Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons by Dane Hartman Page A

the corner of Charles Street and Storrow Drive, just under the Back Bay Bridge into Cambridge. Harry passed under the bridge, looking up and down the street. He saw the Charles Street Theater complex a couple of blocks down the way, flanking the base of Beacon Hill on its west side. Farther up the road was Government Center. The marvelous thing about Boston, Harry was learning, was that every section was within a twenty-minute walk of every other one. The other nice thing was that in every section of town, there was a decent place to stay.
    Harry was in no mood to appreciate matters, however. He saw the Holiday Inn sign right next to the movie marquees and trotted up. He strode into the lobby, hastily registered, threw his bags at a bellboy, tipped him in advance, took his key, and left without seeing the room.
    It was a nice day in Boston. The sun was out, and the temperature was tipping the thermometers at sixty-five degrees. Harry didn’t appreciate that either. About the only thing he grimly noted was that his hotel was within reasonable distance from Shanna’s apartment and from the Unitarian Headquarters on the other side of the Hill.
    Harry charged in that direction. He went weaving up one street then to the right along another. He kept cutting over that way until he reached the north base of the Hill in the middle of Charles Street.
    The tail had been impossible to miss. Up on Beacon Hill—where the narrow cobblestone streets were nearly always empty—the young man nonchalantly following Harry from one twist to the next turn was ludicrously obvious, no matter how hard he tried to stay inconspicuous.
    There were three possibilities, Harry deduced as he crossed Charles, heading toward Shanna’s apartment with the tail in tow. The Donovans could have asked a friend to watch Harry so that he wouldn’t bother their little girl. That was unlikely. Collins could have convinced his superiors that Harry was the real murderer, and they needed to waste another officer to keep an eye on him. Also doubtful. That left one possibility. The Order of the Orenda was getting nervous.
    Harry welcomed their agitation. It would make his job that much easier. He continued unerringly toward Shanna’s place. He caught her just as she was going out. Callahan handled the situation carefully. He couldn’t just come out and ask her about Browne or accuse her of complicity. She would close down faster than a gin mill on a Sunday night.
    “I’m a little late,” he said, surprising her. “Is dinner still warm?”
    She whirled about at the sound of his voice, dropping her thin leather gloves in the process. But her reaction upon seeing him was not what he had expected. She laughed at his line, effortlessly. She honestly seemed to think it was funny. Then she put her hands on her hips and acted like an irate wife whose husband didn’t come home until late.
    “Where were you last night? My roast was ruined!”
    It was the one response Harry hadn’t been prepared for. He was expecting a nervous cover-up or an ashamed diversion. Instead, Shanna was acting as if Harry was her favorite friend. As if she were really happy to see him.
    At first, all his concern and doubt left him. He saw her as she seemed to be: innocent, beautiful, and alive. Then his fears returned, doubled. If she was as she seemed to be, then she might still be in terrible danger. If she wasn’t, then Harry was subjugating his senses because he had once loved her.
    Callahan pulled himself back on track. He leaned over and scooped up her gloves. “Things got a bit hectic,” he told her honestly.
    She took them from him. “You should have called,” she reprimanded. “I was looking for you everywhere.”
    “Didn’t Christine tell you where I was?” Harry asked in surprise.
    “Christine?” Shanna echoed. “No, I didn’t see her after she left.”
    Harry was getting dizzy from all the sudden changes in the situation. Somebody wasn’t telling the truth, and the way