The Whisper f-4

by Carla Neggers

  His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he was still clearly weak, but he dried off his face and managed to glare up at her. "Why are you here?"

  Scoop, his eyes on Acosta, answered. "She walked over from the hotel first thing this morning. She's why I came. I just didn't tell you that when you called. She's the one who pulled you out of the water. Did you see anyone when you arrived?"

  "Just the receptionist."

  "I must have arrived after he did," Sophie said. "I took my time. I've only seen the receptionist, too."

  "Doesn't answer my question," Acosta said, clutching the towel. "Where's your friend Percy? Do you two have something going? We only have your word Cliff looked you up on Beacon Hill the other morning."

  Meaning, she thought, no witnesses. She walked over to the stainless-steel sink and pulled open a drawer, got out dish towels and did her best to dry herself off. She was aware of the two men--the two police officers--watching her.

  She pointed toward the conference room with her towel. "I can wait out there--"

  "You could have killed Cliff yourself," Acosta interjected, not letting up. "All that ritualistic crap. That could have been you. Kill him, go back to Beacon Hill, make up that whole bit about him coming to find you. You know you've got Scoop wrapped around your little finger."

  "I'm going now," Sophie said, heading for the door.

  Scoop shook his head. "Stay with me. Whoever tried to kill Frank could still be out there. He can't have been in the water long or he'd be dead."

  Acosta cast the towel aside and staggered to his feet, his skin, if possible, turning even grayer. "Check out your archaeologist, Wisdom." He coughed, gritted his teeth visibly as he seemed to fight off pain and nausea. "She's the one with axes to grind. We don't know what happened with her and Cliff. No one does. It's just her word."

  "Take it easy, Frank. You probably have a concussion. You've had a bad scare--"

  "A bad scare? I damn near drowned. This woman's the expert. If she's obsessed with Celtic whatever--art, religion, history, bones, I don't know--she could have her own game. What if she set this up--sold fake Celtic jewelry, or found the real thing and wants to keep it for herself? What if she's blackmailing Percy Carlisle to get him to buy them or get someone else to buy them?"

  Scoop hadn't interrupted Acosta's rant. "You need to take it easy, Frank."

  Acosta ignored him. "Your Dr. Malone could have thrown Percy Carlisle off some damn Irish cliff before she flew back to Boston."

  "The Irish are looking for him," Scoop said. "We can talk about all this after the paramedics have checked you over."

  "What if your archaeologist was behind the break-in here seven years ago? She's smart as hell. She could have orchestrated the mess with the old man in Ireland, then broken in here so that we'd all look to some disgruntled employee. Maybe the son suspected her but couldn't prove it. Maybe he went to Ireland to confront her."

  "You're speculating," Scoop said.

  "Brainstorming. There's a difference." Acosta's dark eyes--bloodshot, red-rimmed, accusatory--were riveted on Scoop. "I'm not emotionally involved."

  "You are emotionally involved." Scoop's voice was calm. "Cliff was your friend."

  "Friend? Cliff didn't have friends. He was a lazy, cynical SOB who blamed his problems on everyone else."

  "Was he involved with the thugs Estabrook hired?"

  "How the hell would I know?"

  Museum security and two uniformed BPD officers arrived. Acosta shook off their help, then stumbled. They caught him as he fainted.

  Scoop touched Sophie's elbow. "You okay?"

  She nodded. He walked with her back to the conference room. Paramedics and the homicide detectives investigating Cliff Rafferty's death arrived next.

  Bob O'Reilly was right behind them. "Damn," he said, glaring at Scoop, then at Sophie. "You two again."

  By the time she finished with the BPD, Sophie was dry enough to head over to the main part of the museum. She'd loved wandering through the different collections as a student and welcomed being among the familiar paintings, sculptures and artifacts. The homicide detectives had been thorough and professional, but she had no illusions. They grilled her not just about how and why she'd come to the museum this morning, what she'd seen, what she'd done, but about everything--her life from meeting the Carlisles as a student to sitting in the conference room answering their questions.

  Scoop hadn't stayed with her. She wasn't sure he would have been allowed to, and he had his own questions to answer. The police and museum security had shut down the museum and searched it for possible assailants, witnesses and evidence.

  Sophie was staring blankly at a trio of Early Medieval Irish silver chalices behind a glass case when Scoop found her. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" Her voice was hoarse, but she continued. "You can see the Celtic motifs. The spirals, the knots. The museum doesn't have a lot of Irish works--these are on loan from a private collector."

  "You don't have to be here."

  She looked up from the chalices and saw that his gaze was on her, nothing about him easy to read--easy on any level. "I didn't wait for you this morning because I wanted to come here alone. It was a beautiful morning for a walk. It never occurred to me I'd find..." She didn't finish. "Security's obviously not as tight in the administrative offices as out here in the exhibits."

  He touched a hand to her upper arm. "I can take you back to the hotel."

  She nodded but moved over to a series of small, dark paintings. "If Percy's in Boston--if he's into dark pagan rituals, twisting them for his own purposes, and all this is his doing..." She shook her head. "I can't imagine. Helen would be devastated. Everyone here would be. When Detective Acosta was 'brainstorming,' all I could think about was how many possible explanations there are to what's happened. Percy could be hiding and afraid--he could think he's being framed for something he didn't do. He could have been working with Rafferty or Augustine."

  "That's why you have to leave the investigation to the police. They'll follow the evidence wherever it takes them."

  She turned from the paintings. "Was it blood on the torc and the ivy?"

  "Yes."

  "At least it wasn't Detective Acosta's blood." She glanced at Scoop. "There's much, much more to the Celts than human sacrifice."

  Scoop almost smiled. "Feeling a little defensive about them?"

  "I just don't want to paint too incomplete a picture."

  "Makes sense a killer's not going to pick happy Celtic symbols and whatnot to latch on to, right? What a Celt who's been dead for a couple thousand years would think about what's going on here doesn't matter. I want whoever tried to drown Acosta." Scoop's expression, although still grim, softened somewhat. "You did all right in there, Sophie."

  "Detective Acosta wouldn't have been here at all if I hadn't--"

  "Don't go there. It won't get you anywhere."

  Probably it wouldn't, Sophie thought. The police would talk to Jeremiah Rush, if they hadn't already, and find out if he'd told anyone else where she was headed. She hugged her arms to herself, suddenly cold again. "You all are taking another look at the incident with Percy Sr. in Ireland and the break-in here, aren't you?"

  "We're taking care of it, Detective Malone."

  She attempted a smile. "I think I like the sound of Agent Malone better, although my brother would find a way to keep me out of the FBI academy."

  "What about Professor Malone?"

  "That has an even better ring to it."

  Helen Carlisle swept into the room, alone, wearing a long, lightweight coat as if she'd just walked in from the street. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, her red lipstick standing out against her pale skin. "The director of the museum called me as soon as he could, and I came right away. Thank heavens no one was seriously hurt."

  "Where were you?" Scoop asked.

  "The house. Alone. The housekeeper might have seen me if you'd like me to provide an alibi." When he didn't respond, she turned to Sophie. "Did
someone offer you something to drink? Would you like to sit down?"

  "Walking around in here helps."

  "Of course. It's a fantastic museum. It needs updating, but the trustees are working on a long-term plan..." Helen faltered, tears rising in her big eyes. "I'm trying to put up a brave face, but I feel so vulnerable. I keep thinking the phone will ring, or the door will open, and Percy will be there." She spun around and faced Scoop. "I don't believe my husband is involved in whatever's going on, Detective Wisdom. Not for one second."

  "We just want to find him, Mrs. Carlisle," Scoop said.

  She nodded, tightening her coat around her. "I'm thinking about going to New York for a few days. I just want to be on my own--away from all this. I had a moment of panic about security, but if I were a target, I'd be dead now. It seems to me police officers are more vulnerable than I am. It's frightening, but whatever's going on doesn't really involve me." She added coolly, "Or my husband."

  Scoop buttoned up his own jacket. "Then you're not worried about him?"

  "I wouldn't think twice about where he is if not for Cliff's death and now this with Detective Acosta."

  "Did your husband ever mention the break-in here?"

  "No, why should he have? You're grasping now, aren't you, Detective? I have to go. I'm meeting the director. I never..." She shuddered, a glamorous, beautiful woman caught in the middle of a violent drama. "This isn't what I signed on for. I don't know if I'm up to it."

  She didn't wait for a response as she swept back out of the gallery.

  Sophie felt her energy flagging. "I have to stop at the tutoring center...and I promised a friend at BU I'd come by at the same time. I'm teaching a class there next semester." She reined in her thoughts and focused on Scoop. "What about you? Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Hauling Detective Acosta around didn't tear open any of your injuries?"

  He shook his head. "All set."

  She smiled. "Would you tell me if you were about to double over in pain right now?"

  It was clearly not what he'd expected her to say, and he smiled back at her. "Probably not."

  "Are you kicking yourself because you didn't connect the dots and figure out sooner Cliff Rafferty was the police link to those local thugs?"

  "That's still an open investigation. Whatever happens, you have your victories and your defeats in this job." He shrugged. "You hope the defeats don't get anyone killed."

  "If they do, you'd rather it be yourself who's hurt than someone else?"

  He didn't answer. "Come on. I have my car. I'll drop you off."

  "I don't mind walking."

  Scoop put his arm over her shoulders. "I can't wait to see you on that Irish panel, arguing with your colleagues about some point of ancient history. Is Celtic archaeology controversial?"

  "It can be."

  He laughed softly. "That's my point. Academics." He let his arm fall to her waist and held her close. "You just saved a man's life. The day could have gotten off to a worse start."

  "I guess that's one way to look at it."

  He tilted his head back. "What's on your mind, Sophie?"

  She lifted his hand and touched her fingertips to a jagged scar on his wrist. "The bomb did this to you. It burned your house. Cliff Rafferty was hanged. Now Frank Acosta was nearly drowned. Our perpetrator seems to be obsessed with Celtic rituals, appropriating bits and pieces of Celtic lore from a variety of sources, jumbling them up to suit his or her needs. Some scholars believe that burning, hanging and drowning represent fire, earth and water--fundamental elements associated with specific Celtic deities. The god Esus with earth, Taranis with fire, Teutates with water."

  "So you don't think the choice of the tub was a coincidence?"

  "It might have been quick thinking, since whoever is responsible couldn't have known Detective Acosta would be here this morning. I'm not suggesting there's a coherent strategy or recreation of any particular set of sacrificial rites at work."

  "Jay Augustine wasn't a scholar of the devil and evil," Scoop said. "He just latched on to what suited his purposes."

  "To kill." Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. "In 1984, the corpse of a young Celt was discovered in a bog in England. It was extremely well preserved because of the anaerobic conditions. He'd met a terribly violent death. He'd been hit on the head several times--hard enough that he'd have died soon after. But that's not what killed him."

  "Was he burned, hanged or drowned?"

  "Garroted, basically. The cord used was still around his neck two thousand years later. A stick had been tucked into the back of it to add to the force of the strangulation. It actually broke his neck."

  "Charming."

  "That wasn't the end of it. Then his throat was cut and his body deposited in the bog. He could have been a willing victim, sacrificing his life for the welfare of the tribe, victory in battle--we don't know. Whatever the purpose of his death, he'd have felt no pain after the initial blow."

  Scoop grimaced. "And here I thought you just dug up pretty jewelry buried for hundreds of years. Come on. Let's go see your hockey players."

  "I think I will take you up on the offer of a ride over to the tutoring center."

  He slipped an arm around her. "I thought you might."

  25

  After he dropped off Sophie with her hockey players, Scoop parked at the Whitcomb, changed clothes and walked up Beacon Street to the bow-front, early-nineteenth-century Garrison house. He'd gone back to the conference room after she'd left and checked in with Bob O'Reilly. They'd agreed to meet here, in the first-floor drawing room. It was used for meetings, parties and, on occasion, a practice room for Fiona and her friends. The offices of the foundation named in honor of Owen Garrison's sister were located on the second and third floors. Dorothy Garrison's drowning death off the coast of Maine at fourteen was connected, indirectly, to the death of Christopher Browning, Abigail's first husband, eight years ago--four days into their honeymoon.

  Lizzie Rush had a point about ripple effects, Scoop thought.

  The Rushes would have put Bob up at any of their hotels, too, but he was staying here, in his niece's attic apartment.

  Bright autumn sunshine streamed through the tall windows that looked across busy Beacon Street to the Common, crawling with tourists, shoppers, kids and dogs. The gold-domed Massachusetts State House was a few doors up the street.

  Bob cut his gaze over to Scoop. "You have your head screwed on straight with this Sophie Malone?"

  Scoop shrugged. "More or less."

  "She's not one of these women who come and go in your life. Whatever's going on with you two isn't the same."

  "It doesn't matter. I can do my job."

  "You're not on the case," Bob said. "I'm not, either. That prick Yarborough threatened to report me when I showed up at the museum this morning."

  "You'd have done the same."

  "Yeah, probably."

  That was the end of that. Scoop noticed Fiona O'Reilly waiting for traffic on the other side of Beacon, some kind of instrument case slung over one shoulder. "As far as we can tell, Percy Carlisle hasn't boarded a flight to the U.S. since Sophie saw him in Ireland."

  "Maybe he sprouted wings," Bob said. "The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. Anyone wanting to fry, hang or drown us has had multiple opportunities."

  "That's just a theory."

  "I know, I know." He nodded out the window. "Here comes Fiona with her violin. She's not getting any better on that thing. Either that or I just don't like violin music."

  "We can go talk somewhere else."

  "Nah." He continued to stare out the window as Fiona, blonde hair flying, ran across the street. "We've all turned into shit magnets, Scoop. I thought it was Abigail. Widowed, kidnapped, John March's only daughter. It's not just her. It's you and me, too."

  "It's not always the enemies you know that get you," Scoop said. "Sometimes it's ones you don't know."

  "Most of the time. T
alk to me, Scoop. Talk to Abigail and me."

  "She's here?"

  He nodded. "She and Owen got back late last night."

  Owen Garrison entered the drawing room at the same time that Fiona came through the front door, smiling easily, as if she had nothing on her mind but a few hours of practicing in a quiet, pretty setting. She set her violin down and grabbed tall, angular Owen in a big hug. He looked over the top of her head at Bob and Scoop. "Abigail's upstairs. I'll stay down here with Fi."

  Scoop led the way. He could feel a pull of pain in his hip now. He hadn't noticed any pain when he'd half carried Acosta down the hall. Worse had been hearing the running water, hearing Sophie yell for help--not knowing what was going on, if he'd get to her in time. He hadn't told her that.

  He hadn't told her that he'd fallen in love with her. It was just that simple. Love at first sight. Him. Who'd have thought it?

  He came to the attic landing and entered the small apartment. Abigail was on her feet. "Scoop," she said, hugging him. "I've missed you."

  He laughed. "Yeah, right, let me go tell Owen--"

  She grinned at him, a spark in her dark eyes--her father's eyes. "You know what I mean. Well, you look better than when I saw you at the wedding."

  Bob grinned. "He reminds me of Herman Munster." He nodded toward Abigail as he addressed Scoop. "Looks pretty good, doesn't she? Being rich and married agrees with her. You'd never know she was kidnapped and nearly killed a month ago."

  Abigail rolled her eyes. "At least you didn't make a pregnancy joke. The first one who does, I shoot."

  "I'll consider that fair warning," Scoop said.

  He pulled out a chair at the small table where Keira used to draw and paint. Bob hadn't done much to the place. He sat at the table, too. Pads and pencils were stacked to one side. Scoop felt a tug of emotion. He, Abigail and Bob had bought the triple-decker together because they'd all needed a place to live and were looking at the same time, and it'd been a way to pool their resources in Boston's expensive real estate market. As different as they were--in temperament, background, likes and dislikes--they'd become friends. When one would be chewing on a problem, they'd get out the pads and pens and a six-pack and brainstorm.