The Mephisto Club

“So how have you been?” she asked.

“You know about Father Roy’s stroke last month? I’ve stepped in as police chaplain.”

“Detective Rizzoli told me.”

“I was at that Dorchester crime scene a few weeks ago. The police officer who was shot. I saw you there.”

“I didn’t see you. You should have said hello.”

“Well, you were busy. Totally focused as usual.” He smiled. “You can look so fierce, Maura. Did you know that?”

She gave a laugh. “Maybe that’s my problem.”

“Problem?”

“I scare men away.”

“You haven’t scared me.”

How could I? She thought. Your heart isn’t available for breaking. Deliberately she glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. “It’s so late, and I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”

“It’s not as if I have any pressing business,” he said as he walked with her toward the exit.

“You have a whole flock of souls to look after. And it is Christmas Eve.”

“You’ll notice I have nowhere else to go tonight, either.”

She paused and turned to face him. They stood alone in the church, breathing in the scents of candle wax and incense, familiar smells that brought back a childhood of other Christmases, other Masses. The days when stepping into a church provoked none of the turmoil she was now feeling. “Good night, Daniel,” she said, turning toward the door.

“Will it be another four months until I see you again?” he called out after her.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve missed our talks, Maura.”

Again she hesitated, her hand poised to push open the door. “I’ve missed them, too. Maybe that’s why we shouldn’t have them anymore.”

“We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.”

“Not yet,” she said softly, her gaze not on him, but on the heavy carved door, which stood between her and escape.

“Maura, let’s not leave it like this between us. There’s no reason we can’t maintain some sort of-” He stopped.

Her cell phone was ringing.

She fished it out of her purse. At this hour, a ringing phone could not mean anything good. As she answered the call, she felt Daniel’s eyes on her, felt her own jittery reaction to his gaze.

“Dr. Isles,” she said, her voice u

“Merry Christmas,” said Detective Jane Rizzoli. “I’m kind of surprised you’re not at home right now. I tried calling there first.”

“I came to midnight Mass.”

“Geez, it’s already one A.M. Isn’t it over yet?”

“Yes, Jane. It’s over, and I’m about to leave,” said Maura, in a tone of voice that cut off any more queries. “What have you got for me?” she asked. Because she already knew that this call was not a simple hello, but a summons.

“Address is two-ten Prescott Street, East Boston. A private residence. Frost and I got here about a half hour ago.”

“Details?”

“We’re looking at one vic, a young woman.”

“Homicide?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“You’ll see when you get here.”

She disco

“You have to go to work?”

“I’m covering tonight.” She slipped the phone back into her purse. “Since I don’t have any family in town, I volunteered.”

“On this of all nights?”

“The fact that it’s Christmas doesn’t make much difference to me.”

She buttoned up her coat collar and walked out of the building, into the night. He followed her outside, and as she tramped through freshly fallen snow to her car, he stood watching her from the steps, his white vestments flapping in the wind. Glancing back, she saw him raise his hand in a good-bye wave.

He was still waving as she drove away.

THREE

The blue lights of three cruisers pulsed through a filigree of falling snow, a

She stepped out of the car and the sudden blast of cold air blew the sleep from her brain. She walked through freshly fallen powder that whispered away like white feathers before her boots. Although it was one-thirty, lights were burning in several of the modest homes along the street, and through a window decorated with holiday stencils of flying reindeer and candy canes, she saw the silhouette of a curious neighbor peering out from his warm house, at a night that was no longer silent or holy.

“Hey, Dr. Isles?” called out a patrolman, an older cop whom she vaguely recognized. Clearly he knew exactly who she was. They all knew who she was. “How’d you get so lucky tonight, huh?”

“I could ask the same of you, Officer.”

“Guess we both drew the short straws.” He gave a laugh. “Merry goddamn Christmas.”

“Is Detective Rizzoli inside?”

“Yeah, she and Frost have been videotaping.” He pointed toward a residence where all the lights were shining, a boxy little house crammed into a row of tired older homes. “By now, they’re probably ready for you.”

The sound of violent retching made her glance toward the street, where a blond woman stood doubled over, clutching at her long coat to avoid soiling the hem as she threw up in the snowbank.

The patrolman gave a snort. Muttered to Maura, “That one’s go

“I haven’t seen her before. She’s from Homicide?”

“I hear she just transferred over from Narcotics and Vice. The commissioner’s bright idea to bring in more girls.” He shook his head. “She’s not go

The woman detective wiped her mouth and moved unsteadily toward the porch steps, where she sank down.

“Hey. Detective!” called out the patrolman. “You might wa

A younger cop, standing nearby, snickered.

The blond detective jerked back to her feet, and in bright strobe flashes the cruiser lights illuminated her mortified face. “I think I’ll go sit in my car for a minute,” she murmured.

“Yeah. You do that, ma’am.”

Maura watched the detective retreat to the shelter of her vehicle. What horrors was she about to face inside that house?

“Doc,” called out Detective Barry Frost. He had just emerged from the house and was standing on the porch, hunched in a Windbreaker. His blond hair stood up in tufts, as though he had just rolled out of bed. Though his face had always been sallow, the yellow glow cast by the porch light made him look sicklier than usual.

“I gather it’s pretty bad in there,” she said.

“Not the kind of thing you want to see on Christmas. Thought I’d better come out here and get some air.”

She paused at the bottom of the steps, noting the jumble of footprints that had been left on the snow-dusted porch. “Okay to walk in this way?”

“Yeah. Those prints are all Boston PD.”

“What about footwear evidence?”

“We didn’t find much out here.”

“What, did he fly in the window?”

“It looks like he swept up after himself. You can still see some of the whisk marks.”