The Mephisto Club by Tess Gerritsen Page A

finished her task here. And if he was, what happened next? Should she invite him out for a cup of coffee? Would that make her seem too forward, too needy? Should she simply say good night and go her own way, as always?
    What do I want to happen?
    She reached the building and paused on the sidewalk, gazing up at the handsome three-story residence. Inside, every light was blazing. Brick steps led up to a massive front door, where a brass knocker gleamed in the glow of decorative gaslight lanterns. Despite the season, there were no holiday decorations on this porch. This was the only front door on the street without a wreath. Through the large bow windows, she saw the flicker of a fire burning in the hearth, but no twinkle of Christmas tree lights.
    “Dr. Isles?”
    She heard the squeal of metal hinges and glanced at the detective who had just pushed open the wrought-iron gate at the side of the house. Roland Tripp was one of the older cops in the homicide unit and tonight he was definitely showing his age. He stood beneath the gaslight lamp and the glow yellowed his skin, emphasizing his baggy eyes and drooping lids. Despite the bulky down jacket, he looked chilled, and he spoke with a clenched jaw, as though trying to suppress chattering teeth.
    “The victim’s back here,” he said, holding open the gate to let her in.
    Maura walked through, and the gate clanged shut behind them. He led the way into a narrow side yard, their path lit by the jerky beam of his flashlight. The walkway had been shoveled since the last storm, and the bricks had only a light dusting of windblown snow. Tripp halted, his flashlight aimed at the low mound of snow at the edge of the walkway. At the splash of red.
    “This is what got the butler worried. He saw this blood.”
    “There’s a butler here?”
    “Oh, yeah. We’re talking that kind of money.”
    “What does he do? The owner of this house?”
    “He says he’s a retired history professor. Taught at Boston College.”
    “I had no idea history professors did this well.”
    “You should take a look inside. This ain’t no professor’s house. This guy’s got other money.” Tripp aimed his flashlight at a side door. “Butler came out this exit here, carrying a bag of garbage. Started toward those trash cans when he noticed the gate was open. That’s when he first got an inkling that something wasn’t right. So he comes back, up this side yard, looking around. Spots the blood and knows that something
really
isn’t right. And notices more blood streaking along these bricks, toward the back of the house.”
    Maura stared at the ground. “The victim was dragged along this walkway.”
    “I’ll show you.” Detective Tripp continued toward the rear of the town house, into a small courtyard. His flashlight swept across ice-glazed flagstones and flower beds, now covered with a winter protection of pine boughs. At the center of the courtyard was a white gazebo. In the summertime, it would no doubt be a delightful spot to linger, a shady place to sit and sip coffee and breathe in the scents of the garden.
    But the current occupant of that gazebo was not breathing at all.
    Maura took off her wool gloves and pulled on latex ones instead. They were no protection against the chill wind that pierced straight to her flesh. Crouching down, she pulled back the plastic sheet that had been draped over the crumpled form.
    Detective Eve Kassovitz lay flat on her back, arms at her sides, her blond hair matted with blood. She was dressed in dark clothes—wool pants, a pea coat, and black boots. The coat was unbuttoned, and the sweater halfway pulled up to reveal bare skin smeared with blood. She was wearing a holster, and the weapon was still buckled in place. But it was the corpse’s face that Maura stared at, and what she saw made her draw back in horror. The woman’s eyelids had been sliced away, her eyes left wide open in an eternal stare. Trickles of blood had dried on both temples, like red