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 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
