The Mephisto Club

those eyes seemed piercingly alive.
    She shivered and turned away, strangely intimidated by the stare of a man almost certainly long dead. The room had other curiosities, other treasures to examine. She saw chairs upholstered in striped silk, a Chinese vase that gleamed with the patina of centuries, a rosewood butler’s table that held a cigar box and a crystal decanter of brandy. The carpet she stood on bore a well-worn path down its center, evidence of its age and the countless shoes that had trod across it, but the relatively untouched perimeter revealed the unmistakable quality of thick wool and the craftsmanship of the weaver. She looked down at her feet, at a tapestry of intricate vines twining across burgundy to frame a unicorn reclining beneath a bower of trees. Suddenly she felt guilty that she was standing on such a masterpiece. She stepped off it, onto the wood floor, and closer to the hearth.
    Once again, she was facing the portrait over the mantelpiece. Once again, her gaze lifted to the priest’s piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to stare straight back at her.
    “It’s been in my family for generations. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how vivid the colors still are? Even after four centuries.”
    Maura turned to face the man who had just stepped into the room. He had entered so quietly, it was as though he had simply materialized behind her, and she was too taken by surprise to know quite what to say. He was dressed in a dark turtleneck, which made his silver hair all the more striking. Yet his face looked no older than fifty. Had they merely passed each other on the street, she would have stared at him because his features were so arresting and so hauntingly familiar. She saw a high forehead, an aristocratic bearing. His dark eyes caught the flicker of firelight, so that they seemed lit from within. He had referred to the portrait as an heirloom, and she saw at once the familial resemblance between the portrait and the living man. The eyes were the same.
    He held out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Isles. I’m Anthony Sansone.” His gaze was focused with such intensity on her face that she wondered if they had met before.
    No. I certainly would have remembered a man this attractive.
    “I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand. “After everything I’ve heard about you.”
    “From whom?”
    “Dr. O’Donnell.”
    Maura felt her hand go cold in his grasp, and she pulled away. “I can’t imagine why I’d be a subject of conversation.”
    “She had only good things to say about you. Believe me.”
    “That’s a surprise.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I can’t say the same thing about her,” she said.
    He gave a knowing nod. “She can be off-putting. Until you get the chance to know her. Value her insights.”
    The door swung open so quietly, Maura did not hear it. Only the gentle clink of chinaware alerted her to the fact that the butler had stepped into the room, carrying a tray with cups and a coffeepot. He set them on an end table, regarded Sansone with a questioning look, then withdrew from the room. Not a single word had passed between them; the only communication had been that look, and the returning nod—all the vocabulary needed between two men who obviously knew each other well enough to dispense with unnecessary words.
    Sansone gestured for her to sit down, and Maura sank into an empire armchair upholstered in striped silk.
    “I apologize for confining you to the front parlor,” he said. “But Boston PD seems to have commandeered the other rooms while they conduct their interviews.” He poured coffee and handed her a cup. “I take it you’ve examined the victim?”
    “I saw her.”
    “What did you think?”
    “You know I can’t comment.”
    He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease against blue and gold brocade. “I’m not talking about the body itself,” he said. “I perfectly understand why you can’t discuss your medical findings. I was referring to the scene itself. The gestalt of the crime.”
    “You should ask the lead investigator, Detective Rizzoli.”
    “I’m more interested in your impressions.”
    “I’m a physician. Not a detective.”
    “But I’m guessing you have a special insight into what happened in my garden tonight.” He leaned forward, coal-dark eyes riveted on hers. “You saw the symbols drawn on my back door?”
    “I can’t talk about—”
    “Dr. Isles, you won’t be giving away anything. I saw the