28
Sophie walked over to the Boston-Cork folklore conference offices after a pleasant breakfast with Scoop. They’d agreed not to discuss anything to do with the police investigations. They had no trouble finding subjects of mutual interest. Afterward, she e-mailed Wendell Sharpe and asked him about the Carlisle Museum and anyone Percy Sr. fired who was still in the art world—who could, she thought but didn’t say, want revenge.
He replied immediately: Everyone fired checks out.
She found Eileen Sullivan back in Colm Dermott’s office, staring out at the Charles River. “I’ve been thinking about taking up rowing,” she said, then shifted to Sophie. “I heard about Frank Acosta, Sophie. Even my brother’s shaken by what’s happened. I can’t talk to him about it, but I believe Cliff planted that bomb. I’ve been thinking a lot about him. He was filled with entitlement and envy.”
“That’s a difficult place to be.”
“Yes, it is. He was retiring. His wife had left him. His children didn’t like being around him. He was bitter and alone.” Eileen turned from the window and seemed to shake off her melancholy. “Keira and Simon will be back in Boston soon. They want to stay here. Make a home together. She thought I rejected her when I adopted a religious life. I didn’t—but I hadn’t chosen that life for all the right reasons.”
“What kind of life do you want now?”
She smiled, a spark in her eyes now. “The one I have. I’m looking forward to going back to Ireland at Christmas with Keira and my brother and nieces. I’ll go again in April for the Cork part of the conference.”
“I hope all your lives will be back to normal by then.” Sophie withdrew a sheet of paper from her bag and handed it to Eileen. “I brought a draft of what I want to do with the panel. I e-mailed it to Colm already.”
They returned to her office and discussed the conference for a few minutes, Sophie impressed with Eileen Sullivan’s knowledge and enthusiasm for her work and the topics they’d cover. She was open-minded and kind, and if she was still haunted by her encounter with a serial killer, she’d found a way to cope.
“When Keira and Simon are back,” she said, “we’ll have to get you together with them.”
“I’d love that,” Sophie said, the older woman’s optimism infectious.
Tim called her on her way back down the stairs to the street. “I’m on the pier. The Brits will be here in seconds, but I wanted to tell you first. The photo you sent me of this police officer who was hanged? I just showed it to an old fisherman I know. I didn’t think of it before now. He remembers seeing him.”
“Last year?”
“Oh, yes. He has a great memory for faces. I don’t, but I’m sure I never met him.”
“Where did this fisherman see him?”
“He was on the pier asking about hiring a boat. He specifically asked about me.”
“And he’s sure it was Cliff Rafferty?”
“He’s sure, Sophie. The Brits and the guards can check the dates Rafferty was here and see if it was the same time you had your misadventure.”
“He told me he’d been to Ireland,” Sophie said half to herself. “He could have been anticipating someone would remember him, or look into whether he’d been to Ireland if he came under suspicion. Was anyone with him?”
“Not that my friend saw.”
Sophie became aware of Frank Acosta behind her on the wide sidewalk. He eased in alongside her just as she hung up with Tim. “That Cliff,” Acosta said, shaking his head. “He never could get out of his own damn way.”
“You seem to be in good shape today.”
“I woke up with a hell of a headache, but, yeah, I’m fine. Relax, Doc. I’m on your side.” Acosta gave her a relaxed, sexy grin. “Sophie security.”
She slowed her pace, unsettled at having him there with her. “I have a feeling you’re on your own side.”
“Which is the same as being on your side.”
“Don’t you have a partner?”
“Day off. I’m recuperating. It’s a beautiful autumn morning.” He touched her elbow. “Let’s just keep walking.”
“Is that an order from a police officer?”
“Nah. We’re meeting your pal Scoop at the Carlisle house. I’ll keep you company while we wait.”
Scoop would have told her if he wanted her to meet him anywhere. “What about Helen Carlisle? Is she—”
“She’s waiting for us.”
Sophie slowed her pace. Her iPhone dinged, announcing a text message. It was from Damian. She saw Don’t go near Helen Carlisle before Acosta took her phone. He glanced at the screen. “You don’t want your FBI agent brother to worry, do you, Sophie?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m lousy with these things. Let’s see.” He typed onto the screen. “N-o p-r-o-b-l-e-m. There. That’ll do it. Let me hit Send and we’re done.” He smiled at her and tucked the iPhone into his pocket. “There. All set.”
“What else did Damian say?”
“Nothing.” Acosta tightened his grip on her elbow. “Come on. Helen’s waiting.”
“You saw my brother’s warning. He’s an FBI agent.” Sophie’s step faltered. “Detective Acosta, if Helen Carlisle isn’t—”
“I didn’t kill Cliff. He was a lazy son of a bitch, but we were partners.” Acosta glared down at Sophie. “Helen didn’t kill him, either.”
“You’re a dirty cop.”
He laughed. “Time for a shower. I just saved your brother from a lot of fretting over nothing. Helen’s not what either of you thinks.” He edged in very close to her. “Don’t make me throw you in handcuffs. I thought it was you and Percy. I thought you two went after Cliff because he figured out you’d hooked up with Augustine over the missing artifacts.”
“Where’s Percy now?”
“Hiding. He’s a chicken at heart.”
“Then who killed Cliff? Who do you think hit you on the head yesterday and tried to drown you? Not me, I hope. I saved your life—”
“You could have known Scoop was coming. Maybe Percy hired someone to get rid of me. He’s rich.” Acosta glanced down at Sophie. “Relax, Sophie. I haven’t ruled you out entirely but I don’t think you were a part of it.”
“I wasn’t,” she said. “Neither was Percy. Be smart, Detective. If Helen—”
“Enough, Doc. Let’s go meet Scoop and talk to Helen. I want you to see you’re wrong.”
Half shoving her, half dragging her, he took her to the side entrance of the Carlisle house. “For all I know,” he said, “Cliff killed himself and homicide’s putting out misinformation. Maybe he committed suicide after all. He was an experienced cop. He knew how to create a suspicious crime scene. He knew Scoop was onto him for the bomb and I was onto him for the missing artifacts.”
“Did you know he’d responded to the break-in at the museum seven years ago?”
“I do now.”
“He and Augustine—”
Acosta didn’t let her finish. “Cliff was caught and he went out the way he wanted to go out.”
“He was murdered. Did you kill him yourself?” Sophie shook her head. “No. You didn’t. He was scared. He knew he was in over his head.”
The door to the side entrance was unlocked, slightly ajar. Acosta pushed it open. “Sorry I got rough with you. Let’s go inside and figure this out.”
“You’re in over your head, too, Detective, and you’re scared. We need to get out of here.”
He shoved her into the hall. His eyes were half closed, his jaw set stubbornly, as if he knew he had to ward off anything she said that didn’t agree with his version of events. “You’re smart and resourceful, Dr. Malone. You’re just not that experienced.”
“That was you in my courtyard.”
“Yep. It was me. If you’d spotted me, I’d have said I was checking out your place because of Cliff and the missing artifacts. I needed to know what you were up to.”
“Did you get inside my apartment?”
“
You showed up first.”
“You deliberately scared the hell out of me.”
“If you’d caught me, I’d have said I wanted to see how you reacted. If you thought I was your partner in crime or if you’d made up the whole thing and knew you were caught. I bought just enough time to get out of there.”
“You’re saying you’d have talked your way out of it.”
“I’m a cop. You’re an expert and a witness.”
“It’s Helen, Detective Acosta. Rafferty figured out she’s out of control and isn’t going to stop.” Sophie took in a breath, remembering Helen swooping out of her house in her bright-red sweater. She pictured the scene at Cliff Rafferty’s apartment, in the bathroom at the museum. “She’s a shape-shifter. She’s transforming herself into some kind of a warrior queen. Listen to me. Whatever your dealings with her, you must understand—she’s going to kill you.”
Acosta didn’t listen. Sophie turned to get out of there, but he grabbed her by the elbow and shoved her down the hall. “You’ll see you’re wrong.”
“Cliff couldn’t control Helen’s violence,” Sophie said, hoping she could get through to him. “He must have wanted to talk to me about the pieces from the cave—what she could want with them. He knew he was in big trouble the minute Jay Augustine was arrested. He asked you for the security job at the showroom to cover his trail.”
“It’s been a hell of a week,” Acosta said.
“When did you know Rafferty stole the missing artifacts?” But he didn’t answer, just yanked on her arm and shoved her into the kitchen. Her momentum took her into the counter. She winced in pain, stood up straight. “Did Rafferty plant the bomb or did you?”
He was staring past her, his face ashen. “My mistake wasn’t violence or money.”
Sophie followed his gaze to three skulls—just like the ones she’d seen at Rafferty’s apartment—tacked to the courtyard door.
The branch of an oak tree was propped up against the woodwork, its dark green leaves dripping with what appeared to be blood.
The garden door opened, and Helen Carlisle stood there in a flowing, bright red cape. She wore a red wig, and she had a gun pointed at the two people in her kitchen.
“No,” Sophie whispered next to the stunned detective. “Your mistake was Helen.”
29
Off the Iveragh Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
The ride out to the island was horrifyingly bumpy. Tim O’Donovan had made a point of telling Josie that Sophie had never vomited on her trips out there. She was an archaeologist. Josie was a professional intelligence officer. Time to buck up. But she had never liked boats. Myles, of course, was now best friends with the fisherman, neither of whom seemed even to notice the waves, the salt spray or her seasickness.
Josie managed not to vomit. She did, however, slip on the wet rock and go down on her butt. Myles grinned down at her and offered her a hand. “I’ve my pride,” she said, and bounced back to her feet. “I’m a Londoner. I don’t do bloody rocks in the middle of the bloody ocean.”
She went on in that vein for some time. The day was only slightly overcast, the light soft, the view to the Iveragh Peninsula with its breathtaking sweep of rugged mountains, the highest peaks in Ireland. The island itself was a bald mass of rock with grassy bits.
“In the old days,” Tim said, “monasteries were built along the Irish coast.”
“Yes, Seamus Harrigan’s been trying to talk me into touring the old monastery on Skellig Michael. I understand it’s very difficult to get to—even worse than here—and quite inhospitable.”
The Irishman glanced down at her as if she were completely weak-kneed. “The monastery was in operation for over six hundred years.”
“I can hold my own in difficult conditions, but if I had another choice, I can tell you that I wouldn’t live on barren rock on a remote island. Do you suppose the artifacts Sophie saw in the cave were from Skellig Michael? I understand she believes they’re pagan in origin, but if they’re gold and of historic and cultural value—well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
Tim shrugged his big shoulders. “Anything’s possible.”
Myles pointed toward the center of the island. “Is that the way to the cave?”
“That’s it. Sophie was careful not to disturb any breeding ground for birds and sea life.”
“We’ll do the same,” Josie said, “and tread carefully.”
They followed O’Donovan up and then down again over the gray, bleak rock. Occasionally Josie would look out at the view of the coastline and water and fight off an urge to chuck everything, phone Will in London and tell him she and Myles were going off to hike the Kerry Way and stay in quaint Irish bed-and-breakfasts and have picnics.
Except, of course, Myles was riveted to his adopted mission of finding Percy Carlisle.
In her own way, so was she, Josie thought, feeling less wobbly now that she was on firm ground again. She had a terrible feeling about Carlisle.
Tim stopped atop a ledge and pointed down to a rock formation. “Sophie’s cave is there.”
Josie stood next to him, refocusing on why they were on this inhospitable hunk of rock. “I could come out here every day for a thousand years and not notice it,” she said.
Tim grunted next to her. “Sophie knows what to look for.”
Myles jumped down to the mouth of the cave. Josie sighed and edged down to him. She wasn’t as put off by tight, dark places as she was by boats. She tightened her jacket—she’d borrowed a waterproof one from the Malones—and crawled in for a peek. He followed her, and she imagined him and Will investigating caves in Afghanistan for weapons caches, terrorist plans. She did her part from a warm office in London.
“This is a lark for you,” she said, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light just inside the cave, “much as it was for Sophie Malone.”
“It’s not a lark if she saw what she claims.”
They crouched down amid the damp rock. “It’s not a pleasant spot to spend the night, is it?” Josie shuddered. “I might have made up blood-soaked branches and whispers myself, and I’ve been through all sorts of training. Sophie’s an archaeologist with a great deal of experience in the field, but still.”
“This place gives me the bloody willies.”
That did cut to the chase, Josie thought.
Myles turned to Tim, who had climbed down and stood at the cave’s entrance two yards from them. “Where did Sophie plan to camp?”
“There’s a spot of decent ground near where we landed. She had a tent, food, water—she was prepared and not at all worried.”
Josie peered into the dark at the back of the cave. “Tell me, Tim,” she said, “if you had gold treasure you wanted to keep out of the hands of the Vikings or whomever, would you hide it on this island?”
“If I knew about the cave,” he said.
“Do you think it was a ghost or fairies?” Myles asked.
“Ireland’s full of folklore.”
It wasn’t a direct answer, but Myles let it go.
“An archaeologist wouldn’t necessarily think of this place in the same way that we do,” Josie said. “To me, it’s desolate, remote and inhospitable. To Sophie—”
“It’s fascinating,” Tim said.
They heard a sound deeper inside the cave.
A moan.
Josie glanced at Myles but saw that he’d heard it, too. At the mouth of the cave, Tim O’Donovan was silent.
Someone was back there in the dark.
30
Boston, Massachusetts
Scoop spoke briefly with Eileen Sullivan at the Boston-Cork conference offices, then walked back down to the street. He left Sophie another voice mail. “Call me as soon as you can.”
He dropped his phone in his jacket pocket. He had it on Ring and Vibrate. No way would he miss her if she called him back. He’d been trying to reach her for the past twenty minutes. She’d left the conference offices fifteen minutes ago.
He’d joined forces
with Bob and Abigail and pried information on the investigation out of Tom Yarborough, probably Yarborough’s first tweak of protocol since he’d told his mother no at two. Cliff Rafferty had almost certainly built and planted the bomb. His trail was relatively easy to follow once they had C4 sitting on his coffee table. They knew what questions to ask. They’d found more materials in his garage and traced them to their source.
The bastard had assembled the bomb, walked into the yard of fellow officers and placed it under a gas grill, ensuring added explosive power when it went off.
“He used our trust against us,” Abigail had said.
“We never saw him,” Scoop had said. “None of us did. He sneaked in back with his damn bomb because he knew we’d ask questions if we saw him. It could have been anyone.”
But it wasn’t. It was a cop. Someone they knew.
And he’d been murdered.
Scoop walked down the street to the Carlisle house. Josie Goodwin and Myles Fletcher were checking Sophie’s island, but they hadn’t reported back yet. They’d be out there now, maybe even in the cave itself.
His phone rang and vibrated in his jacket. He had it out in seconds, but it wasn’t Sophie. Instead it was Damian Malone, her FBI-agent brother. “Helen Carlisle took a flight from London to Boston the same day you and Sophie got back,” Damian said. “She arrived a couple hours after you did. I’m checking, but I’ll bet she was in Ireland when her husband met Sophie in Kenmare.”
“Then she didn’t come from New York. She told us a bald-faced lie. Why?”
“Good question. Is she on the skids with Percy? Does she suspect he was involved with moving stolen art with Jay Augustine?” Damian sounded focused—and worried. “And where’s my sister? She texted me a little while ago that there was no problem. It was an odd message.”
“I’ll find her,” Scoop said.
He headed into the formal front yard of the Carlisle house and turned up the walk to the side door. It was partially open. He entered the elegant house, dialing Bob O’Reilly.
The Whisper Page 26