The Whisper (20 page)

“Oh, great.
Everyone
will have been to Ireland before I get there.”

“You’re nineteen. You’ve got time.”

“Like you’re so old.” She slid to her feet, tucking her guidebook under one arm. “I need to get ready. My friends will be here any second.”

Sophie arrived, obviously fresh out of the shower. Scoop introduced them. Fiona was gracious, but she gave him a knowing, if somewhat protective, smile as she ambled off to the end of the bar where her friends were gathering.

“She’s very talented,” Sophie said, taking Fiona’s place at the small table. “She seems to be doing well. She’s as tough as her father in her own way, isn’t she?”

Scoop laughed, relieved to see the color back in Sophie’s cheeks. “Bob’s fine with her majoring in music. He doesn’t want any Criminal Justice majors in the family. He knows it’s not his call, but he’s not shy about his opinions.”

“You always wanted to be a police officer.”

“My family couldn’t keep me on the farm.”

“Did they try?”

He shook his head. “No. We’re a tight-knit group. We get along.”

“Any archaeologists among them?”

He grinned. “Not one.”

“When will Abigail Browning return from her honeymoon?”

“I don’t know. Soon. Bob was already on her about all the drama in her life before she was kidnapped.”

“Do you think she’ll remain a detective?”

“Up to her.”

“But she’s a friend,” Sophie said. “Her husband, Owen Garrison, was almost killed that day, too.”

“It wasn’t a great day, but we all survived. I suppose you could say we have the luxury of being frustrated because none of us spotted the bomb. We could all have blown up instead.”

“But you’re still frustrated. The bomb was placed where you wouldn’t see it. Is Abigail fully recovered from her ordeal? Physically, I mean.”

“She still had bruises when I saw her at her wedding, but they were healing. Norman Estabrook smacked her while he had her on the phone with her father, so March would hear her scream. Estabrook wanted to be John March’s personal nemesis.”

“Director March has suffered enough,” Sophie said.

Abigail had said much the same thing about her father. At her wedding reception she’d told Scoop she wasn’t convinced they’d ever know how the bomb had ended up under the grill. “This is a wedding, not a funeral, and thank God for that,” Bob had said, pouring champagne.

Sophie interrupted Scoop’s drifting thoughts. “Your lives had a nice routine, and this summer destroyed it. You all must feel isolated, at least to some degree.”

Maybe so, Scoop thought. Their lives had changed this past summer. There was no going back to what they’d been before the bomb blast. He looked around at the bar, more people drifting in as Fiona and her friends laughed with each other, setting up for their two hours of Irish music.

Finally he smiled at Sophie. “Abigail and Owen are having a baby.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“It is.” He sat back. “Let’s forget about bombs and blood-smeared branches for a while. Let’s talk about what wine you want to drink with dinner.” He leaned across the table. “Trust me or don’t, Sophie, but it’s time to decide.”

“That’s a two-way street.”

“Nope. One-way.”

She smiled. “I’ll have the Malbec.”

Scoop headed to Jamaica Plain after breakfast in the Whitcomb’s elegant dining room with Sophie’s bright blue eyes, freckles and sharp mind across from him. She planned to work on her laptop, in her room, then stop by the Boston-Cork conference offices and maybe drop in on academic friends in town.

He didn’t tell her as much about his plans. She didn’t seem annoyed, but she didn’t seem happy, either.

As he parked in front of the triple-decker, he received the latest report from Ireland, this time from Myles Fletcher, not Josie Goodwin. “We don’t have a bloody thing for you, mate,” Fletcher said. “We’re off to talk to the fisherman again. Percy Carlisle can’t have vanished. We’ll find him.”

Scoop hung up and got out of his car. It was warm out on the street. He ducked under the yellow caution tape. Bob O’Reilly was
on the front steps with a contractor, one of his friends from Southie, who saw Scoop, mumbled something about hero cops and left.

Bob nodded toward his departing friend. “He can’t fit in the pool and cabana in the backyard.”

“Funny, Bob,” Scoop said.

“Yeah. I talked the city out of condemning the place. That might not have been smart. We could turn the lot into a community vegetable garden and pitch tents.”

“At least the damage wasn’t as bad as we originally thought.”

“We?” Bob grinned. “You were on morphine. You should have seen the people trooping in and out of your hospital room. Who knew an internal affairs SOB could have so many friends?”

His entire family had come, too, Scoop remembered. He’d faked being passed out during one of their early visits, just to spare them from having to think of what to say. Later, when he was in better shape, they’d all had an easier time. They got along, but that didn’t mean they were talkers.

Bob rubbed a big hand over the top of his head. “Fiona feels guilty, but she shouldn’t. I never would have thought twice if I saw Cliff on Abigail’s porch with a damn bomb in his hands, never mind passing through the neighborhood.”

“Probably the bomb would have tipped you off he was up to no good.”

“Who knows? I wasn’t Cliff’s biggest fan over the years, but I never figured him for blowing up this place—damn near killing my daughter. If I’d seen him with a bomb, I’d have assumed it was a dummy and he was doing a drill or some damn thing. When you’re not suspicious, you’re not suspicious.”

Scoop shrugged. “Maybe I’m never not suspicious.”

Bob let that one go without a response. “Acosta’s here. He’s
in back. He’s angry and frustrated, and he’s looking to take it out on someone. He doesn’t much like you on a good day, Scoop.”

“So why’s he here?”

“He figured out you were already looking into whether a member of the department was involved with some Boston muscle.”

Scoop noticed that Bob hadn’t asked a question. He made no comment himself.

“Acosta doesn’t want to go down with Cliff,” Bob said.

They headed out back where Acosta was checking out the burned-out first-floor porch as if he could make sense of why his former partner might have wanted to plant a bomb there—for money, revenge, satisfaction? Was he being blackmailed? Was it part of some bizarre ritual he was into?

Bob pulled out white plastic chairs he’d hosed off, although they were still stained black from soot. “Have a seat, fellas. Let’s talk. View’s not that great right now, but look at that sky. Not a cloud in it. It’s a perfect fall day.”

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. Scoop 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.”