“Angels and goat demons. Right. Or maybe our perp just likes to play head games with cops. So he makes us waste our time chasing after ocher and seashells.” Jane rose to her feet. “The crime scene unit should be here any minute. Maybe you people could all go home now, so we can do our jobs.”
“Wait,” Sansone cut in. “What was that you just said about seashells?”
Jane ignored him and looked at Frost. “Can you call CSU and find out what’s taking them so long?”
“Detective Rizzoli,” said Sansone, “tell us about the seashells.”
“You seem to have your own sources. Why don’t you ask them?”
“This could be very important. Why don’t you just save us the effort and tell us?”
“First, you tell me. What’s the significance of a seashell?”
“What kind of shell? A bivalve, a cone?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes.”
Jane paused. “It’s sort of a spiral. A cone, I guess.”
“It was left at a death scene?”
“You might say that.”
“Describe the shell.”
“Look, there’s nothing special about it. The guy I spoke to says it’s a common species found all over the Mediterranean.” She paused as her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked out of the room. For a moment no one said anything. The three members of the Mephisto Foundation looked at one another.
“Well,” Edwina said softly, “I’d say this just about clinches it.”
“Clinches what?” said Frost.
“The seashell,” said Oliver, “is on Anthony’s family crest.”
Sansone rose from his chair and crossed to the window. There he stood gazing out at the street, his broad back framed in black by the window. “The symbols were drawn in red ocher, mined from Cyprus,” he said. “Do you know the significance of that, Detective Frost?”
“We have no idea,” Frost admitted.
“This killer isn’t playing games with the police. He’s playing games with me. With the Mephisto Foundation.” He turned to face them, but the morning glare made his expression impossible to read. “On Christmas Eve, he kills a woman and leaves satanic symbols at the scene-the candles, the ocher circle. But the single most significant thing he does that night is place a phone call to Joyce O’Donnell, a member of our foundation. That was the tug on our sleeve. It was meant to get our attention.”
“Your attention? It seems to me this has always been about O’Donnell.”
“Then Eve Kassovitz was killed in my garden. On a night we were meeting.”
“It’s also the night O’Donnell was your dinner guest. She was the one he stalked, the one he had his eye on.”
“I would have agreed with you last night. All the signs, up till then, pointed to Joyce as the target. But these symbols on Maura’s door tell us the killer hasn’t completed his work. He’s still hunting.”
“He knows about us, Anthony,” said Edwina. “He’s cutting down our circle. Joyce was the first. The question is, who’s next?”
Sansone looked at Maura. “I’m afraid he thinks you’re one of us.”
“But I’m not,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with your group delusion.”
“Doc?” said Jane. Maura had not heard her come back into the room. Jane was standing in the doorway, holding her cell phone. “Can you come into the kitchen? We need to talk in private.”
Maura rose and followed her up the hallway. “What is it?” she asked as they stepped into the kitchen.
“Could you arrange to take the day off tomorrow? Because you and I need to go out of town tonight. I’m going home to pack an overnight bag. I’ll be back to pick you up around noon.”
“Are you telling me I should run and hide? Just because someone’s written on my door?”
“This has nothing to do with your door. I just got a call from a cop out in upstate New York. Last night they found a woman’s body. It’s clearly a homicide.”
“Why should a murder in New York concern us?”
“She’s missing her left hand.”
August 8. Phase of the moon: Last Quarter.
Every day, Teddy goes down to the lake.
In the morning, I hear the squeal and slap of the screen door, and then I hear his shoes thump down the porch steps. From my window, I watch him walk from the house and head down toward the water, fishing pole propped on his thin shoulder, tackle box in hand. It is a strange ritual, and useless, I think, because he never brings back any fruits of his labor. Every afternoon, he returns empty-handed but cheerful.
Today, I follow him.
He does not see me as he rambles through the woods toward the water. I stay far enough behind him so that he can’t hear my footsteps. He is singing anyway, in his high and childish voice, an off-key version of the “Kookaburra” song, and is oblivious to the fact he is being watched. He reaches the water’s edge, baits his hook, and throws in his line. As the minutes pass, he settles onto the grassy bank and gazes across water so calm that not even a whisper of wind ruffles the mirrored surface.
The fishing pole gives a twitch.
I move closer as Teddy reels in his catch. It is a brownish fish and it writhes on the line, every muscle twitching in mortal terror. I wait for the fatal blow, for that sacred instant in time when the divine spark flickers out. But to my surprise, Teddy grasps his catch, pulls the hook from its mouth, and gently lowers the fish back into the water. He crouches close, murmuring to it, as though in apology for having inconvenienced its morning.
“Why didn’t you keep it?” I ask.
Teddy jerks straight, startled by my voice. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
“You let it go.”
“I don’t like to kill them. It’s only a bass, anyway.”
“So you throw them all back?”
“Uh-huh.” Teddy baits his hook again and casts it into the water.
“What’s the point of catching them, then?”
“It’s fun. It’s like a game between us. Me and the fish.”
I sit down beside him on the bank. Gnats buzz around our heads and Teddy waves them away. He has just turned eleven years old, but he still has a child’s perfectly smooth skin, and the golden baby fuzz on his face catches the sun’s glint. I am close enough to hear his breathing, to see the pulse throb in his slender neck. He does not seem bothered by my presence; in fact, he gives me a shy smile, as though this is a special treat, sharing the lazy morning with his older cousin.
“You want to try?” he says, offering me the pole.
I take it. But my attention remains on Teddy, on the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead, on the shadows cast by his eyelashes.
The pole gives a tug.
“You’ve got one!”
I begin to reel it in, and the fish’s struggles make my hands sweat in anticipation. I can feel its thrashings, its desperation to live, transmitted through the pole. At last it breaks the water, its tail flapping as I swing it over the bank. I grab hold of slimy scales.
“Now take out the hook,” says Teddy. “But be careful not to hurt him.”
I look into the open tackle box and see a knife.
“He can’t breathe out of water. Hurry.” Teddy urges me.
