Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“He might also have a key to the front door,” said Jane. “How can we find out more about him?”

“His cousin, I assume. The woman who owns this house, Lily Saul.”

“But you don’t know how to find her, either.”

“The realtor’s been trying.”

Jane said, “I’d like to see the police reports on the Saul family. I assume the deaths were all investigated.”

“I’ll call my office, have the files copied for you. You can pick them up on your way out of town. Are you driving back to Boston tonight?”

“We planned to, right after lunch.”

“Then I’ll try to have them ready by then. You might want to head over to Roxanne’s Café. Great turkey club sandwiches. And it’s right across the street from our office.”

“Will that give you enough time to copy everything?”

“There’s not much to the files beyond the autopsies and sheriff’s reports. In all three cases, the manner and cause of death were pretty apparent.”

Sansone had been standing at the window, gazing outside. Now he turned to Jurevich. “What’s the name of your local newspaper here?”

“All of Chenango County’s pretty much covered by the Evening Sun. Their office is in Norwich.” Jurevich looked at his watch. “There’s really nothing else to show you here.”

Back outside, they stood in the biting wind as Jurevich locked the front door and gave it a hard rattle to make sure it was secure. “If we make any headway on our end,” he said to Jane, “I’ll give you a call. But I think this killer’s going to be your catch.” He zipped up his jacket and pulled on his gloves. “He’s playing in your neighborhood, now.”

“He shows up in his fancy car and gets invited right into the crime scene,” said Jane, shaking a French fry at Maura. “What’s that all about? Who does Sansone know in Justice? Even Gabriel couldn’t find out.”

“They must have a reason to trust him.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jane popped the French fry into her mouth and snatched up another, agitation fueling her appetite. In a matter of minutes, she’d reduced an enormous club sandwich to a few crumbs of toast and bacon, and now she was dragging the last of her fries through a pool of ketchup. “Trust some millionaire with a crime-fighting hobby?”

“Multimillionaire.”

“Who does he think he is, Bruce Wayne? Or the guy on that old TV show. The rich man who’s a cop. My mom used to watch it.”

“I think you’re talking about Burke’s Law. ”

“Yeah. How many rich cops do you know?”

Maura sighed and picked up her teacup. “Not a one.”

“Exactly. It’s a fantasy. Some bored guy with money thinks it’d be a kick to play Dirty Harry, except he doesn’t want to actually get down and dirty. He doesn’t want to walk a beat or write up incident reports. He just wants to drive up in his Mercedes and tell us idiots how it should be done. You think I haven’t dealt with people like him before? Everyone thinks they’re smarter than the police.”

“I don’t think he’s merely an amateur, Jane. I think he’s worth listening to.”

“Right. A former history professor.” Jane drained her coffee cup and craned her neck around the booth, scanning the busy café for the waitress. “Hey, miss? Could I have a refill over…” She paused. She said to Maura, “Look who just walked in.”

“Who?”

“Your friend and mine.”

Maura turned toward the door, gazing past the dining counter where men in billed caps sat huddled over their coffee and burgers. She spotted Sansone at the same instant he saw her. As he crossed the room, a dozen heads swiveled, gazes fixed on the striking figure with silver hair as he strode past tables and headed toward Maura’s booth.

“I’m glad you’re still in town,” he said. “May I join you?”

“We’re about to leave,” said Jane, reaching pointedly for her wallet, the coffee refill conveniently forgotten.

“This will only take a minute. Or would you rather I mail this to you, Detective?”

Maura looked at the sheaf of papers he was carrying. “What’s all that?”

“From the Evening Sun archives.” He placed the papers on the table in front of her.

She slid sideways across the bench, making room for him in the tight booth as he sat down beside her. She felt trapped in the corner by this man, whose mere presence seemed to dominate and overwhelm the small space.

“Their digital archives go back only five years,” he said. “These are photocopies from the bound archives, so the reproduction isn’t as good as I’d like. But it tells the story.”

Maura looked down at the first page. It was from the front page of the Evening Sun, dated August 11, twelve years earlier. Her gaze at once fixed on the article near the top.

BOY’S BODY RECOVERED FROM PAYSON POND

The accompanying photo showed a grinning imp of a boy, cradling a tiger-striped cat in his arms. The caption read: Teddy Saul had just turned eleven.

“His sister Lily was the last known person who saw him alive,” said Sansone. “She was also the one who spotted him floating in the pond a day later. What surprised everyone, according to the article, was the fact the boy was a very good swimmer. And there was one other interesting detail.”

Maura looked up. “What?”

“He supposedly went down to the lake to fish. But his tackle box and pole were found a good twenty yards from the water’s edge.”

Maura handed the photocopy to Jane and looked at the next article, printed August 18. A week after little Teddy’s body was found, tragedy again struck the Saul family.

GRIEVING MOTHER’S DEATH MOST LIKELY ACCIDENTAL

Accompanying the article was another photo, another heartbreaking caption. Amy Saul was pictured in happier times, beaming at the camera as she held a baby in her lap. The same child, Teddy, whom she’d lose eleven years later to the waters of Payson Pond.

“She was found at the bottom of the stairs,” said Maura. She looked up at Jane. “By her daughter, Lily.”

“Again? The daughter found both of them?” Jane reached for the photocopied article. “This is starting to sound like too much bad luck.”

“And remember that call made to Sarah Parmley’s motel room two weeks ago. It was a woman’s voice.”

“Before you go jumping to conclusions,” said Sansone, “it wasn’t Lily Saul who found her father’s body. Her cousin did. It’s the first and only time Dominic Saul’s name appears in any of these articles.”

Maura turned to the third photocopy and stared at a photo of a smiling Dr. Peter Saul. Beneath it was the caption: Despondent over death of wife and son. She looked up. “Is there any photo of Dominic?”

“No. But he’s mentioned in that article as the one who found his uncle’s body. He’s also the one who called the police.”

“And the girl?” asked Jane. “Where was Lily when this happened?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“I assume the police checked her alibi.”

“You would assume so.”

“I wouldn’t assume anything.”

“Let’s hope that information’s in the police files,” said Sansone, “because you’re not going to get it from the investigator himself.”

“Why not?”

“He died last year of a heart attack. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. So all we have to go on is what’s in the files. But think about the situation. You’re a local cop, dealing with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her brother, her mother, and now her father. She’s probably in shock. Maybe she’s hysterical. Are you going to harass her with questions about where she was when her father died when it clearly looked like a suicide?”