It was a mess.
"I could have stopped her from coming over here," Scoop said half to himself.
"How?" Bob asked, skeptical.
"I could have cited police business."
"She's a Ph.D. She'd have seen right through you and come anyway."
"I could have taken her car keys and flung them down a drain."
Bob rubbed the back of his neck, looking less irritated and agitated. "You didn't let her come out here alone. That's one thing, anyway."
"Yeah, Bob. Sure."
"So, Scoop," he said, "was Rafferty on your radar? You've been working on something. You were before this. Before the bomb."
"If I'd had anything on Rafferty, I'd have arrested him. He wouldn't be dead."
Bob had been a police officer for a very long time, and his eyes showed his experience as he narrowed them on Scoop. "You were onto a cop connection to local thugs before Norman Estabrook set his sights on Abigail. Those bastards who grabbed her had someone on the inside. You had that in mind when you looked at the lists we compiled of people who'd been to the house in the days before the bomb went off."
"Any ongoing special investigation changed the minute that bomb exploded and we became personally involved."
Bob ignored him. "Cliff's name get your attention?"
"There were a lot of names on those lists. There was no evidence."
"There's evidence now."
Scoop felt the warmth of the sun on his bare head. His exposed scars might as well have been on fire. "Unless it was planted."
"Another cop, Scoop?"
"I've been walking the Scottish and Irish hills for the past month. You tell me."
Sophie turned, her skin grayish as her bright blue eyes focused on him and Bob. Scoop wondered how much she'd overheard. As obviously shaken and disturbed by Rafferty's death as she was, she'd maintained her composure, answering questions, keeping any theories to herself unless asked.
Bob crooked a finger at her, and she came over to them. Strands of her dark red hair fell in her face, but she didn't seem to notice. He said, "Tell me how you ended up here."
She motioned toward Rafferty's front door. "I told the detectives--"
"Tell me."
She debated a moment, then nodded. "All right."
Scoop kept quiet, watching and listening as she spoke. She was precise, detailed and objective in her description of events. He could picture her in front of a university classroom or at an archaeological excavation--smart, professional--but he could sense her underlying emotions. Shock, revulsion, fear--and just the slightest hint, again, not so much of lies and deception but of incompleteness.
She was leaving out something.
"The skulls," Bob said. "What do they mean?"
"I can only tell you what I know, in general, about their significance to prehistoric Celts. They believed the head was the source of a person's strength and power. Warriors would decapitate enemies in battle and string the heads on their belts and around the necks of their horses."
"Okay. What about nailing skulls to a door?"
"The same. Heads tacked to the entry of homes were a status symbol. There was probably a ritualistic, magical purpose. The scene upstairs seems to be an attempt to create a sacred space, with the skulls marking the border between the physical and the spiritual world."
"Why?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what whoever tacked up those skulls had in mind. The supernatural was an ever-present force in the lives of the Celts. They made little distinction between gods and ordinary humans, the living and the dead. Gods could become men and men become gods."
Bob scratched the side of his mouth for a second, digesting Sophie's explanation. "What about the disassembled gun in the pot?"
"The broken weapon of the warrior."
"A police officer," Scoop interjected.
Sophie glanced at him, and he saw the strain in her eyes. But she stayed focused as she turned back to Bob. "Placing the pieces of the gun in the pot could be the killer's way of symbolically appropriating the power of the owner."
"We don't know yet Cliff was killed," Bob said. "He was retired. He didn't have any power."
"He had a gun. He had decades of experience as a police officer. He was a private security guard for a wealthy couple."
"Fair enough. The glass beads?"
"Glass beads are often found in Celtic graves. Torcs are, too, but in this case, the broken torc could identify a vanquished enemy. Then there's the manner of death." She took a breath and looked out at the street, as if just needing to see something normal. "Hanging and strangulation were used in conducting ritualistic human sacrifice."
Bob glanced at Scoop, then back at Sophie. "Great," he said without enthusiasm.
"Human remains aren't my area of expertise, but remarkably intact corpses have been discovered in the bogs of Europe. The anaerobic conditions preserve organic material. As it happens, the Celts often made votive offerings in wet places. I have colleagues who specialize in peatland archaeology."
"So bogs were a natural choice to dump a body?" Bob made a face. "What, you've examined murder victims from 300 B.C.?"
She gave him a small smile. "Not me personally. We now know there was never a pan-European Celtic culture with a central government. The Celts were a collection of warring tribes who shared a similar culture and language. We have only limited understanding of the practices I'm describing. The Celts didn't leave us with a written record. Theirs was an oral tradition."
"What do you go on, then?"
"The archaeological record and descriptions of contemporary Classical writers."
"The Romans?"
She nodded. "Ireland was never conquered by Rome, but the Celts of mainland Europe and Great Britain were. Obviously they were enemies, which undoubtedly colors Roman perceptions of the Celts. We also have ancient epic pagan tales written down by Early Medieval Irish monks. They're an important source, but, of course, they're a mix of fantasy, mythology, legend--"
"And a lot of BS, too, probably. I get it," Bob said. "One of the crime lab technicians is a pagan. Nicest, happiest person you'd ever want to meet."
"What I just witnessed has nothing to do with modern pagans or Celtic revivalists."
Bob nodded. "I get your point."
"Am I free to leave?" Sophie asked.
"Yeah, go on. We'll find you if we have more questions."
She glanced at Scoop, then headed straight for her car.
"Hell, Scoop," Bob said on a breath. "That's one creepy scene up there. So what were you thinking, coming out here with her?"
"I wasn't thinking I'd find Rafferty dead."
Just as Sophie reached the street, a car screeched to a stop. Frank Acosta, a robbery detective and Rafferty's former partner, jumped out, ducked under the crime-scene tape and charged in front of her, blocking her path to her sister's Mini.
"I figured he'd show up," Bob muttered next to Scoop.
In his late thirties, Acosta was known as one of the better-looking detectives in the department with his dark hair, dark eyes and what Abigail, an otherwise hard-driving, sensible woman, had tried to explain to both Bob and Scoop was a crooked, sexy smile. She'd never had any interest in Acosta, she'd said. She was just explaining.
That was last spring, when Frank Acosta had come to the attention of internal affairs for sexual indiscretions. He had treaded the line but hadn't crossed it, and he'd been warned to clean up his act. But he was no fan of internal affairs.
He was clearly emotional as he inserted himself between Sophie and her car. "You're the archaeologist who found Cliff?" He choked out the words. "What happened? I just saw him yesterday afternoon. We had coffee. He was fine."
"Hold on, Frank," Bob called to him.
Acosta pretended not to hear him. "Then you show up, and now he's dead."
"I saw him this morning," Sophie said softly, "and he was fine then, too. I'm so sorry. I can see he was--"
"We worked tog
ether for two years. I've known him since I was a rookie." Acosta glared at Rafferty's house as if somehow it had betrayed him. He was grim, covering his grief with anger and aggression "I hear you're just in from Ireland. You're an expert in Celtic Iron Age art."
"That's right."
"You can recognize real artifacts from fakes?"
Scoop resisted any urge to jump in. Acosta was deliberately trying to catch Sophie off guard. "It depends," she said, cool and controlled--more the academic at work than someone who'd just walked in on her first hanging victim. "What kind of artifacts are we talking about?"
"I don't know. Hypothetical artifacts. Celtic, say."
"'Celtic' is a general term. Even scholars argue about its meaning. Celtic can describe an Iron Age brooch from France, or an Early Medieval Christian chalice from Ireland--or a shawl in a Harvard Square gift shop."
It was just the sort of response that Acosta would take as smart-ass. He inhaled sharply, and Scoop found himself moving toward Sophie. Bob stayed back and watched, undoubtedly missing nothing.
Acosta didn't let up. "Let's say we're talking about hypothetical Irish Celtic Iron Age artifacts. Would you know if they were authentic?"
"It depends," she said, guarded. "I certainly can recognize an authentic Celtic design, but unprovenanced pieces can be difficult to date with any certainty. It's problematic when archaeological evidence has been moved from its original site--whether it happened a hundred years ago or a few months ago."
"Same in our line of work," Acosta said, less combative.
Bob unwrapped a stick of gum. "What's going on, Frank?"
Acosta kept his gaze on Sophie as he answered. "We discovered missing inventory in the Augustine showroom--you know Cliff worked security there until he officially retired three weeks ago. We brought in a kid last week who worked there part-time before Augustine's arrest. He said he saw gold Celtic artifacts in the climate-controlled vault. They're not there now. No record of them. Nothing."
"How did he know these pieces were Celtic?" Sophie asked.
Acosta made a spiral motion with one finger. "The swirls."
She nodded. "The curvilinear motif is a signature feature of Celtic design--spirals, circles, knots, tendrils, the play of symmetry and asymmetry. It's a truly great artistic legacy. Do you have photographs of these pieces? A specific description, their provenance--"
"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 noti
ced 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."
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