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.'
'You're just scratching the surface, aren't you?'
She smiled faintly. 'It's difficult to talk about 'the Celts.' There are many stories of shape-shifting in Irish mythology. The goddess Maeve is said to have shape-shifted into a hag and a raven, terrorizing and horrifying her enemies. Why are you asking about shape-shifting?'
'I don't know. Your big black dog in Ireland, maybe.' He changed the subject. 'You said the elder Percy Carlisle was an adventurer, but his son isn't. Was there tension between them?'
'I've told you, I didn't know them that well.'
'But you heard rumors. You worked at an upscale Beacon Hill pub, you did research at their museum, you were majoring in the field that most interested the father.'
'I was a student. I wasn't on their radar, and I didn't have a lot of time for rumors. If Percy felt inadequate--if his father made him feel inadequate--I wasn't that aware of it.'
''That' aware.'
She smiled. 'Okay, so I was a little aware, but Percy's a grown man now with his own interests and accomplishments. He's married. His father's gone. If you're suggesting he engineered the cave last summer as some way to prove himself--' She stopped, shaking her head. 'I don't believe it.'
'Helen doesn't seem to mind that he's a bit of a wimp.'
'I don't think of him as a wimp, and I know you said that just to see my reaction.'
'Never fantasized about Prince Charming Percy Carlisle sweeping you off to his castle in Back Bay?'
'No.'
Scoop almost asked her about fantasizing about a scarred, weight-lifting cop, but he resisted.
She gathered up her materials into both arms and dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace. 'I've been wondering if I missed it somehow and Percy Sr. did explore that island on one of his adventures. But I don't see how. Tim O'Donovan would have known. He and his family have been fishing off the southwest coast of Ireland for decades.'
'Going out there was all your idea?'
