The Mephisto Club

“That your perp’s an artist. Leaves cute little drawings behind. And he likes to”-Korsak paused and glanced at Angela, who was sliding cookies off the pan-“slice and dice. Am I warm?”

“A little too warm.”

Angela lifted off the last of the cookies and sealed them in a ziplock bag. With a flourish, she placed them in front of Korsak. This was not the Angela whom Jane had expected to come home to. Her mother was actually bustling around the kitchen now, gathering pans and bowls, splashing soapsuds as she washed up in the sink. She didn’t look miserable or abandoned or depressed; she looked ten years younger. Is this what happens when your husband walks out on you?

“Tell Jane more about your party,” said Angela, refilling Korsak’s coffee cup.

“Oh yeah.” He took a noisy slurp. “See, I signed my divorce papers last week. Almost a year of wrangling over money, and it’s finally over. I figured it was time to celebrate my new status as a free man. I got my apartment all decorated. Nice leather couch, big-screen TV. I’m gonna buy a few cases, get some friends together, and we’re all gonna par-tee!”

He’d turned into a fifty-five-year-old teenager with a potbelly and a comb-over. Could he get any more pathetic?

“So you’re coming, right?” he asked Jane. “Second Saturday in January.”

“Let me check the date with Gabriel.”

“If he can’t make it, you can always come stag. Just be sure to bring your older sister here.” He gave Angela a wink, and she giggled.

This was getting more painful by the minute. Jane was almost relieved to hear the muffled ringing of her cell phone. She went into the living room, where she’d left her purse, and dug out her phone.

“Rizzoli,” she said.

Lieutenant Marquette did not waste time with pleasantries. “You need to be more respectful of Anthony Sansone,” he said.

In the kitchen, she could hear Korsak laughing, and the sound suddenly irritated her. If you’re going to flirt with my mom, for God’s sake, take it somewhere else.

“I hear you’ve been giving him and his friends a hard time,” said Marquette.

“Maybe you could define what you mean by hard time?”

“You questioned him for nearly two hours. Grilled his butler, his dinner guests. Then you went back to see him again this afternoon. You’re making him feel as if he’s the one under investigation.”

“Well, gee, I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings. We’re just doing what we always do.”

“Rizzoli, try to keep in mind the man is not a suspect.”

“I haven’t reached that conclusion yet. O’Donnell was in his house. Eve Kassovitz was killed in his garden. And when his butler finds the body, what does Sansone do? He takes photos. Passes them around to his friends. You wanna know the truth? These people are not normal. Certainly Sansone isn’t.”

“He’s not a suspect.”

“I haven’t eliminated him.”

“You can trust me on this. Leave him alone.”

She paused. “You want to tell me more, Lieutenant?” she asked quietly. “What do I not know about Anthony Sansone?”

“He’s not a man we want to alienate.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not personally. I’m just conveying the word from above. We’ve been told to treat him with respect.”

She hung up. Moving to the window, she stared out at an afternoon sky that was no longer blue. More snow was probably on the way. She thought: One minute you think you can see forever, and then the clouds move in and obscure everything.

She reached for her cell phone again and began to dial.

SEVENTEEN

Maura watched through the viewing window as Yoshima, wearing a lead apron, positioned the collimator over the abdomen. Some people walk into work on Monday mornings dreading nothing worse awaiting them than a stack of fresh paperwork or message slips. On this Monday morning, what had awaited Maura was the woman who lay on that table, her body now stripped bare. Maura saw Yoshima reemerge from behind the lead shield to retrieve the film cassette for processing. He glanced up and gave a nod.

Maura pushed through the door, back into the autopsy lab.

The night she had crouched shivering in Anthony Sansone’s garden, she had seen this body only under the glow of flashlight beams. Today, Detective Eve Kassovitz lay fully bared to view, harsh lights washing out every shadow. The blood had been rinsed away, revealing raw, pink injuries. A scalp laceration. A stab wound on the chest, beneath the sternum. And the lidless eyes, the corneas now clouded from exposure. That was what Maura could not help staring at: those mutilated eyes.

The whish of the door announced Jane’s arrival. “You haven’t started yet?” Jane asked.

“No. Is anyone else joining us?”

“It’s just me today.” Jane paused in the midst of tying on her gown, her gaze suddenly fixed on the table. On the face of her dead colleague. “I should have stood up for her,” she said quietly. “When those jerks in the unit started in with the stupid jokes, I should have put a stop to it right there.”

“They’re the ones who should feel guilty, Jane. Not you.”

“But I’ve been there myself. I know how it feels.” Jane kept looking down at the exposed corneas. “They won’t be able to pretty up these eyes for the funeral.”

“It will have to be a closed coffin.”

“The eye of Horus,” Jane said softly.

“What?”

“That drawing on Sansone’s door. It’s an ancient symbol, dating back to the Egyptians. It’s called Udjat, the all-seeing eye.”

“Who told you about that?”

“One of Sansone’s dinner guests.” She looked at Maura. “These people-Sansone and his friends-they’re weird. The more I find out about them, the more they creep me out. Especially him.”

Yoshima came out of the processing room, carrying a sheaf of freshly developed films. They gave a musical twang as he clipped them to the light box.

Maura reached for the ruler and measured the scalp laceration, jotting its dimensions on a clipboard. “He called me that night, you know,” she said, without looking up. “To make sure I got home safely.”

“Sansone did?”

Maura glanced up. “Do you consider him a suspect?”

“Think about this: After they found the body, do you know what Sansone did? Before he even called the police? He got out his camera and snapped some photos. Had his butler deliver them to his friends the next morning. Tell me that isn’t weird.”

“But do you consider him a suspect?”

After a pause, Jane admitted, “No. And if I did, it would present problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gabriel tried to do a little digging for me. He called around to find out more about the guy. All he did was ask a few questions, and suddenly doors slammed shut. The FBI, Interpol, no one wanted to talk about Sansone. Obviously he has friends in high places who are ready to protect him.”

Maura thought of the house on Beacon Hill. The butler, the antiques. “His wealth could have something to do with it.”

“It’s all inherited. He sure didn’t make his fortune teaching medieval history at Boston College.”

“How wealthy are we talking about?”

“That house on Beacon Hill? It’s his equivalent of slumming. He’s also got homes in London and Paris, plus a