart of Georgetown when he’d first met March. “At least when you’re a plumber and you’re knee-deep in crap, no one tries to convince you it’s gravy.”
    “I’ve put you in a