The Mephisto Club

TWENTY-EIGHT

“He shows up in his fancy car and gets invited right into the crime scene,” said Jane, shaking a French fry at Maura. “What’s that all about? Who does Sansone know in Justice? Even Gabriel couldn’t find out.”

“They must have a reason to trust him.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jane popped the French fry into her mouth and snatched up another, agitation fueling her appetite. In a matter of minutes, she’d reduced an enormous club sandwich to a few crumbs of toast and bacon, and now she was dragging the last of her fries through a pool of ketchup. “Trust some millionaire with a crime-fighting hobby?”

“Multimillionaire.”

“Who does he think he is, Bruce Wayne? Or the guy on that old TV show. The rich man who’s a cop. My mom used to watch it.”

“I think you’re talking about Burke’s Law.”

“Yeah. How many rich cops do you know?”

Maura sighed and picked up her teacup. “Not a one.”

“Exactly. It’s a fantasy. Some bored guy with money thinks it’d be a kick to play Dirty Harry, except he doesn’t want to actually get down and dirty. He doesn’t want to walk a beat or write up incident reports. He just wants to drive up in his Mercedes and tell us idiots how it should be done. You think I haven’t dealt with people like him before? Everyone thinks they’re smarter than the police.”

“I don’t think he’s merely an amateur, Jane. I think he’s worth listening to.”

“Right. A former history professor.” Jane drained her coffee cup and craned her neck around the booth, scanning the busy café for the waitress. “Hey, miss? Could I have a refill over…” She paused. She said to Maura, “Look who just walked in.”

“Who?”

“Your friend and mine.”

Maura turned toward the door, gazing past the dining counter where men in billed caps sat huddled over their coffee and burgers. She spotted Sansone at the same instant he saw her. As he crossed the room, a dozen heads swiveled, gazes fixed on the striking figure with silver hair as he strode past tables and headed toward Maura’s booth.

“I’m glad you’re still in town,” he said. “May I join you?”

“We’re about to leave,” said Jane, reaching pointedly for her wallet, the coffee refill conveniently forgotten.

“This will only take a minute. Or would you rather I mail this to you, Detective?”

Maura looked at the sheaf of papers he was carrying. “What’s all that?”

“From the Evening Sun archives.” He placed the papers on the table in front of her.

She slid sideways across the bench, making room for him in the tight booth as he sat down beside her. She felt trapped in the corner by this man, whose mere presence seemed to dominate and overwhelm the small space.

“Their digital archives go back only five years,” he said. “These are photocopies from the bound archives, so the reproduction isn’t as good as I’d like. But it tells the story.”

Maura looked down at the first page. It was from the front page of the Evening Sun, dated August 11, twelve years earlier. Her gaze at once fixed on the article near the top.

BOY’S BODY RECOVERED FROM PAYSON POND

The accompanying photo showed a grinning imp of a boy, cradling a tiger-striped cat in his arms. The caption read: Teddy Saul had just turned eleven.

“His sister Lily was the last known person who saw him alive,” said Sansone. “She was also the one who spotted him floating in the pond a day later. What surprised everyone, according to the article, was the fact the boy was a very good swimmer. And there was one other interesting detail.”

Maura looked up. “What?”

“He supposedly went down to the lake to fish. But his tackle box and pole were found a good twenty yards from the water’s edge.”

Maura handed the photocopy to Jane and looked at the next article, printed August 18. A week after little Teddy’s body was found, tragedy again struck the Saul family.

GRIEVING MOTHER’S DEATH MOST LIKELY ACCIDENTAL

Accompanying the article was another photo, another heartbreaking caption. Amy Saul was pictured in happier times, beaming at the camera as she held a baby in her lap. The same child, Teddy, whom she’d lose eleven years later to the waters of Payson Pond.

“She was found at the bottom of the stairs,” said Maura. She looked up at Jane. “By her daughter, Lily.”

“Again? The daughter found both of them?” Jane reached for the photocopied article. “This is starting to sound like too much bad luck.”

“And remember that call made to Sarah Parmley’s motel room two weeks ago. It was a woman’s voice.”

“Before you go jumping to conclusions,” said Sansone, “it wasn’t Lily Saul who found her father’s body. Her cousin did. It’s the first and only time Dominic Saul’s name appears in any of these articles.”

Maura turned to the third photocopy and stared at a photo of a smiling Dr. Peter Saul. Beneath it was the caption: Despondent over death of wife and son. She looked up. “Is there any photo of Dominic?”

“No. But he’s mentioned in that article as the one who found his uncle’s body. He’s also the one who called the police.”

“And the girl?” asked Jane. “Where was Lily when this happened?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“I assume the police checked her alibi.”

“You would assume so.”

“I wouldn’t assume anything.”

“Let’s hope that information’s in the police files,” said Sansone, “because you’re not going to get it from the investigator himself.”

“Why not?”

“He died last year of a heart attack. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. So all we have to go on is what’s in the files. But think about the situation. You’re a local cop, dealing with a sixteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her brother, her mother, and now her father. She’s probably in shock. Maybe she’s hysterical. Are you going to harass her with questions about where she was when her father died when it clearly looked like a suicide?”

“It’s my job to ask,” said Jane. “I would have.”

Yes, she would have, thought Maura, looking at Jane’s unyielding expression and remembering the relentless questions that had been asked of her yesterday morning. No mercy, no holding back. God help you if Jane Rizzoli decides you’re guilty of something. Maura looked down at the photo of Peter Saul. “There’s no picture of Lily. We don’t know what she looks like, either.”

“Actually, there is a photo,” said Sansone. “And you’ll find it very interesting.” He flipped to the next photocopied page and pointed to the article.

DOCTOR’S FUNERAL DRAWS MOURNERS FROM ACROSS COUNTY

Friends, co-workers, even strangers gathered at Ashland Cemetery on a beautiful August afternoon to mourn Dr. Peter Saul, who died last Sunday of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was the third tragedy to befall the Saul family in the past two weeks.

“There she is,” said Sansone, pointing to the accompanying photo. “That’s Lily Saul.”

It was an indistinct image, the girl’s face partly obscured by two other mourners flanking her. All Maura could see was the profile of her bowed head, veiled by long dark hair.

“That doesn’t show us much,” said Jane.

“It’s not the photo I wanted you to see,” said Sansone. “It’s the caption. Look at the names of the girls standing beside Lily.”

Only then did Maura understand why Sansone had been so insistent on sharing these pages. The caption beneath the photo of a grief-stricken Lily Saul included two startlingly familiar names.

Lily Saul is comforted by friends Lori-Ann Tucker and Sarah Parmley.

“There’s the link that wraps it all up,” said Sansone. “Three friends. Two of them are now dead. Only Lily Saul is still alive.” He paused. “And we can’t even be sure of her status.”

Jane plucked up the page and stared at it. “Maybe because she doesn’t want us to know.”

“She’s the one we have to find,” said Sansone. “She’ll know the answers.”

“Or she could be the answer. We know next to nothing about this girl Lily. Whether she got along with her family. Whether she walked away with a nice inheritance.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Maura.

“I have to admit, Mr. Sansone here said it earlier. Evil has no gender.”

“But to kill her own family, Jane.”

“We kill the ones we love. You know that.” Jane regarded the photo of the three girls. “And maybe these girls knew it, too. Twelve years is a long time to keep a secret.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to ask around town, see what else I can learn about Lily. Someone must know how to find her.”

“While you’re asking questions,” said Sansone, “you might want to ask about this, too.” He slid yet another photocopy to Jane. The headline read: South Plymouth Boy Takes Top 4-H Honors.

“Uh…I’m supposed to ask about prizewinning bulls?” asked Jane.

“No, it’s the item under the Police Beat,” said Sansone. “I almost missed it myself. In fact, I wouldn’t have seen it at all, except for the fact it was on the same page, below the story about Teddy Saul’s drowning.”

“You mean this one? Barn Vandalized, Goat Missing?”

“Look at the story.”

Jane read the article aloud. “‘Police received a complaint from Eben Bongers of Purity that vandals broke into his barn last Saturday night. Four goats escaped and three were recaptured, but one remains missing. The barn was also defaced with carvings of’”-Jane paused and looked up at Maura-“‘crosses.’”

“Keep reading,” said Sansone.

Jane swallowed and looked back down at the article. “‘Similar carvings have been found on other buildings in the area. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Chenango County Sheriff’s Office.’”

“The killer was here,” said Sansone. “Twelve years ago, he was living right in this county. And no one realized what was walking among them. No one knew what was living in their midst.”

He talks as though this killer isn’t human, thought Maura. He doesn’t say who, but what. Not a someone, but a something.

“Then two weeks ago,” said Sansone, “this killer returns to the house where the Sauls once lived. Draws the same symbols on the walls, pounds nails in the floor. All in preparation for his victim. For what he’s going to do to Sarah Parmley.” Sansone leaned forward, his gaze focused on Jane. “I don’t think Sarah Parmley was his first kill. There were others before her. You saw how elaborate Sarah’s death scene was, how much planning, how much ceremony was involved. This was a mature crime, by someone who’s had months, even years, to refine his rituals.”

“We requested a VICAP search. We looked for earlier kills.”

“Your search parameters?”

“Dismemberment. Satanic symbols. Yes, a few cases showed up from other states, but nothing that matched to our satisfaction.”

“Then widen the search.”

“Any wider, and it becomes useless. It’s too general, too big a net.”

“I’m talking internationally.”

“That’s a pretty big net.”

“There’s no net too big for this killer. Look at all the clues he’s left. Latin inscriptions. Drawings made with red ocher from Cyprus. A Mediterranean seashell. He’s practically announced to you that he’s lived abroad. And probably killed abroad. I guarantee you, if you search the Interpol database, you’ll find more of his victims.”

“How can you be so…” Jane paused, and her gaze suddenly narrowed. “You already know. You’ve checked.”

“I took the liberty. This killer has left distinctive tracks everywhere. He’s not afraid of the police. He’s utterly confident in his own ability to stay invisible.” He pointed to the photocopies. “Twelve years ago, the killer was living here. Already having his fantasies, already drawing those crosses.”

Jane looked at Maura. “I’m going to stay here at least another night. There are other people I need to talk to.”

“But I need to get home,” said Maura. “I can’t stay away that long.”

“Dr. Bristol can cover for you, can’t he?”

“I have other things I need to attend to.” Maura did not like the look Jane suddenly shot her. Other things being Daniel Brophy?

“I’m driving back to Boston tonight,” said Sansone. “You can ride with me.”