He stayed close to her as they crossed the street. “Jay Augustine died this morning in his jail cell, probably of a massive stroke.”
“Then whatever secrets he had died with him. Had he been sick?”
“Not that anyone knew. He was one evil son of a bitch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he willed his own death—made himself have a stroke so he could be with the devil he admired so much.”
A crowd of office workers and shoppers swarmed past them. “Could he have suspected something was wrong with him and refused to tell anyone?”
“It doesn’t matter now. He’s done.”
“Did Cliff Rafferty ever meet him, talk to him?”
Scoop shook his head. “Not that we know of. What’s on your mind, Sophie?”
She nodded vaguely down the street. “I’m on my way to the Augustine showroom in the South End. I wonder if anyone’s there to let me in.”
“All right.” Scoop was cool, hard to read. “We’ll walk over there together. Someone will be there today.”
Because of Augustine’s death, she realized.
Scoop matched her pace. “Hell of a coincidence after yesterday. Maybe Cliff had a word with the devil and they summoned old Jay home.”
They came to a narrow building with an upscale health club on the first floor. Scoop opened a glass door to the small entry. The Augustine showroom—or former showroom, Sophie thought, since it was now closed—was on the third floor. They took a cramped elevator that barely fit the two of them. She was intensely aware of the brush of his arm against hers, the shape of his chest, his thick thighs.
Scoop smiled at her as if reading her mind. “Tight quarters.”
The elevator clanked to a stop and opened into a reception area. Frank Acosta was there with a uniformed officer. “Figured you two would show up,” he said, leaning against the edge of an empty rolltop oak desk. “I came by after I heard about Augustine. Bastard did us a favor by dropping dead on his jail cell floor. He was never going to talk.”
“We’d like to take a look around,” Scoop said.
Acosta dropped onto a chair at the desk. “Go right ahead. We’re done here. Charlotte Augustine has an auction house lined up to sell off the inventory as soon as she’s legally cleared to get rid of this place. It’ll be easier now with her husband dead on his jail cell floor. Everything’s packed up.” He glanced at Sophie with half-closed eyes. “Take your time.”
She started to thank him, but Scoop stepped in front of her and pushed open the door to an adjoining room, holding it for her. She entered a long, narrow storeroom with deep shelves on one wall. The floor and shelves were stacked with neatly labeled crates and boxes, only a few pieces not packed up and ready to be moved out.
Scoop followed her down a row of crates. She ran her fingertips over one that came up to her waist. “I’m telling you,” she said. “Detective Acosta doesn’t like you.”
“He doesn’t like internal affairs.”
“Has he had run-ins with other internal affairs detectives or with you personally?”
“Sophie, I can’t discuss—”
“Internal affairs deals with administrative issues that aren’t necessarily criminal,” she said, moving down the row. “Laziness, lying to superiors, sexual indiscretions, showing up drunk on the job. Any of those describe Detective Acosta? Did he cross a line that got him into trouble with his bosses but not the district attorney?”
Ignoring her questions, Scoop bent down for a closer look at a hip-high marble statue. “He’s not wearing any clothes.”
Sophie gave up but couldn’t resist a smile. “You can be very stubborn. That statue is a high-quality copy of the Greek god Apollo, by the way. It’s marked as such, so there’s no deception.”
He straightened. “I don’t think I’d want Apollo here in my dining room.”
She checked out more crates, noting labels and staying alert in case anything jumped out at her that could help her understand what “Celtic pieces” the worker claimed to have seen and were now nowhere to be found.
“Tell me what you see, Sophie,” Scoop said, serious now.
“A lot of crates. It’d be helpful to find one labeled ‘stolen Celtic artifacts,’ wouldn’t it?”
Acosta came up behind them. “I can let you into the climate-controlled room where the kid who used to work here said he saw them.”
“That’d be great,” Sophie said as he hit buttons on an alarm panel.
“You must have brought an ill wind back from Ireland,” Acosta said, standing back from the door. “Cliff dies. Now Augustine dies, not that anyone will miss him.”
Sophie felt Scoop stiffen next to her, but he made no comment as they entered the climate-controlled room. “How did Cliff Rafferty end up working security here?” she asked. “Did he request the assignment?”
“Take a look around, Dr. Malone,” Acosta said, ignoring her question. “Tell us if you see anything.”
“Maybe he stole the missing artifacts himself. If he had a buyer in the wings—”
Acosta didn’t let her finish. “I’ll wait outside.”
He withdrew, and Sophie frowned at Scoop. “He doesn’t like me, either. Do you know how Rafferty ended up working security here? Did he and Detective Acosta know each other when the break-in happened at the Carlisle Museum?”
“Probably.” Scoop’s dark eyes settled on her. “No freelancing, Sophie, remember?”
She smiled suddenly. “I ask a lot of questions. It’s the nature of what I do.”
“Same here. I understand, but you still need to watch yourself—for your own sake.”
She moved deeper into the small, windowless room, taking note of more boxes and crates of canvases, statues, porcelain and metalwork on shelves and leaned up against the walls. “Are other pieces missing from the inventory, or just the Celtic artifacts the worker says he saw?”
“Just those.”
She looked up at an ornate clock set on a top shelf, then stepped back to the middle of the room. “Anything Celtic is in high demand these days. It doesn’t matter what era or country of origin. I don’t see anything here that’s obviously Celtic—Iron Age or otherwise—never mind resembles what I saw in the cave. I thought it might help to see what’s here. I’m not sure it does.”
They returned to the reception area. Sophie thanked Acosta.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, then grinned at her. “Don’t you have a job?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to see about tutoring my hockey players.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Scoop said.
She took the stairs instead of the elevator. When she reached the street, she called Tim O’Donovan in Ireland. After a quick hello, she said, “When I met Percy Carlisle at the pub the other night, he had just come from Killarney National Park. Last year he was staying with friends there when he looked me up. I wonder if they might know where he is now.”
“You don’t expect me to know everyone in Killarney, now, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
Maybe Percy was having an affair, Sophie thought, although she had no reason to think so and it struck her as ridiculous. He and Helen seemed happy together, with plans for the future. More likely, he was simply off enjoying himself—golfing, hiking, whatever—in an ultra-private setting and had no idea that his security guard was dead.
Sophie shook off her thoughts. “I was hoping maybe you or one of your friends had seen Percy with these friends from Killarney.”
“Are they Irish?”
“I don’t know. They’d be well off if they’re Percy’s friends.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Sophie,” Tim said, his tone neutral. “What are you up to?”
“Jay Augustine is dead—the serial killer.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Did you get the photo I e-mailed you of the police officer who died?”
“I did. I don’t recognize him, either. I’ll show him to the boys when I ask
about the friends from Killarney. I’m no help. Sophie…”
She heard the worry in his voice and smiled into her phone. “We’ll be back to dancing an Irish jig and drinking Guinness before long.”
“Your new detective friend?”
“I don’t know if he’s much on dancing, but we can teach him.”
Tim didn’t sound very reassured before they disconnected.
Scoop caught up with her at an intersection. “Figured I’d give you a minute to finish your call. Family?”
“Tim O’Donovan.”
“The fisherman and fiddle player.” He stepped off the curb and flagged a passing cab. “Have fun with your hockey players.”
“I doubt I’ll actually start tutoring today. I’m just getting acquainted with everyone.”
He opened the cab door for her. “Stay busy. Keep my number handy.”
She nodded, thanking him as she climbed in and sank against the seat. She was keyed up, and just as Scoop shut the door, she almost asked him to get in the cab with her—almost told him she didn’t want to be alone. Instead she flashed him a quick smile. The man had enough on his mind without adding her to the equation.
Ten minutes later, the cab dropped her off at a squat, unattractive building near Boston University. The tutoring center was located on the first floor. She enjoyed working one-on-one with students, and she needed the income.
As she headed inside, Tim called her back. “None of the boys recognized your cop,” he said, “but they have an idea of who Percy Carlisle’s friends in Killarney might be. They’re in Kenmare often.”
“You have any names?”
“I do, indeed. David and Sarah Healy.”
He gave her what details he had on the Healys, and after he hung up, Sophie dialed Scoop’s number. “Are you back at work?” she asked him.
“Nope. I had this urge to make sure you got to your destination. I’m half a block behind you.”
She turned around, and he waved to her from farther down the wide sidewalk. She laughed. “I’ll have to take ‘Spotting a Tail 101.’ I’ll wait for you—”
“Tell me now. I can hear in your voice that you have something for me.”
What else, she wondered, could he hear in her voice? She shook off the thought. “I have the name and address of a couple in Killarney who are friends with Percy Carlisle. They might have an idea where he is.” Sophie paused, watching Scoop make his way steadily toward her. “Maybe your British friends can check them out.”
18
Killarney, Southwest Ireland
Josie had steeled herself for Myles to abandon her in Dublin, but not only did he accompany her to the airport, he boarded a small plane with her for the short flight to the west of Ireland. She’d arranged for a car when they arrived. He took the keys. She didn’t object.
“I’ll navigate,” she said, reaching for her seat belt in the passenger seat.
It was very dark when they arrived at an attractive stone house just past a confusing roundabout near Killarney National Park. Lights shining in the first-floor windows suggested Percy Carlisle’s friends, David and Sarah Healy, were at home.
Myles popped out of the car with no hint of the fatigue Josie had noticed when she’d first walked into Keira’s cottage, and there he was. As they headed up the walk in a light rain, she fought a sudden sagging of her own energy and spirit. “I’d love just to wander among the oaks and yews with nothing more pressing to do than find the next waterfall.”
She expected a smart retort from Myles, but he brushed his fingers over the top of her hand. “We’ll get there, you and I.”
“Ever the optimist.” She mounted the front steps to the house. “I wonder if we’ll find Percy Carlisle sitting by the fire with a whiskey.”
Myles didn’t answer right away. She thought he might go soft on her again, but he rallied. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
David Healy, an amiable middle-aged Irishman, greeted them at the door, obviously curious as Josie introduced herself and Myles as best she could. “A mutual friend told us we might find Percy Carlisle here. We thought we’d drop in and say hello.”
“Sorry, you’ve missed him. He was here four or five nights ago. He stayed just the one night. He’d come straight from London. Helen wasn’t with him. She’d already left for Boston—or maybe it was New York, then Boston. Percy and I took a long hike in Killarney National Park. My wife stayed behind. He left early that evening.”
Myles leaned against a wet iron rail. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Kenmare. He planned to see an archaeologist he knows.”
“And after Kenmare?” Josie asked.
Healy’s expression by itself said he hadn’t a clue. “He didn’t say. He was quite preoccupied. He gets that way. He did say he wanted to go off on his own for a bit—I don’t know more than that, I’m afraid. My wife, either.”
The man was looking worried. Josie gave him a cheerful smile. “Well, we’re terribly sorry to have missed him. Thank you for your help.”
Healy started to shut the door but stopped. “There’s nothing at all unusual in Percy wanting to be on his own. He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him, which has been for at least ten years. Percy’s always appreciated his solitude. He says that’s why he married so late. Helen understands.”
“She wasn’t upset, then, about him going off?” Josie asked.
“Not according to Percy.”
Myles stood up from the rail. “Percy visited you last year around this time, as well, didn’t he?”
Healy frowned. “Yes, for a few days. We played a bit of golf.”
“Did he mention his archaeologist friend then?” Josie asked.
“I don’t recall, to be honest. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“We hope not,” she said, handing him a card. “My number and e-mail—please let us know if you hear from Percy, won’t you?”
He promised he would, and Josie thanked him and retreated back down the walk. Myles stepped in front of her and opened the car door for her. “Do I look as if I’d have run straight into it?”
“I’m being chivalrous.”
“Oh. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone be chivalrous. It’s rather nice.” She smiled as she got into the passenger seat. “You’ll shut the door next?”
“I’ll try not to get your foot.”
She checked her BlackBerry. She had a message from Will. No news in London. He and Simon were checking into Percy Carlisle’s friends, acquaintances and activities there, as well as taking another, closer look at Jay Augustine’s travels in Great Britain and Ireland. Undoubtedly Lizzie and Keira were deeply involved, too. They all wanted to know who could have been on the tiny island with Sophie Malone last September.
Simon had suggested that Josie—Moneypenny, as he called her—work directly with the Irish guards, but to what end? She knew nothing they didn’t.
She had a message, too, from Adrian, all about his day at school. It made her smile and wish to be back home. She glanced at Myles. But everything had changed, hadn’t it? Would she even be allowed to tell her son that his idol hadn’t vanished into thin air?
“Where to now?” Myles asked as he started the car.
Scoop Wisdom had reported earlier that Sophie Malone had offered the use of her cottage to his “British sources” in Ireland.
That would be Myles and me, Josie thought.
“Back to Kenmare,” she said.
The interior of the Malone cottage was charming and quite chilly, and the moment Josie crossed the threshold, she knew she was lost. Myles eased an arm around her middle and kissed the top of her head. “Josie.”
All his anguish and pain came out in that one gesture, that one whisper. She’d kept hers in a tight ball inside her, refusing to acknowledge her feelings much less let them leak out and destroy her. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Myles…I missed you so much.”
“I know, love. I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t,” she said. “Don’t be sorry.”
In one motion, he caught her up into his arms as if she were a swooning fairy-tale princess and carried her upstairs, kicking open a door and laying her on a frighteningly cold bed. They hadn’t lit a fire or turned on the heat.
“We’ll warm right up,” he said, kissing her.
Moonlight streamed through the window, striking his face. Josie held him fiercely and whispered how much she hated him, loved him, wanted him, and he let her get it all out before he kissed her again, taking his time. After that, she wasn’t cold anymore. He lifted off her shirt, and she got his off, half expecting a different Myles underneath—new scars, new muscles. But she found that it didn’t matter. She felt only the heat of his skin against hers.
They made love slowly at first, as if it were all so momentous and one wrong move would doom them to perdition, but when he was inside her, Josie grabbed him by the hips and pulled him deeper into her. He moaned, his mouth finding hers in the dark as he drove into her. There was nothing slow about their lovemaking after that.
Later, tucked under the duvet, holding on to him as she’d imagined alone in her bed night after night, Josie smiled. “I should have guessed this would happen when you opened the car door for me.”
He laughed. “You did guess.”
She laughed, too. “So I did.”
19
Boston, Massachusetts
When she arrived back on Beacon Hill, Sophie found the gate to the archway and courtyard unlocked and thought nothing of it as she shut it firmly behind her, locking it again. Her afternoon on her own had left her feeling more normal—determined, even, to back off from trying to find answers to last September herself. Cliff Rafferty and now Jay Augustine were dead. Percy Carlisle was still out of touch. She’d done what she could to figure out what was going on, and she’d told the police everything she knew.
The police included Scoop, she reminded herself. Whatever attraction she felt toward him didn’t change the fact that he was a police officer, as well as a victim of the spiral of violence over the past summer.
The Whisper Page 19
