Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Read Free Page A

took a deep breath.
    Ted raised an eyebrow. Was this guy smelling the corpse? God, that was gross. But then, everything Octavian did was peculiar.
    “What time did Martin leave work?”
    “No idea. Why?”
    “He’s only been dead about an hour and a half, which puts the murder somewhere between ten and ten-thirty,” Peter answered. “He smells of beer. If you check his work area, and don’t find any trace of alcohol, then he must have gone somewhere local to drink and come back here afterward. Find out where he went, and what was in the briefcase, and you’ll be that much closer to finding his killer.”
    Peter zipped up the body bag and stood to face Ted, who was looking at him with a sort of bemused smile on his face.
    “You always give me the creeps when you pull that Sherlock Holmes thing.”
    “Elementary,” Peter said, and winked. He was wondering whether or not to get involved, and decided against it. If he was supposed to be involved, the mystery would follow him until he paid attention to it. But just in case . . .
    “Ted, do me a favor. Call me tomorrow and let me know how this thing turns out. And while you’re at it, scoop me a copy of the missing-persons file on Janet Harris.”
    “Man, you don’t miss a trick. I would have called you right away, but I thought you were still out of town.”
    “Got back this morning.”
    “Yeah, sorry. God, it’s awful. Frank’s been holding up, but just barely. And officially, I’m not even supposed to be on that case.”
    “Well, you can unofficially snag me that file and keep your ears open. I’m sure I’ll need your help on this one.”
    “Sure thing,” the cop said. “Have a good night.”
    “I’m working on it.”
    He walked to the lot where his car was parked—there was indeed a ticket—and decided to see if Janet Harris’s roommate, Meaghan, was still awake. It was twelve midnight, exactly.

 

2
     
    AS PETER DROVE HE THOUGHT ABOUT THE city. He would probably have to move on soon, and it would not be easy. Boston had been his home for ten years and he had come to care a great deal for it and its people. Sometimes it seemed like he had wandered through every major city in the world, staying in each only as long as it was healthy. Then he would drift into another city, perhaps in another country and under a different name. But this city was so much warmer than New York, London, Paris—than any of the cold, flashy cultural centers of the Western world. And the Eastern world was not the safest place for his kind.
    Buildings of the future stood side by side with buildings older than the nation. It was a city with a small-town attitude. It was a political city, but the politics were old-fashioned baby-kissing politics and didn’t show a sign of change. Networks of acquaintance crisscrossed from the highest office to the lowest shop. Even so, you could always hide away in the hustle and bustle if you wanted to, or needed to, as Peter did from time to time. A small, quirky, contradictory city, but it had taken in an orphan of the world, and he was grateful.
    Peter parked the Volvo in front of an old house with a new coat of pea-green paint. Getting out, he looked up at the second story, where Janet Harris and Meaghan Gallagher shared an apartment. There was a single light on.
    The house was off of Huntington Avenue near Northeastern University. It was a far cry from the city’s best neighborhood, but it wasn’t bad. Trees lined the road, bare this time of year, and streetlights cast a ghostly light across small but well-manicured lawns and the cracked and potholed pavement. The silence and the cold of the night combined to lift him, energize him.
    The wind brought the smell of fireplaces not too distant, and a major snowstorm coming in from the northeast.
    Peter let himself into the foyer and scanned the few names on the battered black mailboxes. Three apartments in the house, and the middle label read HARRIS/GALLAGHER. He pushed the