The Mephisto Club

She darted from the room, leading the rush into the parlor, the scramble for coats. As everyone spilled out the front door and into the cold, Jane was right behind them, already on her phone and calling for backup. She might be armed, but she wasn’t foolhardy; she had no intention of searching that entire house by herself.
    Moments later, the first cruiser appeared, its lights flashing but the siren silent. It skidded to a stop and two patrolmen stepped out.
    “I need a perimeter,” ordered Jane. “No one gets out of that building.”
    “Who’s inside?”
    “We’re about to find out.” She looked up as the headlights of a second cruiser approached. Two more cops arrived on the scene. “You,” she said, and pointed to one of the younger patrolmen. Tonight she wanted fast reflexes and a sharp eye. “Come with me.”
    Jane entered the house first, the patrolman right behind her, his weapon drawn. He gave a quick double-take as they stepped into the parlor, as he surveyed the elegant furniture, the oil painting above the hearth. She knew exactly what he was thinking:
This is a rich man’s house.
    She slid open the hidden panel and gave the closet a quick glance just to confirm it was empty. Then they moved on, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and into a massive library. No time to ogle the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They were on a monster hunt.
    They moved up the staircase, along a curved banister. Eyes gazed down at them from oil portraits. They passed beneath a brooding man, a doe-eyed woman, beneath two cherub-faced girls seated at a harpsichord. At the top of the stairs, they stared down a carpeted hall, past a series of doorways. Jane did not know the layout of this house or what to expect. Even with the patrolman backing her up, even with three other officers stationed right outside the house, her hands were sweating and her heart was pounding its way into her throat. Room by room they moved, sliding open closets, edging through doorways. Four bedrooms, three baths.
    They reached a narrow stairway.
    Jane halted, staring up at an attic door.
Oh man,
she thought.
I don’t want to go up there.
    She grasped the banister and ascended the first step. She heard it creak beneath her weight and knew that anyone upstairs would also hear it, and know she was coming. Behind her, she could hear the patrolman’s breathing accelerate.
    He feels it, too. The malevolence.
    She climbed up the creaking steps to the door. Her hand was slick against the knob. She glanced at her backup and saw him give a quick, tense nod.
    She flung open the door and scrambled through, her flashlight beam sweeping an arc through the darkness, skittering across shadowy forms. She saw the gleam of reflected brass, saw hulking shapes poised to attack.
    Then, behind her, the cop finally found the light switch and he flicked it on. Jane blinked in the sudden glare. In an instant, crouching attackers transformed to furniture and lamps and rolled-up carpets. Here was a treasure trove of stored antiques. Sansone was so damn rich, even his cast-off furniture was probably worth a fortune. She moved through the attic, her pulse slowing, her fears melting into relief. No monsters up here.
    She holstered her gun and stood in the midst of all those treasures, feeling sheepish. The intruder alert must have been a false alarm.
Then what gouged the wood in that windowsill?
    The cop’s radio suddenly came to life. “Graffam, what’s your status?”
    “Looks like we’re all clear in here.”
    “Rizzoli there?”
    “Yeah, she’s right here.”
    “We got a situation down here.”
    Jane shot a questioning look at the cop.
    “What’s going on?” he said into the radio.
    “Dr. Isles wants her out here ASAP.”
    “On our way.”
    Jane gave a last glance around the attic, then headed back down the steps, back down the hallway, past bedrooms they had already searched, past the same portraits that had stared at them moments before. Once again her heart was drumming as she stepped out the front door, into a night awash with flashing lights. Two more cruisers had since arrived, and she halted, temporarily blinded by the kaleidoscopic glare.
    “Jane, she ran.”
    She focused on Maura, who stood backlit by the cruisers’ rack lights. “What?”
    “Lily Saul. We were standing over there, on the sidewalk. And when we turned, she was gone.”
    “Shit.” Jane scanned the street, her gaze sweeping across the shadowy forms of cops, across