She pulled her coat tighter, as though to ward off their stares, thinking of Christmas Eve and another death scene. Of Eve Kassovitz, who’d lingered on the street that night, emptying her stomach into the snowbank. Had Kassovitz experienced even a flicker of a premonition that she would be the next object of Maura’s attention?

The cops all gathered in silence near the house as the morgue team wheeled Eve Kassovitz along the side yard. When the stretcher bearing the shrouded corpse emerged through the iron gate, they stood with heads bared in the frigid wind, a solemn blue line honoring one of their own. Even after the stretcher had disappeared into the vehicle and the doors had swung shut, they did not break ranks. Only when the taillights winked away into the darkness did the hats go back on, and they began to drift back to their cruisers.

Maura, too, was about to walk to her car when the front door of the residence opened. She looked up as warm light spilled out and saw the silhouette of a man standing there, looking at her.

“Excuse me. Are you Dr. Isles?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Sansone would like to invite you to step inside the house. It’s a great deal warmer in here, and I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

She hesitated at the foot of the steps, looking up at the warm glow that framed the manservant. He stood very straight, watching her with an eerie stillness that made her think of a life-size statue she’d once seen in a gag store, a papier-mâché butler holding a tray of fake drinks. She glanced down the street toward her car. Daniel had already left, and she had nothing to look forward to but a lonely drive home and an empty house.

“Thank you,” she said, and started up the steps. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

TWELVE

She stepped into the warmth of the front parlor. Her face was still numb from the bite of the wind. Only as she stood before the fireplace, waiting for the butler to notify Mr. Sansone, did sensation slowly creep back into her cheeks; she felt the pleasant sting of reawakened nerves, of flushing skin. She could hear the murmur of conversation in another room-Detective Crowe’s voice, pointed with questioning, answered by a softer response, barely audible. A woman’s. In the fireplace, sparks popped and smoke puffed up, and she realized these were real logs burning, that it was not the fake gas fireplace she’d assumed it was. The medieval oil painting that hung above the hearth might well be authentic as well. It was a portrait of a man wearing robes of wine-red velvet, with a gold crucifix around his neck. Though he was not young, and his dark hair was woven with silver, his eyes burned with a youthful fire. In that room’s flickering light, those eyes seemed piercingly alive.

She shivered and turned away, strangely intimidated by the stare of a man almost certainly long dead. The room had other curiosities, other treasures to examine. She saw chairs upholstered in striped silk, a Chinese vase that gleamed with the patina of centuries, a rosewood butler’s table that held a cigar box and a crystal decanter of brandy. The carpet she stood on bore a well-worn path down its center, evidence of its age and the countless shoes that had trod across it, but the relatively untouched perimeter revealed the unmistakable quality of thick wool and the craftsmanship of the weaver. She looked down at her feet, at a tapestry of intricate vines twining across burgundy to frame a unicorn reclining beneath a bower of trees. Suddenly she felt guilty that she was standing on such a masterpiece. She stepped off it, onto the wood floor, and closer to the hearth.

Once again, she was facing the portrait over the mantelpiece. Once again, her gaze lifted to the priest’s piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to stare straight back at her.

“It’s been in my family for generations. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how vivid the colors still are? Even after four centuries.”

Maura turned to face the man who had just stepped into the room. He had entered so quietly, it was as though he had simply materialized behind her, and she was too taken by surprise to know quite what to say. He was dressed in a dark turtleneck, which made his silver hair all the more striking. Yet his face looked no older than fifty. Had they merely passed each other on the street, she would have stared at him because his features were so arresting and so hauntingly familiar. She saw a high forehead, an aristocratic bearing. His dark eyes caught the flicker of firelight, so that they seemed lit from within. He had referred to the portrait as an heirloom, and she saw at once the familial resemblance between the portrait and the living man. The eyes were the same.

He held out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Isles. I’m Anthony Sansone.” His gaze was focused with such intensity on her face that she wondered if they had met before.

No. I certainly would have remembered a man this attractive.

“I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand. “After everything I’ve heard about you.”

“From whom?”

“Dr. O’Donnell.”

Maura felt her hand go cold in his grasp, and she pulled away. “I can’t imagine why I’d be a subject of conversation.”

“She had only good things to say about you. Believe me.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t say the same thing about her,” she said.

He gave a knowing nod. “She can be off-putting. Until you get the chance to know her. Value her insights.”

The door swung open so quietly, Maura did not hear it. Only the gentle clink of chinaware alerted her to the fact that the butler had stepped into the room, carrying a tray with cups and a coffeepot. He set them on an end table, regarded Sansone with a questioning look, then withdrew from the room. Not a single word had passed between them; the only communication had been that look, and the returning nod-all the vocabulary needed between two men who obviously knew each other well enough to dispense with unnecessary words.

Sansone gestured for her to sit down, and Maura sank into an empire armchair upholstered in striped silk.

“I apologize for confining you to the front parlor,” he said. “But Boston PD seems to have commandeered the other rooms while they conduct their interviews.” He poured coffee and handed her a cup. “I take it you’ve examined the victim?”

“I saw her.”

“What did you think?”

“You know I can’t comment.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease against blue and gold brocade. “I’m not talking about the body itself,” he said. “I perfectly understand why you can’t discuss your medical findings. I was referring to the scene itself. The gestalt of the crime.”

“You should ask the lead investigator, Detective Rizzoli.”

“I’m more interested in your impressions.”

“I’m a physician. Not a detective.”

“But I’m guessing you have a special insight into what happened in my garden tonight.” He leaned forward, coal-dark eyes riveted on hers. “You saw the symbols drawn on my back door?”

“I can’t talk about-”

“Dr. Isles, you won’t be giving away anything. I saw the body. So did Dr. O’Donnell. When Jeremy found the woman, he came straight into the house to tell us.”

“And then you and O’Donnell tramped outside like tourists to have a look?”

“We’re the furthest thing from tourists.”

“Did you stop to think about the footprints you might have destroyed? The trace evidence you’ve contaminated?”

“We understood exactly what we were doing. We had to see the crime scene.”

“Had to?”

“This house isn’t just my residence. It’s also a meeting place for colleagues from around the world. The fact that violence has struck so close alarms us.”

“It would alarm anyone to find a dead body in their garden. But most people wouldn’t troop outside with their dinner guest to look at it.”