Acosta wasn't in a friendly mood. "Cliff was murdered," he said, practically spitting the words at Bob and Scoop. "Homicide can be as tight-lipped as they want. Cliff wouldn't off himself by tying a rope around his own neck and hanging himself from a plant hook. He'd eat a bullet. He was a son of a bitch in a lot of ways, and he was lazy. He had his run-ins with internal affairs over the years. But someone hit him on the head, put a noose around his neck, tied the rope to a door, hoisted him up and let him hang to death."
Scoop sat on one of the chairs. "He'd have been deadweight."
"He was scrawny." Acosta stalked over to the edge of Scoop's garden and kicked at squash vines, for no apparent reason except frustration. "So far there are no witnesses who saw anyone or anything unusual in the neighborhood. Could have been someone familiar."
"Ex-wife?" Scoop asked.
"She'd have shot him," Bob said, dropping heavily into a chair. "She wouldn't go to all the trouble of hanging him. I'm not officially on the case, but cause of death was asphyxia. I can tell you that much. He was hit on the head--the blow was hard enough that it might have killed him eventually by itself."
"Why go to the trouble to hang him?"
"Probably some kind of ritual significance, given the rest of the scene," Bob said, watching Acosta. "Whoever killed Cliff didn't go to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide."
Acosta picked up a half-rotten tomato and threw it against the compost bin, constructed of slats and chicken wire. "I'm not fooled, Lieutenant. You're only telling me this so you can watch my reaction." He picked up another tomato and splattered it against the compost bin, too. "We have nothing."
Bob shook his head. "We have a lot. We just can't make sense of it yet."
"Now Augustine's dead. If he knew anything..." Acosta bit off a sigh. "It wouldn't have mattered. He'd never tell us."
"If you're chewing on anything, Frank, you know you need to tell us." Bob's tone was patient, but his gaze was narrowed intently on the robbery detective. "Otherwise go home."
"Go to hell," Acosta said tonelessly.
Bob ignored him and addressed Scoop. "Where's your archaeologist today?"
But there was something in Bob's voice, and Scoop turned in his cheap chair and saw Sophie coming down the walk, her hair pulled back as neatly as he'd ever seen it. She had on a pumpkin-colored sweater and slim jeans, and his heart skipped a couple of beats. He figured Bob and maybe even Acosta noticed, but whatever. This was how it was going to be until the fairy spell wore off or he just accepted that he was in love.
He glanced over at Bob. "You invited her?"
"She's Irish," he said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. "I thought she could sweep the bad fairies out of the corners of the house before we renovate."
"You want her to see where the bomb went off."
He got up. "Maybe it'll help jog our memories."
Sophie gave them a strained smile. "Hello, Detectives."
Acosta moved away from the compost bin, looking irritated and out of place, as if he'd beamed himself into the middle of the wrong meeting. He didn't say a word to Sophie as she gazed up at the burned-out back of the house. "It must have been an awful day."
"It started better than it ended, that's for damn sure," Bob said.
She pointed to Scoop's trampled, overgrown garden. "The compost bin was the only possible place to take cover." Her blue eyes leveled on him. "How did you think of it?"
"I didn't," he said. "I reacted."
"You relied on your instincts and training." Spots of color appeared high in her cheeks. "And your fear for Fiona."
"For myself, too. Hell if I wanted to get blown up."
Acosta muttered under his breath, then shifted to Scoop and Bob. "I have to go."
Sophie watched him retreat back up the walk and out to the street before she spoke again. "He blames me for his friend's death."
"Why do you say that?" Bob asked.
"Because he does." She stepped into the remains of Scoop's vegetable garden. "No pumpkins?"
"Butternut squash," Scoop said, following her to the edge of the garden. "I don't eat pumpkins."
"I love squash. I'm a terrible cook. I don't mind cleaning, though." She took a long step over knee-high weeds to the compost bin. "Is the compost in here still okay?"
"Should be. I can pick out any shrapnel that ended up in it."
Bob walked around to the other side of the bin, behind Sophie. "Would an archaeologist be interested in an ancient compost bin?"
She laughed, relaxing some. "We deal with the material remains of a culture. Compost would be decomposed."
"Not the shrapnel," Bob said. With a broad sweep of one arm, he took in the entire yard. "Imagine keeping everything just as it is and then making sense of this backyard a thousand years from now."
"It would be a challenge," Sophie said.
"Aren't archaeologists part scientist and part historian?"
Scoop didn't know where Bob was going--maybe nowhere--but she didn't seem to mind. "Archaeologists are archaeologists," she said with a light smile. "There are many areas of specialization. Mine is visual arts. We often work with other experts--geologists, botanists, philologists--who can help interpret various discoveries."
"Did you have a good grasp of the geology of the island you ventured to a year ago?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It's not that difficult."
"Rock," Bob said with a smile.
"I knew there could be a cave on the island. In fact, I was hoping there'd be."
"Perfect hiding spot for your treasure."
"It's not my treasure," she said, matter-of-fact. She squinted up at the boarded-up windows and charred wood of the triple-decker. "Lizzie Rush managed to warn you right before the bomb went off. It must have been horrible, knowing your daughter was down here."
"Yep. Horrible."
"The bomb and Abigail Browning's kidnapping were orchestrated by Norman Estabrook. He and most of his men were killed when Lizzie, Will Davenport and Simon Cahill rescued Abigail in southern Maine. One was killed here in Boston, wasn't he?"
Fletcher's doing, Scoop thought. It wasn't Bob's favorite subject. The senior detective settled back on his heels and said, "Estabrook hired local muscle."
Sophie glanced back at him. "Cliff Rafferty?"
"He was a police officer then," Bob said, his tone neutral.
"He was a police officer when he set the bomb--"
"That's right, he was."
"Detective Browning survived her ordeal." Sophie seemed to jerk herself out of whatever dark thoughts she was thinking. "That's the main thing, isn't it?"
Bob nodded. "Yeah. That's the main thing. She did what she could to help with her rescue, but she kept those bastards from killing her. Did you run into Will Davenport when he was in Ireland this summer?"
She shook her head. "No. I don't think Tim did, either." She grimaced again at the fire damage. "You can trace some of the bomb-making materials found at Officer Rafferty's apartment, can't you? You can figure out if the evidence on his coffee table matches up with any evidence here, check his receipts, talk with his friends--"
"We can do all that," Bob said with no hint of sarcasm.
"I can only imagine how difficult this situation must be for you and everyone in the police department. Given what's happened, I gather you're taking another look at what he was up to at the Augustine showroom in the last days as a police officer--and whether he had anything to do with the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago. The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared that day has never been recovered."
"Cliff wasn't that smart," Bob said.
"Augustine was," Sophie said, but she abruptly squared her shoulders and smiled at the two men. "I've taken up enough of your time. You know how to reach me if you have more questions. I have nothing to hide."
Bob walked across the yard with her. "Any more stray cats at your apartment?"
His question obviously caught her by surprise. Sc
oop had called Bob last night, after he'd talked himself out of following Sophie up to her room. He'd had a drink, listened to Fiona and her friends for a little while, then went up to his own room and got Bob's take on the whispers in the courtyard--which was straightforward enough. He'd said next time tell Sophie to call 911.
"I haven't been back there yet," she said calmly. "I didn't make up what I heard--"
"Not saying you did. Be good, Sophie."
She glanced at Scoop, said nothing more and left. As she disappeared out of sight, Bob glared at Scoop. "You're going to stay on her, right?"
He was already on his way.
Scoop tried Sophie's number but she didn't answer. He checked the Whitcomb first. Before he could even pose a question, Jeremiah Rush jumped up from behind his desk. "Sophie said to tell you she's gone back up to her sister's apartment."
"Did she check out of the hotel?"
"She wanted to but I told her she could let me know for sure later." Jeremiah frowned. "Is everything all right?"
"No worries. Anything from your cousin?"
"She's in London with Will, Keira Sullivan and Simon Cahill. That's all I know."
"Do me a favor. Call me if you hear from any of them or if Sophie comes back here. If you need me for any reason, don't hesitate. Call. Got that?"
"I do, yes."
Scoop dialed Sophie again as he headed up Beacon Hill but she still didn't answer.
The gate was locked this time. She buzzed him in.
She had books and photographs on the Celts spread out on the table. He noticed a color photograph of a miniature boat in gold, complete with tiny oars, and another of a half-dozen ornate gold torcs. She'd let her hair down, the dark red framing her face, bringing out the blue in her eyes. "I left most of my research materials in Ireland. My parents can ship me anything I need when they get back from their hike."
Scoop looked up from the photos. "You're here but you're not here. Part of you wants to be back in Ireland."
"I'll adjust," she said tightly.
"It'd help to go a few days without a crisis." Scoop flipped through more color photographs of Celtic art. "Tell me about shape-shifting."
"Have you ever wanted to turn yourself into a bird or a dog?"
"When I was nine, maybe."
"Think of it. Being able to metamorphose into a bird would give a man or woman--or even a god--an enormous advantage. A bird can fly into an enemy camp. It can see things a human wouldn't otherwise see. Never mind the practical advantages, shape-shifting plays a symbolic role. A beautiful queen becomes a hag. A young girl becomes a swan. A hero becomes a hawk. As I've mentioned, the Celts didn't have firm lines between this world and the other world--between the living and the dead, between gods and men. Think of shape-shifting in that context."
"You're just scratching the surface, aren't you?"
She smiled faintly. "It's difficult to talk about 'the Celts.' There are many stories of shape-shifting in Irish mythology. The goddess Maeve is said to have shape-shifted into a hag and a raven, terrorizing and horrifying her enemies. Why are you asking about shape-shifting?"
"I don't know. Your big black dog in Ireland, maybe." He changed the subject. "You said the elder Percy Carlisle was an adventurer, but his son isn't. Was there tension between them?"
"I've told you, I didn't know them that well."
"But you heard rumors. You worked at an upscale Beacon Hill pub, you did research at their museum, you were majoring in the field that most interested the father."
"I was a student. I wasn't on their radar, and I didn't have a lot of time for rumors. If Percy felt inadequate--if his father made him feel inadequate--I wasn't that aware of it."
"'That' aware."
She smiled. "Okay, so I was a little aware, but Percy's a grown man now with his own interests and accomplishments. He's married. His father's gone. If you're suggesting he engineered the cave last summer as some way to prove himself--" She stopped, shaking her head. "I don't believe it."
"Helen doesn't seem to mind that he's a bit of a wimp."
"I don't think of him as a wimp, and I know you said that just to see my reaction."
"Never fantasized about Prince Charming Percy Carlisle sweeping you off to his castle in Back Bay?"
"No."
Scoop almost asked her about fantasizing about a scarred, weight-lifting cop, but he resisted.
She gathered up her materials into both arms and dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace. "I've been wondering if I missed it somehow and Percy Sr. did explore that island on one of his adventures. But I don't see how. Tim O'Donovan would have known. He and his family have been fishing off the southwest coast of Ireland for decades."
"Going out there was all your idea?"
She nodded.
"What about the break-in at the museum? How did that affect your relationship with the Carlisles?"
"I had nothing to do with it, and it was a long time ago--"
"Not that long."
She sighed. "Both Carlisles were uncomfortable around me after that."
"Did they ever consider you a suspect?"
"No, and neither did the police." Her voice was calm. "There were rumors--never mind. Rumors don't matter now."
"Maybe they do."
"Police officers dig into people's most private areas, don't they?"
"Just doing a job. What rumors?"
"That Percy Sr. was in on the break-in."
"Motive?"
"He could sell the Homer to a discreet, rich friend and collect insurance on it at the same time. There were rumors he needed cash, but I don't believe that so much--I don't believe he was involved at all, but if he had been, it would be because he liked the risk and he was getting back at someone. He was very..." She paused, obviously searching for the right word. "He could be very rigid and unforgiving."
"What was his wife like?"
"Quiet, cerebral. The museum was her creation."
"Married to it and her work there. So we had the near disaster and scandal over the smuggling in Ireland and the firings, the break-in and the heist in Boston. Now you're an expert in the field Percy Sr. thought of himself as an expert in. You know all this stuff, and Percy Jr. knows you know."
"That's why I was surprised when he looked me up a year ago."
"And your brain didn't go ding-ding-ding after the island experience?"
"No."
"Did you tell the Irish police about Percy?"
"It didn't even occur to me. I can't even say he was still in Ireland at the time. I doubt it."
"Not the type to chase after you to a remote, rockbound island?"
"Definitely not the type."
"Why did he come see you in Kenmare? Go through that conversation with me again."
She debated, then nodded. "Have a seat."
He listened without interruption while she talked. He wasn't a lot of things, but he was a damn good listener. And he liked hearing her talk. She was curious, analytical and interested as well as interesting--and it didn't take long for him to figure out that she hadn't been waiting for Percy Carlisle to sweep her off her feet. Or any man, for that matter. Sophie Malone, Ph.D., was very much her own person.
She'd just finished when she got a text message. She glanced at her iPhone, then smiled, her blue eyes sparking with obvious pleasure. "Taryn's here," she said as her fingers flew, texting her back. "You get to meet my twin sister. She's right outside."
Sophie leaped up and buzzed her in, and thirty seconds later, Taryn Malone was surveying Scoop with eyes as blue and incisive as her sister's. But she spoke directly to Sophie. "I'm only blowing in here to say hello, then I'm on my way to New York. I'll be there for two days. Then it's back to London. How are you? And who is this?"
"This is the detective I told you about," Sophie said, and made the introductions.
Taryn beamed a smile at him. "So good to meet you, Detective Wisdom."
"I'll go for a walk and let you two visit," h
e said, looking at Sophie. "Then I'm coming back."
22
Taryn gulped in a breath after Scoop left. Sophie held up a hand before her sister could say a word. "I know. What am I doing? I should take Damian's advice and go back to Ireland and dig in the dirt."
"No argument from me," Taryn said, stretching out on the sectional. "I didn't let Damian know I was coming here. I knew he'd tell me not to. Sophie, are you in trouble with the police?"
She shook her head. "I can't be. I've told them everything and I haven't done anything wrong."
"Please don't stay here alone."
"I'm not. I'm staying at the Whitcomb."
"Good. Unless--wait. Is this detective staying there, too?"
"For now."
Taryn moaned as if she were in pain. "I suppose there isn't a Malone born who does things the easy way. All right, then. If you're not in trouble with the cops--if they don't suspect you of wrongdoing--then let them help."
"Cliff Rafferty was a police officer, Taryn. Scoop's a detective. He can't turn that off even for half a second."
"Why would you want him to? Never mind. Scratch that. Dumb question now that I've seen him." She rose suddenly, a bundle of nervous energy. "Look, I'd stay if I could, but I have this crazy thing called a living to make. You could come to New York with me."
"Thanks, but I can't. I have commitments here."
"I know. I understand." Taryn dashed into the bedroom, yanked open the closet and pulled out a pair of black heels, tucking them under one arm as she returned to the living room. "I didn't think I'd need these. I hope I don't break an ankle. Oh, Sophie. You'll stay safe, won't you? You and I are so different and yet so similar. Do you miss Ireland?"
"Yes, but I'll go back. Taryn--"
"Don't go there," she said, as if she were reading her sister's mind. "I won't ask Tim to give up his life, and he won't ask me to give up mine."
Sophie leaned against the door jamb. "What would you say if he did ask?"
"He and I are both hopeless romantics. That's what attracted me to him in the first place, but I have to be practical."
"Tim's a romantic?"
Taryn blushed and quickly led the way back out to the street. She had asked her cab to wait. It was just like her to make a separate stop in Boston for something she could easily pick up in New York, but that wasn't, Sophie knew, really why her sister was there. "Damian's worried," Taryn said in a half whisper. "I'm worried. I want to trust this detective, but what do you know about him? What if he's playing everyone? What if he's actually the one who planted the bomb?"
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