The Mephisto Club

“They must be very good friends. You mind telling us their names?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t I want my privacy violated? Do I actually have to answer that question?”

“This is a homicide investigation. A woman was slaughtered last night. It was one of the most brutal crime scenes I’ve ever walked into.”

“And you want my alibi.”

“I’m just curious why you won’t tell us.”

“Am I a suspect? Or are you just trying to show me who’s in charge?”

“You’re not a suspect. At the moment.”

“Then I’m under no obligation to even talk to you.” Abruptly, O’Donnell rose to her feet and started toward the door. “I’ll walk you out, now.”

Frost, too, started to get up, then saw that Jane wasn’t budging, and he sank back down again.

Jane said, “If you gave one damn about the victim, if you saw what he did to Lori-Ann Tucker-”

O’Donnell turned to face her. “Why don’t you tell me? What, exactly, was done to her?”

“You want the details, do you?”

“It’s my field of study. I need to know the details.” She moved toward Jane. “It helps me understand.”

Or it turns you on. That’s why you suddenly look interested. Even eager.

“You said she was dismembered,” said O’Donnell. “Was the head removed?”

“Rizzoli,” said Frost, a cautionary note in his voice.

But Jane did not need to reveal a thing; O’Donnell had already drawn her own conclusions. “The head is such a powerful symbol. So personal. So individual.” O’Donnell stepped closer, moving in like a predator. “Did he take it with him, as a trophy? A reminder of his kill?”

“Tell us where you were last night.”

“Or did he leave the head at the scene? Someplace where it would elicit maximum shock? Someplace it would be impossible to miss? A kitchen counter, perhaps? Or a prominent place on the floor?”

“Who were you with?”

“It’s a potent message, displaying a head, a face. It’s the killer’s way of telling you he’s in complete control. He’s showing you how powerless you are, Detective. And how powerful he is.”

“Who were you with?” The instant the words were out, Jane knew they were a mistake. She’d allowed O’Donnell to goad her, and she had lost her temper. The ultimate sign of weakness.

“My friendships are private,” O’Donnell said, and added, with a quiet smile, “Except for the one you already know about. Our mutual acquaintance. He keeps asking about you, you know. Always wants to know what you’re up to.” She did not have to say his name. They both knew she was talking about Warren Hoyt.

Don’t react, thought Jane. Don’t let her see how deeply she’s dug her claws into me. But she could feel her own face snap taut and saw Frost glance at her with concern. The scars that Hoyt had left on Jane’s hands were only the most obvious wounds; there were far deeper ones. Even now, over two years later, she flinched at the mention of his name.

“He’s a fan of yours, Detective,” said O’Donnell. “Even though he’ll never walk again because of you, he bears you absolutely no grudge.”

“I couldn’t care less what he thinks.”

“I went to see him last week. He showed me his collection of news clippings. His Janie file, as he calls it. When you were trapped in that hospital siege, over the summer, he kept the TV on all night. Watched every second of it.” O’Donnell paused. “He told me you had a baby girl.”

Jane’s back went rigid. Don’t let her do this to you. Don’t let her dig those claws in deeper.

“I believe your daughter’s name is Regina, isn’t it?”

Jane rose to her feet, and though she was shorter than O’Donnell, something in Jane’s eyes made the other woman abruptly step back. “We’ll be calling on you again,” said Jane.

“Call me all you want,” said O’Donnell. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

“She’s lying,” said Jane.

She yanked open the car door and slid in behind the wheel. There she sat, staring at a scene that was Christmas card-pretty, the sun glistening on icicles, the snow-frosted houses decked in tasteful wreaths and holly. No garish Santas and reindeer on this street, no rooftop extravaganzas like the ones in Revere, where she had grown up. She thought of Johnny Silva’s house, just down the street from her parents’, and of the long lines of rubberneckers from miles around who’d detour onto their street, just to gape at the eye-popping light show that the Silvas put up in their front yard every December. There you’d find Santa and the three wise men and the manger with Mary and Jesus and a menagerie of so many animals it would’ve sunk Noah’s ark. All lit up like a carnival. You could have powered a small African nation with the electricity the Silvas burned through every Christmas.

But here on Brattle Street, there were no such gaudy spectacles, only understated elegance. No Johnny Silvas lived here. She’d rather have that moron Johnny for a neighbor than the woman who lived in this house.

“She knows more about this case than she’s telling us.”

“How do you draw that conclusion?” asked Frost.

“Instinct.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in instinct. That’s what you always tell me. That it’s nothing better than a lucky guess.”

“But I know this woman. I know what makes her tick.” She looked at Frost, whose winter pallor seemed even more pronounced in the weak sunshine. “She got more than a hang-up call from the killer last night.”

“You’re guessing.”

“Why did she erase it?”

“Why wouldn’t she? If the caller left no message?”

“That’s her story.”

“Oh man. She got to you.” He shook his head. “I knew she would.”

“She didn’t get close.”

“Yeah? When she started talking about Regina, that didn’t light your fuse? She’s a shrink. She knows just how to manipulate you. You shouldn’t even be dealing with her.”

“Who should? You? That weenie Kassovitz?”

“Someone who doesn’t have a history with her. Someone she can’t touch.” He gave Jane a probing look that made her want to turn away. They had been partners for two years now, and even though they were not the closest of friends, they understood each other in a way that mere friends or even lovers seldom did, because they had shared the same horrors, fought the same battles. Frost, better than anyone, even better than her husband, Gabriel, knew her history with Joyce O’Donnell.

And with the killer known as the Surgeon.

“She still scares you, doesn’t she?” he asked quietly.

“All she does is piss me off.”

“Because she knows what does scare you. And she never stops reminding you of him, never forgets to bring up his name.”

“Like I’m the least bit afraid of a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes? Who can’t pee unless some nurse shoves a tube up his dick? Oh yeah, I’m real scared of Warren Hoyt.”

“You still having the nightmares?”

His question stopped her cold. She couldn’t lie to him; he’d see it. So she said nothing at all, but just looked straight ahead, at that perfect street with its perfect houses.

“I’d be having them,” he said, “if it’d happened to me.”

But it didn’t, she thought. I’m the one who felt Hoyt’s blade at my throat, who bears the scars from his scalpel. I’m the one he still thinks about, fantasizes about. Though he could never again hurt her, just knowing that she was the object of his desires made her skin