The Whisper (22 page)

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

Josie stood on a stone bridge above a waterfall that tumbled over black rocks, forming whitecaps and filling the air with its soothing rhythmic sound. She’d gone on ahead while Myles showered and dressed back at the Malone house. He’d catch up with her. They’d both needed a moment to themselves before they got too deep into the day. She wasn’t confused, but she was unsure of the way forward. The past was falling away, no longer tearing at her.

Myles was alive. He’d come back from the dead.

He acted as if he’d never gone, but that was Myles. The reasons he could carry on as if nothing had happened were the same reasons he’d taken on his difficult mission in the first place—the
same reasons he’d survived. He was resilient. He learned from the past and planned for the future, but he lived in the moment.

She saw him coming toward her, ambling as if he were just another tourist off for a wander in the Irish hills. When he reached her, he leaned over the stone wall. “You’d hit your head on a rock if you tried to dive in there,” Josie said.

“I was thinking we could spend the day fly-fishing.”

She gave a mock shudder. “I’d rather take on blood-smeared branches. I tell people Will’s fishing in Scotland when he doesn’t want to answer questions.”

“It’s not questions I’m avoiding. I actually do want to go fly-fishing.”

“How long has it been since you’ve taken time just to be yourself, Myles?”

“I’m myself now.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He wasn’t being abrupt, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t going there, either. “You’re the boss. Where to from here?”

“We need to find Percy Carlisle. I suggest we start with Tim O’Donovan.”

“All right, then.”

They continued on foot toward the village and walked out to the pier, but O’Donovan was already off on his boat for the day. Josie debated hiring a boat herself and chasing after him, but she hadn’t a clue where to start—and she didn’t particularly care for boats. Myles suggested they return to the Malone house. Not bloody likely, Josie thought. With the dreary weather, they’d be tempted to light a fire and spend the day being utterly useless, which she suspected was Myles’s aim.

Instead she decided they ought to head to a quiet pub, sit by
the fire and review all they knew. Myles didn’t object, and as they walked to the village, she texted Seamus Harrigan to join them at his convenience. In the meantime, maybe they’d get lucky and Percy Carlisle would wander in, or someone who knew him. They had his photo and both she and Myles had committed his face to memory.

“This could end badly,” Josie said.

Myles slung an arm over her shoulder and gave her a good squeeze. “We’ll do all we can to make sure it doesn’t.”

Boston, Massachusetts

Sophie woke up far too early and had coffee with Jeremiah Rush in the lobby of the Whitcomb. “Do you sleep under your desk with your golden retriever? I swear you’re here all the time.”

“Now there’s a thought. Get a dog’s view of the family business.” He grinned at her, clearly no longer the high school kid she’d known when she worked there. “All’s well this morning, Sophie?”

“I hope so.”

“Where’s your detective?”

“
My
detective, Jeremiah?”

“Sparks, Sophie. Sparks.”

“I think something weird happened in the Irish ruin where we met. I’m—I can’t explain it.”

“You’re crazy about him.”

She sighed. It seemed so soon. So fast. Maybe that was partly because everything else in her life was slow. She’d been in school forever. Her dissertation had taken forever to write. Even archaeology was by its nature painstaking, breakthroughs seldom happening fast or suddenly—certainly not as fast and suddenly as Scoop’s entrance into her life. He’d been on the Beara Peninsula for two weeks before they’d run into each other. She’d been in Kenmare most of that time. Maybe being in such close proximity had had an effect.

She smiled at Jeremiah. “Tell me about what’s going on with you these days.”

They chatted a few minutes, Jeremiah making her laugh with tales of his family and hotel life. Finally Sophie refilled her coffee, grabbed a muffin and asked him if he’d let Scoop know she was going to the Carlisle Museum. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, heading for the exit. “Tell him I’m walking.”

“You don’t think he has you under surveillance?”

“Thanks, Jeremiah, that’s just what I needed on my mind.”

“Hey, we’re a full-service hotel.”

Charles Street was quiet, the morning air crisp and bright. In no hurry, Sophie turned onto Beacon Street and meandered through the narrow downtown streets with her coffee and muffin, reconnecting with being back in Boston. It was a great walking city, and she loved to walk. She continued past Government Center and on to the waterfront, where the Carlisle Museum was located in a low, renovated brick building on its own wharf. By the time she got there, the main offices were open, although the museum itself wouldn’t open until ten. A stone walkway took her through a garden of herbs, wild asters and coneflowers to the administrative entrance.

The receptionist, a young woman with spiky jet-black hair, was new since Sophie had done research at the museum. She recognized Sophie’s name. “I’m majoring in art history,” she said. “Your article on Irish Iron Age art was assigned reading in one of my classes. Helen Carlisle said you might come by now that you’re back from Ireland.”

“Is she here?” Sophie asked.

“Not yet. I’d love to go to Ireland some day. I want to see the Book of Kells in person.”

“I hope you can. My family has a home in Ireland—I won’t stay away too long—but it’s good to be back in Boston, too.” Sophie motioned toward the corridor behind the receptionist’s desk. “I’d like to take a look around—”

“Sure. Let me know if you need anything. There aren’t many people here yet.”

Sophie headed down the wide hall, welcoming the natural light and simplicity of the building’s design. From the beginning, the Carlisles had seen the museum as placing equal emphasis on education, research and exhibits. She’d told Scoop the truth about the break-in seven years ago, but if there was some tidbit she hadn’t remembered that could help find Percy or explain what had happened to Cliff Rafferty, maybe being back here would help.

She heard a rushing sound—like a wide-open faucet—and paused at the open door to a conference suite. The table wasn’t set up for a meeting, nor had anyone dropped off materials, a briefcase, a coat. She remembered the suite had an office, a small kitchen and a full bathroom. Isabel Carlisle had seen to every detail of the conversion of the building, from the exhibit halls to the comfort of the administrative offices.

Sophie entered the main room and crossed over to a hall that
led to the kitchen, wondering if someone she knew might be back there cleaning up. It had to be running water she heard.

The kitchen was dark—no sign of anyone there.

The bathroom was farther down the hall. Not wanting to disturb anyone taking a shower before work, she started to turn back to the conference room, but stopped abruptly, noticing the bathroom door was open, water was streaming over the threshold into the hall.

Sophie edged down the hall. Had a toilet or sink stopped up?

Trying to stay clear of the water on the floor, she peeked into the bathroom. Directly ahead of her was a white porcelain pedestal, but the faucet wasn’t on and the basin was dry.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man’s foot—a black running shoe—and immediately yelled for help, hoping a security guard or the receptionist would hear her. She stepped into the bathroom, the tile floor slippery, more water pouring through the doorway, flooding the bathroom and hall.

A man was shoved headfirst into the overflowing bathtub, his legs askew, hanging over the edge onto the floor. He wasn’t struggling. He wasn’t moving at all.

If he was still alive, he had to get out of the water fast, or he’d drown. She ran to the tub. The man was dressed in tan slacks and a light blue shirt. She couldn’t see his face, but he had dark hair. She didn’t see any signs of injury, but she had no choice. She had to move him. She had to get him out of the water.

Grabbing him by the belt, she pulled him up a little, then got her arms around his middle. He was heavy, deadweight. She pushed her feet against the wall, bracing herself as best she could on the wet floor, and lifted him up and out of the tub. Momentum carried her backward, with him on top of her as she went down on her side into the cold water on the floor.

He was moving…

No, he was being lifted off her.

“Sophie.” Scoop’s voice. “You okay?”

She sat up, nodding, breathing hard. “He was in the tub—”

“Yeah.”

It was Frank Acosta. His skin was pasty and bluish in color, waterlogged. Scoop laid his fellow police officer flat on the floor, checked his airway, his breathing. “Hell, Frank, don’t make me have to do CPR on you.”

Acosta coughed and vomited water, rolling onto his side.

Sophie rose, quickly shut off the faucet. A torc, fashioned out of gold wire, just like the one at Cliff Rafferty’s apartment, was broken in half and set on the edge of the tub, along with a clump of vines—ivy—smeared with what appeared to be blood. “Scoop.”

“I see them.”

Acosta got up onto his knees, groaning, spitting into the pooled water.

“Can you talk, Frank?” Scoop asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You need to get checked out.”

He held up a hand in protest. “No. I’m okay.”

Scoop didn’t relent. “Were you hit on the head? Drugged?”

“I don’t know.” He sat on the tile floor in the water and sank back against the tub, wincing, coughing some more. He put a hand up to the right side of his neck. “Head hurts.”

Scoop took a look. “You’ve got some swelling.”

“Yeah. I remember now.” He breathed in, steadier. “Whew.”

“What happened?”

“I called you. You were already on your way here. I was closer and got here first. I walked into the conference room and saw a light down the hall and came in to investigate and—
bam.
” He
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which was visibly trembling. “Next thing I’m soaking wet, choking to death and looking at your ugly face.”

“You came alone?” Scoop asked.

“Yeah. No one knows I’m here except you. I’m not on duty until later.”

Scoop put a hand out to him. “You’ll get hypothermia sitting in that cold water—”

“I can get up on my own.”

Acosta started to his feet, slipped and fell back against the tub with a moan. He was shivering, drenched, water dripping out of his hair down his face.

Scoop sighed. “Screw this.”

He took Acosta by the upper arm, hauled him up with one quick motion and in two strides had him out in the hall. Shivering now herself, Sophie grabbed a bath towel off a hook and followed them to the kitchen, where Scoop sat Acosta on the dry floor. He was ashen. She flipped on a light switch and handed him the towel.

His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he was still clearly weak, but he dried off his face and managed to glare up at her. “Why are you here?”

Scoop, his eyes on Acosta, answered. “She walked over from the hotel first thing this morning. She’s why I came. I just didn’t tell you that when you called. She’s the one who pulled you out of the water. Did you see anyone when you arrived?”

“Just the receptionist.”

“I must have arrived after he did,” Sophie said. “I took my time. I’ve only seen the receptionist, too.”

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Acosta said, clutching the towel. “Where’s your friend Percy? Do you two have something
going? We only have your word Cliff looked you up on Beacon Hill the other morning.”

Meaning, she thought, no witnesses. She walked over to the stainless-steel sink and pulled open a drawer, got out dish towels and did her best to dry herself off. She was aware of the two men—the two police officers—watching her.

She pointed toward the conference room with her towel. “I can wait out there—”

“You could have killed Cliff yourself,” Acosta interjected, not letting up. “All that ritualistic crap. That could have been you. Kill him, go back to Beacon Hill, make up that whole bit about him coming to find you. You know you’ve got Scoop wrapped around your little finger.”

“I’m going now,” Sophie said, heading for the door.

Scoop shook his head. “Stay with me. Whoever tried to kill Frank could still be out there. He can’t have been in the water long or he’d be dead.”

Acosta cast the towel aside and staggered to his feet, his skin, if possible, turning even grayer. “Check out your archaeologist, Wisdom.” He coughed, gritted his teeth visibly as he seemed to fight off pain and nausea. “She’s the one with axes to grind. We don’t know what happened with her and Cliff. No one does. It’s just her word.”

“Take it easy, Frank. You probably have a concussion. You’ve had a bad scare—”

“A bad scare? I damn near
drowned
. This woman’s the expert. If she’s obsessed with Celtic whatever—art, religion, history, bones, I don’t know—she could have her own game. What if she set this up—sold fake Celtic jewelry, or found the real thing and wants to keep it for herself? What if she’s blackmailing Percy Carlisle to get him to buy them or get someone else to buy them?”

Scoop hadn’t interrupted Acosta’s rant. “You need to take it easy, Frank.”

Acosta ignored him. “Your Dr. Malone could have thrown Percy Carlisle off some damn Irish cliff before she flew back to Boston.”

“The Irish are looking for him,” Scoop said. “We can talk about all this after the paramedics have checked you over.”

“What if your archaeologist was behind the break-in here seven years ago? She’s smart as hell. She could have orchestrated the mess with the old man in Ireland, then broken in here so that we’d all look to some disgruntled employee. Maybe the son suspected her but couldn’t prove it. Maybe he went to Ireland to confront her.”

“You’re speculating,” Scoop said.

“Brainstorming. There’s a difference.” Acosta’s dark eyes—bloodshot, red-rimmed, accusatory—were riveted on Scoop. “I’m not emotionally involved.”

“You are emotionally involved.” Scoop’s voice was calm. “Cliff was your friend.”

“Friend? Cliff didn’t have friends. He was a lazy, cynical SOB who blamed his problems on everyone else.”

“Was he involved with the thugs Estabrook hired?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Museum security and two uniformed BPD officers arrived. Acosta shook off their help, then stumbled. They caught him as he fainted.

Scoop touched Sophie’s elbow. “You okay?”

She nodded. He walked with her back to the conference room. Paramedics and the homicide detectives investigating Cliff Rafferty’s death arrived next.

Bob O’Reilly was right behind them. “Damn,” he said, glaring at Scoop, then at Sophie. “You two again.”

By the time she finished with the BPD, Sophie was dry enough to head over to the main part of the museum. She’d loved wandering through the different collections as a student and welcomed being among the familiar paintings, sculptures and artifacts. The homicide detectives had been thorough and professional, but she had no illusions. They grilled her not just about how and why she’d come to the museum this morning, what she’d seen, what she’d done, but about everything—her life from meeting the Carlisles as a student to sitting in the conference room answering their questions.

Scoop hadn’t stayed with her. She wasn’t sure he would have been allowed to, and he had his own questions to answer. The police and museum security had shut down the museum and searched it for possible assailants, witnesses and evidence.

Sophie was staring blankly at a trio of Early Medieval Irish silver chalices behind a glass case when Scoop found her. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Her voice was hoarse, but she continued. “You can see the Celtic motifs. The spirals, the knots. The museum doesn’t have a lot of Irish works—these are on loan from a private collector.”

“You don’t have to be here.”

She looked up from the chalices and saw that his gaze was on her, nothing about him easy to read—easy on any level. “I didn’t wait for you this morning because I wanted to come here alone. It was a beautiful morning for a walk. It never occurred to me I’d find…” She didn’t finish. “Security’s obviously not as tight in the administrative offices as out here in the exhibits.”

He touched a hand to her upper arm. “I can take you back to the hotel.”

She nodded but moved over to a series of small, dark paint
ings. “If Percy’s in Boston—if he’s into dark pagan rituals, twisting them for his own purposes, and all this is his doing…” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine. Helen would be devastated. Everyone here would be. When Detective Acosta was ‘brainstorming,’ all I could think about was how many possible explanations there are to what’s happened. Percy could be hiding and afraid—he could think he’s being framed for something he didn’t do. He could have been working with Rafferty or Augustine.”