Carla Neggers - The Whisper

Scoop noticed that Bob hadn't asked a question. He made no comment himself.

"Acosta doesn't want to go down with Cliff," Bob said.

They headed out back where Acosta was checking out the burned-out first-floor porch as if he could make sense of why his former partner might have wanted to plant a bomb there--for money, revenge, satisfaction? Was he being blackmailed? Was it part of some bizarre ritual he was into?

Bob pulled out white plastic chairs he'd hosed off, although they were still stained black from soot. "Have a seat, fellas. Let's talk. View's not that great right now, but look at that sky. Not a cloud in it. It's a perfect fall day."

Acosta wasn't in a friendly mood. "Cliff was murdered," he said, practically spitting the words at Bob and Scoop. "Homicide can be as tight-lipped as they want. Cliff wouldn't off himself by tying a rope around his own neck and hanging himself from a plant hook. He'd eat a bullet. He was a son of a bitch in a lot of ways, and he was lazy. He had his run-ins with internal affairs over the years. But someone hit him on the head, put a noose around his neck, tied the rope to a door, hoisted him up and let him hang to death."

Scoop sat on one of the chairs. "He'd have been deadweight."

"He was scrawny." Acosta stalked over to the edge of Scoop's garden and kicked at squash vines, for no apparent reason except frustration. "So far there are no witnesses who saw anyone or anything unusual in the neighborhood. Could have been someone familiar."

"Ex-wife?" Scoop asked.

"She'd have shot him," Bob said, dropping heavily into a chair. "She wouldn't go to all the trouble of hanging him. I'm not officially on the case, but cause of death was asphyxia. I can tell you that much. He was hit on the head--the blow was hard enough that it might have killed him eventually by itself."

"Why go to the trouble to hang him?"

"Probably some kind of ritual significance, given the rest of the scene," Bob said, watching Acosta. "Whoever killed Cliff didn't go to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide."

Acosta picked up a half-rotten tomato and threw it against the compost bin, constructed of slats and chicken wire. "I'm not fooled, Lieutenant. You're only telling me this so you can watch my reaction." He picked up another tomato and splattered it against the compost bin, too. "We have nothing."

Bob shook his head. "We have a lot. We just can't make sense of it yet."

"Now Augustine's dead. If he knew anything..." Acosta bit off a sigh. "It wouldn't have mattered. He'd never tell us."

"If you're chewing on anything, Frank, you know you need to tell us." Bob's tone was patient, but his gaze was narrowed intently on the robbery detective. "Otherwise go home."

"Go to hell," Acosta said tonelessly.

Bob ignored him and addressed Scoop. "Where's your archaeologist today?"

But there was something in Bob's voice, and Scoop turned in his cheap chair and saw Sophie coming down the walk, her hair pulled back as neatly as he'd ever seen it. She had on a pumpkin-colored sweater and slim jeans, and his heart skipped a couple of beats. He figured Bob and maybe even Acosta noticed, but whatever. This was how it was going to be until the fairy spell wore off or he just accepted that he was in love.

He glanced over at Bob. "You invited her?"

"She's Irish," he said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. "I thought she could sweep the bad fairies out of the corners of the house before we renovate."

"You want her to see where the bomb went off."

He got up. "Maybe it'll help jog our memories."

Sophie gave them a strained smile. "Hello, Detectives."

Acosta moved away from the compost bin, looking irritated and out of place, as if he'd beamed himself into the middle of the wrong meeting. He didn't say a word to Sophie as she gazed up at the burned-out back of the house. "It must have been an awful day."

"It started better than it ended, that's for damn sure," Bob said.

She pointed to Scoop's trampled, overgrown garden. "The compost bin was the only possible place to take cover." Her blue eyes leveled on him. "How did you think of it?"

"I didn't," he said. "I reacted."

"You relied on your instincts and training." Spots of color appeared high in her cheeks. "And your fear for Fiona."

"For myself, too. Hell if I wanted to get blown up."

Acosta muttered under his breath, then shifted to Scoop and Bob. "I have to go."

Sophie watched him retreat back up the walk and out to the street before she spoke again. "He blames me for his friend's death."

"Why do you say that?" Bob asked.

"Because he does." She stepped into the remains of Scoop's vegetable garden. "No pumpkins?"

"Butternut squash," Scoop said, following her to the edge of the garden. "I don't eat pumpkins."

"I love squash. I'm a terrible cook. I don't mind cleaning, though." She took a long step over knee-high weeds to the compost bin. "Is the compost in here still okay?"

"Should be. I can pick out any shrapnel that ended up in it."

Bob walked around to the other side of the bin, behind Sophie. "Would an archaeologist be interested in an ancient compost bin?"

She laughed, relaxing some. "We deal with the material remains of a culture. Compost would be decomposed."

"Not the shrapnel," Bob said. With a broad sweep of one arm, he took in the entire yard. "Imagine keeping everything just as it is and then making sense of this backyard a thousand years from now."

"It would be a challenge," Sophie said.

"Aren't archaeologists part scientist and part historian?"

Scoop didn't know where Bob was going--maybe nowhere--but she didn't seem to mind. "Archaeologists are archaeologists," she said with a light smile. "There are many areas of specialization. Mine is visual arts. We often work with other experts--geologists, botanists, philologists--who can help interpret various discoveries."

"Did you have a good grasp of the geology of the island you ventured to a year ago?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It's not that difficult."

"Rock," Bob said with a smile.

"I knew there could be a cave on the island. In fact, I was hoping there'd be."

"Perfect hiding spot for your treasure."

"It's not my treasure," she said, matter-of-fact. She squinted up at the boarded-up windows and charred wood of the triple-decker. "Lizzie Rush managed to warn you right before the bomb went off. It must have been horrible, knowing your daughter was down here."

"Yep. Horrible."

"The bomb and Abigail Browning's kidnapping were orchestrated by Norman Estabrook. He and most of his men were killed when Lizzie, Will Davenport and Simon Cahill rescued Abigail in southern Maine. One was killed here in Boston, wasn't he?"

Fletcher's doing, Scoop thought. It wasn't Bob's favorite subject. The senior detective settled back on his heels and said, "Estabrook hired local muscle."

Sophie glanced back at him. "Cliff Rafferty?"

"He was a police officer then," Bob said, his tone neutral.

"He was a police officer when he set the bomb--"

"That's right, he was."

"Detective Browning survived her ordeal." Sophie seemed to jerk herself out of whatever dark thoughts she was thinking. "That's the main thing, isn't it?"

Bob nodded. "Yeah. That's the main thing. She did what she could to help with her rescue, but she kept those bastards from killing her. Did you run into Will Davenport when he was in Ireland this summer?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think Tim did, either." She grimaced again at the fire damage. "You can trace some of the bomb-making materials found at Officer Rafferty's apartment, can't you? You can figure out if the evidence on his coffee table matches up with any evidence here, check his receipts, talk with his friends--"