Carla Neggers - The Whisper

Nothing new. Go dig in the dirt.

She smiled. The Malones were known for not mincing words, Damian especially.

After the long flight, she welcomed the walk up to Beacon Hill. The narrow, familiar streets and black-shuttered town houses helped her to shake off the odd feeling that she was out of her element, on strange and unpredictable ground. She'd gone to college in Boston. She had friends there. It wasn't as if she'd just landed in a foreign country or a city where she didn't know anyone.

She descended steep, uneven stone steps to a black iron gate between two town houses. Since giving up her apartment in Cork, she'd felt uprooted, but unlike Scoop Wisdom and his detective friends, her homelessness was by choice and finances.

No one had blown up her house.

Using the keys Taryn had given her, Sophie unlocked the gate and went through a tunnel-like archway that opened into a small, secluded brick courtyard, one of Beacon Hill's many nooks and crannies. Passersby would never guess it was there. The owners of a graceful brick town house had converted part of their walk-out basement into an apartment, with its own entrance onto the courtyard. Taryn had rented it when she was performing Shakespeare in Boston and hadn't let go of it.

Sophie unlocked the door, painted a rich, dark green, and set her backpack on the floor of the small entry. The tiny apartment, with its cozy Beacon Hill atmosphere, suited Taryn's personality and unpredictable lifestyle. She'd sublet it to an actress friend for the summer, but she'd departed in early September for a role in Chattanooga.

Taryn had placed a round table by the full-size paned windows that looked onto the charming courtyard, where neighbors had set out pots of flowers. A perfunctory kitchen, with downsized appliances, occupied one windowless wall. On the opposite wall a low sectional anchored the seating area in front of a nonworking fireplace.

No cockroaches scurried on the hardwood floor, which Sophie took as a hopeful sign. She'd forgotten just how low the ceilings were. She wasn't claustrophobic, but she hadn't been wild about small, cramped spaces even before her brush with death in an Irish cave. Her experience at archaeological sites had forced her to learn how to deal with them.

She dragged her backpack into the bedroom, its sole window level with the street. She unpacked and, restless after her hours with a suspicious Boston detective behind her, dived into cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. She mopped, scrubbed, vacuumed, put fresh sheets on the bed, dug out clean towels and debated walking to the grocery for a few provisions. Taryn's actress friend had left mustard, salsa and carrots in the fridge and an unopened pint of vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Not terribly promising.

Sophie abandoned thoughts of food and instead changed into leggings and an oversize T-shirt and set out on a run, winding her way over to the Charles River Esplanade. It was early evening, gray but not raining. She didn't push hard. After three miles, she felt less jet-lagged, less a stranger in a strange land and slowed to an easy jog back up Beacon Hill.

She took a shower, slipped into a skirt, a sweater and flats and headed out again. She didn't feel like cooking. She wasn't even sure she felt like eating, but she walked down to Charles Street to the Whitcomb, the Rush family's Boston hotel.

Good-looking, tawny-haired Jeremiah Rush stood up from the antique reception desk in the lobby. "Sophie Malone!"

"Hey, Jeremiah. Long time."

He stepped out from behind the desk, his dark gray suit clearly expensive and fitting his lean frame perfectly. "I thought you might turn up. Lizzie called this morning and said you were on your way back to Boston."

"Lizzie? How did she know?"

"A Boston cop she ran into in Ireland," Jeremiah said, no sign he considered the call from his cousin odd. "She didn't go into detail."

"What's Lizzie doing in Ireland anyway?"

He grinned. "Who knows?"

"Did she ask you to report back should I turn up?"

"She did, indeed."

Sophie supposed she shouldn't be surprised to undergo a certain amount of scrutiny after she'd encountered Scoop Wisdom yesterday, but she hadn't expected Lizzie Rush to be on her case. Had the call he'd taken at the airport that morning been from her?

"It's great to see you, Sophie," Jeremiah said. "I hear it's Dr. Malone now. Congratulations."

"Thanks." She relaxed some. "It's good to see you, Jeremiah. I just got in."

"Guinness beckons, does it? It's on the house. I remember when you'd be doing homework on your break. You had more drive than I ever did in school. Have to celebrate your milestone, right?"

"Definitely. Thank you. Join me if you can get away from the desk."

"I will. Oh, and I should warn you." He lowered his voice, as if he were telling her something he shouldn't. "The cop who told Lizzie about you is staying here. Detective Wisdom. I just checked him in."

Sophie glanced at the stairs down to Morrigan's, the hotel's upscale Irish bar named for Lizzie's Irish mother. "Is he down there now?"

"Not at the moment. I thought since you're both just back from Ireland..." Jeremiah didn't finish. "I should know better than to try to figure out what all Lizzie's up to. Enjoy your drink."

Sophie thanked him again and trotted down the stairs. She sat at a high stool at the bar and ordered a glass of Guinness, watching the bartender, new since she'd worked there, go through the proper two-part process to pour it.

She'd taken just two sips when Scoop Wisdom descended the stairs, eased over to her and pointed to a table. He had on a dark sweater and dark khakis and looked as if he weren't struggling with jet lag at all. "Come sit with me."

Sophie set down her glass. "As in, you'll arrest me if I don't?"

"As in, we need to talk."

She wondered if Jeremiah had tipped Scoop off that she was on the premises, or if the man's cop instincts were just on over-drive where she was concerned. He walked over to a small table under a window that looked out on Charles Street, quiet on the dreary late-September night. Sophie took another quick sip of her Guinness, welcoming its strong, distinctive flavor. She left her glass behind when she went over to Scoop's table.

"Amazing," she said, sitting across from him. "Yesterday we met unexpectedly in an Irish ruin, this morning we run into each other at the airport and now here we are in a Boston pub. What're the odds?"

"Pretty good, I'd say."

She ignored his dry sarcasm. "It's after midnight in Ireland. Can you feel the time change?"

Scoop settled back in his chair. "What's your game, Sophie?"

He knew something. She could see it in his dark eyes as she decided on a response. He was an internal affairs detective, presumably especially good at telling when someone was dissembling. She wasn't good at spotting liars. She was good at doing the painstaking, detailed work of an archaeologist and curious by nature, but, as Damian had reminded her, a good education and a curious nature didn't make her a detective.

Which at least gave her an angle to try on Scoop. "No game," she said. "I'm just a curious person with a love for Ireland, archaeology and history. I'm borrowing my sister's apartment. I have a few odds and ends lined up to put food on the table, and I'm teaching a couple of college classes next semester while I set up interviews for a tenure-track position. I have a good lead on one here in Boston."

"Will your work with the Boston-Cork folklore help?"

"Sure. I'm looking forward to it. I have several people in mind already for my panel, but I'll be putting out a call for papers in the next day or two. It's an honor to work with Colm Dermott. He's brilliant. Everyone I know loves him." Sophie paused as a waiter placed what appeared to be a frosty glass of soda in front of Scoop. "Smart man, Detective Wisdom, staying away from alcohol in the middle of an interrogation."