Carla Neggers - The Whisper

"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?"