“Let’s start our search here,” she said.

Together Frost and Crowe pulled the top crate off the stack and lowered it to the floor. On the lid was scrawled:MISCELLANEOUS. CONGO. Frost used a crowbar to pry up the lid, and at his first glimpse of what lay inside, he flinched back, bumping against Jane.

“What is it?” she asked.

Darren Crowe suddenly laughed. Reaching into the crate, he pulled out a wooden mask and held it over his face. “Boo!”

“Be careful with that!” said Robinson. “It’s valuable.”

“It’s also creepy as hell,” murmured Frost, staring at the mask’s grotesque features carved into wood.

Crowe set the mask aside and pulled out one of the crumpled newspapers used to cushion the crate’s contents. “London Times, 1930. I’d say this crate predates our perp.”

“I really must protest,” said Robinson. “You’re touching things-contaminating things. You should all be wearing gloves.”

“Maybe you should wait outside, Dr. Robinson,” said Jane.

“No, I won’t. The safety of this collection is my responsibility.”

She turned to confront him. Mild-mannered though he appeared, he stubbornly stood his ground as she advanced, his eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. Outside this museum, if confronted by a police officer, Nicholas Robinson would probably respond deferentially. But here on his own territory, in defense of his precious collection, he appeared fully prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

“You’re rampaging through here like wild cattle,” he said.

“What makes you think there are more bodies down here? What kind of people do you think work in museums?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Robinson. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Then ask me. Talk to me, instead of tearing apart crates. I know this museum. I know the people who’ve worked here.”

“You’ve been curator here for only three years,” said Jane.

“I also worked here as a summer intern when I was in college. I knew Dr. Scott-Kerr, and he was utterly harmless.” He glared at Crowe, who had just fished a vase out of the open crate. “Hey! That’s at least four hundred years old! Treat it with respect!”

“Maybe it’s time for you and me to step outside,” said Jane.

“We need to talk.”

He shot a worried glance at the three detectives, who had started opening another crate. He reluctantly followed her out of the basement and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery. They stood by the Egyptian exhibit, its faux tomb entrance looming above them.

“Exactly when were you an intern here, Dr. Robinson?” Jane asked.

“Twenty years ago, during my junior and senior years in college. When William was curator, he tried to bring in one or two college students every summer.”

“Why are there no interns now?”

“We no longer have money in our budget to pay their expenses. So we find it almost impossible to attract any students. Besides, when you’re young, you’d rather be working out in the field anyway, with other kids your age. Not confined to this dusty old building.”

“What do you remember about Dr. Scott-Kerr?”

“I liked him quite a bit,” he said. And a smile flickered on his lips at the memory. “He was a little absentminded even then, but he was always pleasant, always generous with his time. He gave me a great deal of responsibility right off the bat, and that made it the best experience I could have had. Even if it did set me up for disappointment.”

“Why?”

“It raised my expectations. I thought I’d be able to land a job just like it when I finished my doctorate.”

“You didn’t?”

He shook his head. “I ended up working as a shovel bum.”

“What does that mean?”

“A contract archaeologist. These days, that’s pretty much the only kind of job one can get with a fresh archaeology degree. They call it cultural resource management. I worked at construction sites and military bases. I dug test pits, looking for any evidence of historic value before the bulldozers moved in. It’s a job only for young people. There are no benefits, you’re always living out of a suitcase, and it’s damn hard on the knees and back. So when Simon called me three years ago to offer me this job, I was glad to hang up my shovel, even if I’m earning less than I did in the field. Which explains why this position went vacant for so long after Dr. Scott-Kerr died.”

“How can a museum operate without a curator?”

“By letting someone like Mrs. Willebrandt run the show, if you can believe it. She left the same displays in the same dusty cases for years.” He glanced toward the reception desk, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know what? She hasn’t changed a whit since I was an intern. That woman was born ancient.”

Jane heard footsteps thump on the stairwell and turned to see Frost trudging up the basement steps. “Rizzoli, you’d better come down and see this.”

“What did you find?”

“We’re not sure.”

She and Robinson followed Frost back down to the basement storeroom. Spilled wood shavings littered the floor where the detectives had searched through several more crates.

“We were trying to pull that crate down, and I braced myself against the wall,” said Detective Tripp. “It kind of gave way behind me. And then I noticed that. ” He pointed toward the bricks.

“Crowe, shine your flashlight this way, so she can see it.”

Crowe aimed his beam and Jane frowned at the wall, which was now bowed outward. One of the bricks had fallen away, leaving a gap through which Jane could see only blackness beyond.

“There’s a space back there,” said Crowe. “When I shine my light through, I can’t even see a back wall.”

Jane turned to Robinson. “What’s behind these bricks?”

“I have no idea,” he murmured, staring in bewilderment at the bowed wall. “I always assumed these walls were solid. But it’s such an old building.”

“How old?”

“At least a hundred and fifty years. That’s what the plumber told us when he came to update the restroom. This was once their family residence, you know.”

“The Crispins?”

“They lived here in the mid-1800s, then the family moved into a new home out in Brookline. That’s when this building was turned into the museum.”

“Which direction does this wall face?” asked Frost.

Robinson thought about it. “That would be facing the street, I think.”

“So there’s no building on the other side of this.”

“No, just the road.”

“Let’s pull some of these bricks out,” said Jane, “and see what’s on the other side.”

Robinson looked alarmed. “If you start removing bricks, it could all collapse.”

“But this obviously isn’t a weight-bearing wall,” said Tripp.

“Or it would already have fallen.”

“I want you all to stop right now,” said Robinson. “Before you go any further, I need to speak to Simon.”

“Then why don’t you go ahead and call him?” said Jane.

As the curator walked out, the four detectives remained in place, a silent tableau poised for his departure. The instant the door shut behind him, Jane’s attention shot back to the wall.

“These lower bricks aren’t even mortared together. They’re just stacked up, loose.”

“So what’s holding up the top of that wall?” asked Frost.

Gingerly, Jane eased out one of the loose bricks, half expecting the rest of them to come tumbling down. But the wall held. She glanced at Tripp. “What do you think?”

“There’s got to be a brace on top supporting the upper third.”

“Then it should be safe to pull out these lower ones, right?”

“It should be. I guess.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “You fill me with such confidence, Tripp.” As the three men stood by and watched, she gently eased out another loose brick, and another. She couldn’t help noticing that the other detectives had backed away, leaving her alone at the base of the wall. Despite the gap she’d now opened, the structure continued to hold. Peering through, she confronted only pitch blackness.