The Mephisto Club

girl detective. Now that detective was dead, and the snickers were silent, replaced by the grim respect due every police officer who has fallen.

The cop’s breath came out in an angry rush. “Her boyfriend, he’s one, too.”

“Another police officer?”

“Yeah. Help us get this perp, Doc.”

She nodded. “We will.” She started up the sidewalk, aware, suddenly, of all the eyes that must be watching her progress, all the officers who had surely taken note of her arrival. They knew her car; they all knew who she was. She saw nods of recognition among the shadowy figures who stood huddled together, their breaths steaming, like smokers gathered for a furtive round of cigarettes. They knew the grim purpose of her visit, just as they knew that any one of them might someday be the unfortunate object of her attention.

The wind suddenly kicked up a cloud of snow, and she squinted, lowering her head against the sting. When she raised it again she found herself staring at someone she had not expected to see here. Across the street stood Father Daniel Brophy, talking softly to a young police officer who had sagged backward against a Boston PD cruiser, as though too weak to stand on his own feet. Brophy put his arm around the other man’s shoulder to comfort him, and the officer collapsed against him, sobbing, as Brophy wrapped both arms around him. Other cops stood nearby in awkward silence, boots shuffling, their gazes to the ground, clearly uncomfortable with this display of raw grief. Although Maura could not hear the words Brophy murmured, she saw the young cop nod, heard him force out a tear-choked response.

I could never do what Daniel does, she thought. It was far easier to cut dead flesh and drill through bone than to confront the pain of the living. Suddenly Daniel’s head lifted and he noticed her. For a moment they just stared at each other. Then she turned and continued toward the town house, where a streamer of crime scene tape fluttered from the porch’s cast-iron railing. He had his job and she had hers. It was time to focus. But even as she kept her gaze on the sidewalk ahead, her mind was on Daniel. Whether he would still be there when she finished her task here. And if he was, what happened next? Should she invite him out for a cup of coffee? Would that make her seem too forward, too needy? Should she simply say good night and go her own way, as always?

What do I want to happen?

She reached the building and paused on the sidewalk, gazing up at the handsome three-story residence. Inside, every light was blazing. Brick steps led up to a massive front door, where a brass knocker gleamed in the glow of decorative gaslight lanterns. Despite the season, there were no holiday decorations on this porch. This was the only front door on the street without a wreath. Through the large bow windows, she saw the flicker of a fire burning in the hearth, but no twinkle of Christmas tree lights.

“Dr. Isles?”

She heard the squeal of metal hinges and glanced at the detective who had just pushed open the wrought- iron gate at the side of the house. Roland Tripp was one of the older cops in the homicide unit and tonight he was definitely showing his age. He stood beneath the gaslight lamp and the glow yellowed his skin, emphasizing his baggy eyes and drooping lids. Despite the bulky down jacket, he looked chilled, and he spoke with a clenched jaw, as though trying to suppress chattering teeth.

“The victim’s back here,” he said, holding open the gate to let her in.

Maura walked through, and the gate clanged shut behind them. He led the way into a narrow side yard, their path lit by the jerky beam of his flashlight. The walkway had been shoveled since the last storm, and the bricks had only a light dusting of windblown snow. Tripp halted, his flashlight aimed at the low mound of snow at the edge of the walkway. At the splash of red.

“This is what got the butler worried. He saw this blood.”

“There’s a butler here?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re talking that kind of money.”

“What does he do? The owner of this house?”

“He says he’s a retired history professor. Taught at Boston College.”

“I had no idea history professors did this well.”

“You should take a look inside. This ain’t no professor’s house. This guy’s got other money.” Tripp aimed his flashlight at a side door. “ Butler came out this exit here, carrying a bag of garbage. Started toward those trash cans when he noticed the gate was open. That’s when he first got an inkling that something wasn’t right. So he comes back, up this side yard, looking around. Spots the blood and knows that something really isn’t right. And notices more blood streaking along these bricks, toward the back of the house.”

Maura stared at the ground. “The victim was dragged along this walkway.”

“I’ll show you.” Detective Tripp continued toward the rear of the town house, into a small courtyard. His flashlight swept across ice-glazed flagstones and flower beds, now covered with a winter protection of pine boughs. At the center of the courtyard was a white gazebo. In the summertime, it would no doubt be a delightful spot to linger, a shady place to sit and sip coffee and breathe in the scents of the garden.

But the current occupant of that gazebo was not breathing at all.

Maura took off her wool gloves and pulled on latex ones instead. They were no protection against the chill wind that pierced straight to her flesh. Crouching down, she pulled back the plastic sheet that had been draped over the crumpled form.

Detective Eve Kassovitz lay flat on her back, arms at her sides, her blond hair matted with blood. She was dressed in dark clothes-wool pants, a pea coat, and black boots. The coat was unbuttoned, and the sweater halfway pulled up to reveal bare skin smeared with blood. She was wearing a holster, and the weapon was still buckled in place. But it was the corpse’s face that Maura stared at, and what she saw made her draw back in horror. The woman’s eyelids had been sliced away, her eyes left wide open in an eternal stare. Trickles of blood had dried on both temples, like red tears.

“I saw her just six days ago,” said Maura. “At another death scene.” She looked up at Tripp. His face was hidden in shadow, and all she saw was that hulking silhouette looming above her. “The one over in East Boston.”

He nodded. “Eve joined the unit just a few weeks ago. Came over from Narcotics and Vice.”

“Does she live in this neighborhood?”

“No, ma’am. Her apartment’s down in Mattapan.”

“Then what’s she doing here on Beacon Hill?”

“Even her boyfriend doesn’t know. But we have some theories.”

Maura thought of the young cop she’d just seen sobbing in Daniel’s arms. “Her boyfriend is that police officer? The one with Father Brophy?”

“Ben’s taking it pretty hard. Goddamn awful way to find out about it, too. Out on patrol when he heard the chatter on the radio.”

“And he has no idea what she’s doing in this neighborhood? Dressed in black, and packing a weapon?”

Tripp hesitated, just long enough for Maura to notice.

“Detective Tripp?” she said.

He sighed. “We gave her kind of a hard time. You know, about what happened on Christmas Eve. Maybe the teasing got a little out of hand.”

“This is about her getting sick at the crime scene?”

“Yeah. I know it’s juvenile. It’s just something we do to each other in the unit. We kid around, insult each other. But Eve, I’m afraid she took it pretty personally.”

“That still doesn’t explain what she’s doing on Beacon Hill.”

“Ben says that after all the teasing, she was pretty fixed on proving herself. We think she was up here working the case. If so, she didn’t bother to tell anyone else on her team.”

Maura looked down at Eve Kassovitz’s face. At the staring eyes. With gloved hands, she pulled aside strands of blood-stiffened hair to reveal a scalp laceration, but she could palpate no fractures. The blow that had ripped that flap of scalp did not seem serious enough to have caused death. She focused next on the torso. Gently she lifted the sweater, uncovering the rib cage, and stared at the bloodstained bra. The stab wound penetrated the skin just beneath the sternum. Already, the blood had dried, a frozen crust of it obscuring the margins of the wound.

“What time was she found?”