“I just got this kid’s word. They weren’t logged in properly. He saw them in late May—well before anyone knew Augustine wasn’t just a respected art dealer—and didn’t think about them again until we went through the vault with him. Charlotte Augustine says she never saw them and knows nothing about them.”
Sophie was very still, pale and visibly shaken but no longer shivering. “Does this kid know when these pieces first came into the Augustines’ possession?”
“No idea. Strange, though. Here’s this kid pointing out missing inventory, and now here you are, an expert in Celtic archaeology fresh from Ireland.” Acosta pointed up to the second floor of the house. “And here’s Cliff dead.”
She stared at him a moment, as if debating how to respond, then turned to Bob. “Am I still free to leave?”
“Hold on,” Acosta said, obviously ready to jump on Bob if he interfered. “How do we know you’re not a collector who’ll do anything to get your hands on Celtic artifacts? How do we know you’re not representing a collector—someone who wants the real thing and doesn’t care about legal niceties?”
Sophie tilted her head back. “Are you asking me?”
Acosta acted as if he didn’t hear her. “How do we know you didn’t sneak over here this morning, kill Cliff and stage the scene?”
“I gave the investigating detectives the paper he handed to me this morning with his address—”
“He could have given it to you last night when you stopped by the Carlisle house. Yeah. I can see you’re surprised. Cliff e-mailed me after you left.” Acosta crossed his arms on his chest, staying between Sophie and her car. He looked hot, irritated. “How would you be able to tell our hypothetical Celtic Iron Age artifacts weren’t something you could pick up at Pier 1 or a Celtic revival fair?”
“As I said, by various means.”
“Would you bring in an expert like yourself?”
“I wouldn’t. I’m not a dealer or a collector—”
“Ever advise dealers or collectors?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Friends?”
“No.”
“Anyone dealing in stolen or illegally obtained artifacts would have to know what to look for, that it’s valuable, who to sell to. Are authentic Celtic Iron Age gold artifacts in high demand?”
“It wouldn’t matter if they’re considered national treasure—”
“Forget that part.”
“I can’t give you a definitive answer. It’s not my area of expertise.”
Acosta wasn’t ready to quit, and Bob, as a senior officer, wasn’t ready to shut him up. Neither was Sophie, who could have walked away. Scoop wasn’t sure why she didn’t. He suspected it had to do with whatever she was holding back.
His dark eyes steady on her, Acosta kept going. “Did you slip something out of a dig to make a profit, then get cold feet when Augustine turned up as a killer?”
“No, I did not,” Sophie said.
“Did you come here to cover your tracks and keep Cliff from turning you in?”
“I came here because he invited me.”
“Percy Carlisle did business with the Augustines. His wife worked at a New York auction house up until recently. They both know how to avoid getting mixed up in buying stolen works, fakes, stuff that’s not legally on the market.” Acosta paused, studying Sophie, who didn’t appear to be letting his aggressive, suspicious attitude get to her. “How well do you know the Carlisles?”
“Not well,” she said. “I should go. I’m sorry for your loss, Detective.”
Scoop tried to tune into her nonverbal cues, the way she held herself, the set of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders—any nuance, any hint, that would tell him what she was thinking. She seemed unaware of his scrutiny, her attention on Frank Acosta. When he didn’t respond, she headed around him to her car. He didn’t stop her.
Scoop walked past Acosta and out to the street as Sophie yanked open the little driver’s side door. “I haven’t lied to you,” she said without looking at him.
“You just haven’t told me everything. Where are you headed?”
“I’m checking in at the offices of the Boston-Cork conference. They’re on—”
“I know where they are. I’ll talk to you later. Stick to your work, Sophie. Leave Rafferty’s death to us.”
“I intend to,” she said, sliding in behind the wheel.
In two seconds, she was gone, and Acosta stuck a finger in Scoop’s face. “That woman is trouble. She didn’t come back to Boston just to go job-hunting. She’s up to something. Mark my words.”
“I’m sorry about Cliff,” Scoop said. “I know you two were friends.”
“Spare me, Wisdom. You’re the biggest son of a bitch in the department. If Cliff screwed up, you’d have hanged him yourself.”
12
Sophie jumped at the blare of a siren, then at a barking dog as she fed the meter where she’d parked a half block up from the Carlisle house. Her fingers were cold, despite temperatures near seventy degrees, but she knew it was nerves. She quickly talked herself out of ringing Helen Carlisle’s doorbell. The police were there. No need to risk prompting more questions about her own behavior. Instead she decided to head straight to the Back Bay offices of the Boston-Cork folklore conference, just a few blocks away.
As she headed down the busy street, she checked her iPhone and saw that Tim O’Donovan had tried her several times. She called him back in Ireland. Before she could get out a greeting, he said, “Two Brits were here asking questions about last year. What’s going on, Sophie?”
“Go hide, Tim.”
“I’m not one for hiding.”
She was aware of cars crowding the busy street, car doors shutting, a young woman—obviously a student—walking four small dogs, panting as they strained on their leashes. It was a gorgeous early autumn day. She noticed a touch of red and bright orange in the leaves of a shade tree, even as she fought back images of walking into Cliff Rafferty’s apartment—of his body hanging from the beam, of Scoop’s dark eyes as he’d turned to her.
Tim broke into her thoughts. “Sophie? What’s wrong?”
“You saw me with Percy Carlisle the other night, right?”
“I’ve not met him myself, but I know who you’re talking about.”
“He told me he’d hired a retired police officer—Cliff Rafferty—as a sort of security guard or advisor. I’m not sure exactly what his job description was.”
“He’s been fired?”
“No—no, it’s not that. I’ll find a photo of him and e-mail it to you. Tell me if you’ve ever seen him before, if he came around asking about me, or if you saw him at the pier or in town.”
“You mean last year,” Tim said.
“Anytime, anywhere.”
“Sophie, what’s happened?”
She stepped out of the way of three men in suits who didn’t seem to notice her at all. She hoped that meant she didn’t look as if she’d just come from a murder scene—didn’t look shaken and sick, worried about what Detective Acosta had told her about missing Celtic artifacts.
As objectively and succinctly as she could, she told Tim about finding Rafferty. “I don’t believe it was a suicide. I don’t think the police do, either. There’s no way to know at this point if his death’s connected to what happened to me—”
“No, Sophie. Don’t. Not with me. You believe this police officer’s death is connected to what you went through on that island.”
She didn’t argue with him. “Are the two Brits who came to see you friends of Will Davenport? When I saw Colm Dermott last week, he told me that Lord Davenport helped with the investigation into Keira Sullivan’s ordeal on the Beara. He played a role in Jay Augustine’s arrest.”
“I’m having a drink with a friend in the guards and will see what he can tell me.”
Will Davenport was also romantically involved with Lizzie Rush, who had alerted her cousin Jeremiah that Sophie was on her way back to Boston. �
��Be careful, won’t you?”
“Ah, that’s funny,” Tim said. “Sophie Malone telling me to be careful.”
She appreciated his humor but noticed her hands were shaking. “I don’t want you to suffer for something you had nothing to do with.”
“I had everything to do with what happened to you on that island,” he said, serious again. “I left you there.”
“There’s no point rehashing the past.”
“I trust you, Sophie, but if you’re hiding anything at all, I’d give it up now.”
“I might have an unpaid Irish speeding ticket. Not that the guards are known for handing out speeding tickets.”
Tim sighed. “Sophie.”
She came to the ivy-covered converted town house where the conference offices were located. “It’s my turn to try to inject a note of humor into a grim day.”
“Go for a Guinness, then.”
“I’m dropping in on the Irish folklore conference offices.”
“Ask if they need fishermen musicians. Ah, Sophie. What a day. Be well. This police officer’s gone to God.”
“I suspect that was the idea,” she said.
“Does your family know any of this?”
“No, Tim, they know nothing. I prefer to keep it that way.”
“I would, too,” he said as he disconnected.
Sophie mounted the steps to a polished oak door and announced herself through an intercom system. A buzzer unlocked the door, and she went into a small entry and up two flights of narrow stairs to the third floor, where she introduced herself to a heavyset, middle-aged woman, who rose from behind a glass-topped desk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sophie. I’m Eileen Sullivan. I’m Keira’s mother.” She had her daughter’s blue eyes and fair coloring, and her hair was cut very short, her clothes plain and loose-fitting. “I just spoke to my brother. Bob O’Reilly.”
“Then you know—”
“Yes, he told me what happened this morning. It must be a terrible shock for you. Can I get you anything?”
Sophie shook her head. “I just wanted to stop in and introduce myself.”
“I’m the only one here at the moment. Colm’s in Ireland, but I assume you know that. We’re excited to have you organizing a panel for the conference.” Eileen frowned, obviously concerned. “What about a cup of tea and a bite to eat?”
Between waiting for the detectives and going through the questioning, it was well past lunchtime, but Sophie didn’t feel hungry. The thought of food nauseated her.
“At least tea,” Eileen said.
Sophie relented with a smile. “That’d be lovely.”
Eileen went down the hall, and Sophie sank onto a cushioned chair in a corner, next to a table piled with books on Ireland. A poster of the upcoming conference was on the wall. Keira Sullivan had clearly done the watercolor illustration of an Irish cottage, with sheep and a stone circle in the background. It was beautifully done, cheerful and inviting. Sophie picked up a book of photographs of Ireland and found one of Kenmare. She pretended she was there, walking its pretty streets with nothing more pressing on her mind than which restaurant to choose for dinner.
As if her life wasn’t screwed up enough, her brother, the FBI agent, texted her: All is calm, all is bright in Boston?
What would she tell him? Dear Damian, I just found a dead police officer?
She texted him a vague answer. I’ll call you later.
Let him find out on his own about her morning. She didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
Eileen Sullivan returned with a mug and one-cup teapot on a small tray. “I wasn’t sure if you took cream and sugar, but I can go back for them.”
“This is great, thanks.”
She smiled, setting the tray on the side table. “You must be tempted to jump on the next flight back to Ireland.”
“I am,” Sophie said truthfully. She thought of Scoop and his intensity and focus when he’d realized they’d walked into a potentially dangerous situation. Running back to Ireland would mean leaving him behind, and she didn’t want to do that. Finding Cliff Rafferty together had forged a bond between them—she couldn’t explain it. Besides, she’d only make him more suspicious if she left. She smiled back at Eileen. “Thanks for the tea. I’m thrilled to be involved in the conference.”
“Everyone’s eager to see what you come up with. I know very little about pre-Christian Ireland, but I’m fascinated by the various ways the early church incorporated pagan traditions.” Eileen stood up straight, her concern unabated. “You’re pale, and for good reason. You’re not a law enforcement officer trained to walk in on the type of scene you just left. Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have any friends in town?”
Sophie poured the steaming tea into the pottery mug. “I’m just getting my bearings. The tea will help.” She noticed it was Irish Breakfast as she curled her stiff fingers around the very warm mug. “Thank you.”
Not looking particularly reassured, Eileen returned to her desk. This was a woman, Sophie knew, who had left behind her life as she’d known it to become a religious ascetic in a cabin she’d built herself deep in the New Hampshire woods. Jay Augustine had come close to killing her and Keira there. He hadn’t counted on the two women being able to defend themselves against him.
Eileen eyed Sophie for a moment. “I can see you’re preoccupied,” she said with understanding. “You’re trying to make sense of Cliff’s death. Bob would just say to leave the investigation to the detectives, as if that solves everything.”
Sophie managed a smile. “He already did say that.” She drank some of her tea. “You knew Cliff Rafferty?”
“Yes. Yes, I knew him. He started out in the police department a year or two after my brother. I was still living in Boston. Keira was just a baby, so this goes back a few years. We weren’t close—Cliff, Bob and I. I ran into Cliff earlier this summer, before he retired. His death…” Eileen stared up at the poster of the conference as if to draw solace from the scene, just as Sophie had. “I’d hoped the violence had finally ended.”
Eileen Sullivan seemed open and interested, not unaffected by her encounter with a serial killer but not haunted, either.
Sophie forced herself to drink more tea, but her fear was clear and sharp and had been from the moment she’d seen the fake skulls tacked to Rafferty’s apartment door. Her encounter with Detective Acosta had only further crystallized what she’d already been thinking. What if her experience in a cave across the Atlantic a year ago had helped trigger the violence in Boston over the past three months?
What if it had helped trigger the violence Cliff Rafferty had encountered today?
With Jay Augustine in prison and Norman Estabrook dead, who had created the bizarre scene at Rafferty’s apartment?
Who’d killed him?
Sophie simply couldn’t believe he’d committed suicide.
She tried more of the tea, her head spinning with jet lag and the aftereffects of her adrenaline surge. “I don’t know if you’re aware that Percy Carlisle and his wife had hired Officer Rafferty to help them with security.” She looked up from her mug. “Do you know the Carlisles?”
“By reputation only,” Eileen said. “They’re not involved with the conference if that’s what you’re asking. Do you know them?”
“I know Percy a little. I did research at the Carlisle Museum when I was in school here. I only met Helen Carlisle last night.”
“You’re trembling,” Eileen Sullivan said quietly, rising.
“I probably should get something to eat.” Sophie tried to ignore her spinning head, a wave of nausea. “I’m eager to hear more about how the conference is shaping up. Colm’s a ball of fire, isn’t he?”
“Tireless. Sophie—”
She was on her feet, unsteady, ragged. “I think I’ll go ahead and grab lunch before I keel over. Another time?”
Eileen seemed to understand that Sophie needed to get out of there. “Of course. Anytime.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks. It’s great to meet you.”
Sophie bolted out of the office and down the two flights of stairs, bursting into the bright afternoon. She took the steps two at a time. She hadn’t thrown up when she and Scoop had found Cliff Rafferty, or in front of him and half the law enforcement personnel in Boston when they’d descended onto the scene, but now she felt her stomach lurching.
She stopped in the middle of the shaded sidewalk and put her hands on her knees, taking a few deep, calming breaths. She knew she had to eat something before she passed out. She stood up straight, careful not to move too fast, and there was Scoop, three feet in front of her, unsmiling. She hadn’t heard him. She hadn’t so much as seen his shadow.
“You need smelling salts?” he asked.
“Not anymore. You’re a jolt to the system all by yourself.”
“Good.” He didn’t seem particularly concerned that she might pass out. He had a sandwich in a wrapper and handed her half. “It’s cheese.”
The smell of the cheese managed not to turn her stomach. “Thanks.” She didn’t take a bite of the sandwich. “I left you stranded. How did you get here?”
“Another detective dropped me off. Be glad you were trying to keep yourself from fainting. He’s not someone you want to meet on a bad day.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep myself from fainting.”
“Pitching your cookies?”
“You know,” she said, “it’s entirely possible I’m feeling vulnerable after what we just went through. It was a shock to my system. I’m still getting my bearings. Plus my body’s still on Irish time.”
“You’re hungry.” Scoop pointed at her with his half of the sandwich. “Eat up. You’ll feel better.”
“My car’s down the street.”
“In front of the Carlisle house,” he said.
Sophie took a small bite of the sandwich, the bread soft, the cheese mild. She hadn’t forgotten he was a police officer. Of course he’d keep track of her. Even if she hadn’t already guessed who he was when she saw him at the ruin on the Beara Peninsula, she’d have figured out he was in law enforcement just by looking at him.
The Whisper Page 12