SEVENTEEN

Maura watched through the viewing window as Yoshima, wearing a lead apron, positioned the collimator over the abdomen. Some people walk into work on Monday mornings dreading nothing worse awaiting them than a stack of fresh paperwork or message slips. On this Monday morning, what had awaited Maura was the woman who lay on that table, her body now stripped bare. Maura saw Yoshima reemerge from behind the lead shield to retrieve the film cassette for processing. He glanced up and gave a nod.

Maura pushed through the door, back into the autopsy lab.

The night she had crouched shivering in Anthony Sansone’s garden, she had seen this body only under the glow of flashlight beams. Today, Detective Eve Kassovitz lay fully bared to view, harsh lights washing out every shadow. The blood had been rinsed away, revealing raw, pink injuries. A scalp laceration. A stab wound on the chest, beneath the sternum. And the lidless eyes, the corneas now clouded from exposure. That was what Maura could not help staring at: those mutilated eyes.

The whish of the door announced Jane’s arrival. “You haven’t started yet?” Jane asked.

“No. Is anyone else joining us?”

“It’s just me today.” Jane paused in the midst of tying on her gown, her gaze suddenly fixed on the table. On the face of her dead colleague. “I should have stood up for her,” she said quietly. “When those jerks in the unit started in with the stupid jokes, I should have put a stop to it right there.”

“They’re the ones who should feel guilty, Jane. Not you.”

“But I’ve been there myself. I know how it feels.” Jane kept looking down at the exposed corneas. “They won’t be able to pretty up these eyes for the funeral.”

“It will have to be a closed coffin.”

“The eye of Horus,” Jane said softly.

“What?”

“That drawing on Sansone’s door. It’s an ancient symbol, dating back to the Egyptians. It’s called Udjat, the all-seeing eye.”

“Who told you about that?”

“One of Sansone’s dinner guests.” She looked at Maura. “These people-Sansone and his friends-they’re weird. The more I find out about them, the more they creep me out. Especially him.”

Yoshima came out of the processing room, carrying a sheaf of freshly developed films. They gave a musical twang as he clipped them to the light box.

Maura reached for the ruler and measured the scalp laceration, jotting its dimensions on a clipboard. “He called me that night, you know,” she said, without looking up. “To make sure I got home safely.”

“Sansone did?”

Maura glanced up. “Do you consider him a suspect?”

“Think about this: After they found the body, do you know what Sansone did? Before he even called the police? He got out his camera and snapped some photos. Had his butler deliver them to his friends the next morning. Tell me that isn’t weird.”

“But do you consider him a suspect?”

After a pause, Jane admitted, “No. And if I did, it would present problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gabriel tried to do a little digging for me. He called around to find out more about the guy. All he did was ask a few questions, and suddenly doors slammed shut. The FBI, Interpol, no one wanted to talk about Sansone. Obviously he has friends in high places who are ready to protect him.”

Maura thought of the house on Beacon Hill. The butler, the antiques. “His wealth could have something to do with it.”

“It’s all inherited. He sure didn’t make his fortune teaching medieval history at Boston College.”

“How wealthy are we talking about?”

“That house on Beacon Hill? It’s his equivalent of slumming. He’s also got homes in London and Paris, plus a family estate in Italy. The guy’s an eligible bachelor, he’s loaded, and he’s good-looking. But he never turns up on the society pages. No charity balls, no black-tie fund-raisers. He’s like a total recluse.”

“He didn’t strike me as the kind of man you’d find on the party circuit.”

“What else did you think about him?”

“We didn’t have that long a conversation.”

“But you did have one that night.”

“It was freezing outside, and he invited me in for coffee.”

“Didn’t that seem a little weird?”

“What?”

“That he made a special effort to invite you in?”

“I appreciated the gesture. And for the record, it was the butler who came out to get me.”

“You, specifically? He knew who you were?”

Maura hesitated. “Yes.”

“What did he want from you, Doc?”

Maura had moved on to the torso, and she now measured the stab wound on the chest and jotted the dimensions on her clipboard. The questions were getting too pointed, and she didn’t like the implications: that she’d let herself be used by Anthony Sansone. “I didn’t reveal anything vital about the case, Jane. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you did talk about it?”

“About a number of things. And yes, he wanted to know what I thought. It’s not surprising, since the body was found in his garden. Understandably, he’s curious. And maybe a little eccentric.” She met Jane’s gaze and found it uncomfortably probing. She dropped her attention back to the corpse, to wounds that did not disturb her nearly as much as Jane’s questions.

“Eccentric? That’s the only word you can think of?”

She thought of the way Sansone had studied her that night, how his eyes had reflected the firelight, and other words came to mind. Intelligent. Attractive. Intimidating.

“You don’t think he’s just a little bit creepy?” asked Jane. “Because I sure do.”

“Why?”

“You saw his house. It’s like stepping into a time warp. And you never saw the other rooms, with all those portraits staring from the walls. It’s like walking into Dracula’s castle.”

“He’s a history professor.”

“Was. He’s not teaching anymore.”

“Those are probably heirlooms, and priceless. Clearly he appreciates his family legacy.”

“Oh yeah, the family legacy. That’s where he got lucky. He’s a fourth-generation trust-funder.”

“Yet he pursued a successful academic career. You have to give him some credit for that. He didn’t just turn into an idle playboy.”

“Here’s the interesting twist. The family trust fund was established back in 1905, by his great-grandfather. Guess what the name of that trust fund is?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s called the Mephisto Foundation.”

Maura glanced up, startled. “Mephisto?” she murmured.

“You gotta wonder,” said Jane, “with a name like that, what kind of family legacy are we talking about?”

Yoshima asked, “What’s the significance of that name? Mephisto?”

“I looked it up,” said Jane. “It’s short for Mephistopheles. Doc here probably knows who he was.”

“The name comes from the legend of Dr. Faustus,” said Maura.

“Who?” asked Yoshima.

“Dr. Faustus was a magician,” said Maura. “He drew secret symbols to summon the Devil. An evil spirit named Mephistopheles appeared and offered him a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“In exchange for the full knowledge of magic, Dr. Faustus sold his soul to the Devil.”

“So Mephisto is…”

“A servant of Satan.”

A voice suddenly spoke over the intercom. “Dr. Isles,” said Maura’s secretary, Louise. “You have an outside call on line one. It’s a Mr. Sansone. Do you want to pick up, or shall I take a message?”

Speak of the Devil.

Maura met Jane’s gaze and saw Jane give a quick nod.

“I’ll take the call,” said Maura. Stripping off her gloves, she crossed to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Sansone?”

“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” he said.

She looked at the body on the table. Eve Kassovitz won’t mind, she thought. There is no one as patient as the dead. “I have a minute to talk.”

“This Saturday, I’m hosting a supper here at my home. I’d love to have you join us.”