Carla Neggers - The Whisper

"We can do all that," Bob said with no hint of sarcasm.

"I can only imagine how difficult this situation must be for you and everyone in the police department. Given what's happened, I gather you're taking another look at what he was up to at the Augustine showroom in the last days as a police officer--and whether he had anything to do with the break-in at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago. The Winslow Homer painting that disappeared that day has never been recovered."

"Cliff wasn't that smart," Bob said.

"Augustine was," Sophie said, but she abruptly squared her shoulders and smiled at the two men. "I've taken up enough of your time. You know how to reach me if you have more questions. I have nothing to hide."

Bob walked across the yard with her. "Any more stray cats at your apartment?"

His question obviously caught her by surprise. Scoop had called Bob last night, after he'd talked himself out of following Sophie up to her room. He'd had a drink, listened to Fiona and her friends for a little while, then went up to his own room and got Bob's take on the whispers in the courtyard--which was straightforward enough. He'd said next time tell Sophie to call 911.

"I haven't been back there yet," she said calmly. "I didn't make up what I heard--"

"Not saying you did. Be good, Sophie."

She glanced at Scoop, said nothing more and left. As she disappeared out of sight, Bob glared at Scoop. "You're going to stay on her, right?"

He was already on his way.

Scoop tried Sophie's number but she didn't answer. He checked the Whitcomb first. Before he could even pose a question, Jeremiah Rush jumped up from behind his desk. "Sophie said to tell you she's gone back up to her sister's apartment."

"Did she check out of the hotel?"

"She wanted to but I told her she could let me know for sure later." Jeremiah frowned. "Is everything all right?"

"No worries. Anything from your cousin?"

"She's in London with Will, Keira Sullivan and Simon Cahill. That's all I know."

"Do me a favor. Call me if you hear from any of them or if Sophie comes back here. If you need me for any reason, don't hesitate. Call. Got that?"

"I do, yes."

Scoop dialed Sophie again as he headed up Beacon Hill but she still didn't answer.

The gate was locked this time. She buzzed him in.

She had books and photographs on the Celts spread out on the table. He noticed a color photograph of a miniature boat in gold, complete with tiny oars, and another of a half-dozen ornate gold torcs. She'd let her hair down, the dark red framing her face, bringing out the blue in her eyes. "I left most of my research materials in Ireland. My parents can ship me anything I need when they get back from their hike."

Scoop looked up from the photos. "You're here but you're not here. Part of you wants to be back in Ireland."

"I'll adjust," she said tightly.

"It'd help to go a few days without a crisis." Scoop flipped through more color photographs of Celtic art. "Tell me about shape-shifting."

"Have you ever wanted to turn yourself into a bird or a dog?"

"When I was nine, maybe."

"Think of it. Being able to metamorphose into a bird would give a man or woman--or even a god--an enormous advantage. A bird can fly into an enemy camp. It can see things a human wouldn't otherwise see. Never mind the practical advantages, shape-shifting plays a symbolic role. A beautiful queen becomes a hag. A young girl becomes a swan. A hero becomes a hawk. As I've mentioned, the Celts didn't have firm lines between this world and the other world--between the living and the dead, between gods and men. Think of shape-shifting in that context."

"You're just scratching the surface, aren't you?"

She smiled faintly. "It's difficult to talk about 'the Celts.' There are many stories of shape-shifting in Irish mythology. The goddess Maeve is said to have shape-shifted into a hag and a raven, terrorizing and horrifying her enemies. Why are you asking about shape-shifting?"

"I don't know. Your big black dog in Ireland, maybe." He changed the subject. "You said the elder Percy Carlisle was an adventurer, but his son isn't. Was there tension between them?"

"I've told you, I didn't know them that well."

"But you heard rumors. You worked at an upscale Beacon Hill pub, you did research at their museum, you were majoring in the field that most interested the father."

"I was a student. I wasn't on their radar, and I didn't have a lot of time for rumors. If Percy felt inadequate--if his father made him feel inadequate--I wasn't that aware of it."

"'That' aware."

She smiled. "Okay, so I was a little aware, but Percy's a grown man now with his own interests and accomplishments. He's married. His father's gone. If you're suggesting he engineered the cave last summer as some way to prove himself--" She stopped, shaking her head. "I don't believe it."

"Helen doesn't seem to mind that he's a bit of a wimp."

"I don't think of him as a wimp, and I know you said that just to see my reaction."

"Never fantasized about Prince Charming Percy Carlisle sweeping you off to his castle in Back Bay?"

"No."

Scoop almost asked her about fantasizing about a scarred, weight-lifting cop, but he resisted.

She gathered up her materials into both arms and dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace. "I've been wondering if I missed it somehow and Percy Sr. did explore that island on one of his adventures. But I don't see how. Tim O'Donovan would have known. He and his family have been fishing off the southwest coast of Ireland for decades."

"Going out there was all your idea?"

She nodded.

"What about the break-in at the museum? How did that affect your relationship with the Carlisles?"

"I had nothing to do with it, and it was a long time ago--"

"Not that long."

She sighed. "Both Carlisles were uncomfortable around me after that."

"Did they ever consider you a suspect?"

"No, and neither did the police." Her voice was calm. "There were rumors--never mind. Rumors don't matter now."

"Maybe they do."

"Police officers dig into people's most private areas, don't they?"

"Just doing a job. What rumors?"

"That Percy Sr. was in on the break-in."

"Motive?"

"He could sell the Homer to a discreet, rich friend and collect insurance on it at the same time. There were rumors he needed cash, but I don't believe that so much--I don't believe he was involved at all, but if he had been, it would be because he liked the risk and he was getting back at someone. He was very..." She paused, obviously searching for the right word. "He could be very rigid and unforgiving."

"What was his wife like?"

"Quiet, cerebral. The museum was her creation."

"Married to it and her work there. So we had the near disaster and scandal over the smuggling in Ireland and the firings, the break-in and the heist in Boston. Now you're an expert in the field Percy Sr. thought of himself as an expert in. You know all this stuff, and Percy Jr. knows you know."

"That's why I was surprised when he looked me up a year ago."

"And your brain didn't go ding-ding-ding after the island experience?"

"No."

"Did you tell the Irish police about Percy?"

"It didn't even occur to me. I can't even say he was still in Ireland at the time. I doubt it."

"Not the type to chase after you to a remote, rockbound island?"

"Definitely not the type."

"Why did he come see you in Kenmare? Go through that conversation with me again."

She debated, then nodded. "Have a seat."

He listened without interruption while she talked. He wasn't a lot of things, but he was a damn good listener. And he liked hearing her talk. She was curious, analytical and interested as well as interesting--and it didn't take long for him to figure out that she hadn't been waiting for Percy Carlisle to sweep her off her feet. Or any man, for that matter. Sophie Malone, Ph.D., was very much her own person.