The Mephisto Club

traveled that distance himself, or that there was some form of prehistoric trade. That’s why the ocher source library is so valuable. It gives us a window into the lives of the ancients.”
    “What do we know about our pigment sample?” asked Frost.
    “Well.” Erin smiled. “First, it has rather a large proportion of manganese dioxide—fifteen percent, giving it a deeper, richer tone. It’s the same proportion found in red ochers that were used in medieval Italy.”
    “It’s Italian?”
    “No. The Venetians imported it from elsewhere. When Dr. MacAvoy compared the entire elemental profile, he found that it matched one location in particular, a place where they’re still mining red ocher even today. The island of Cyprus.”
    Jane said, “I need to see a world map.”
    Erin pointed to the file. “It just so happens that I pulled one off the Internet.”
    Jane flipped to the page. “Okay, I see. It’s in the Mediterranean, just south of Turkey.”
    “It seems to me that red chalk would’ve been a lot easier to use,” said Frost.
    “And far cheaper. Your killer chose an unusual pigment, from an obscure source. Maybe he has ties to Cyprus.”
    “Or he could just be playing games with us,” said Frost. “Drawing weird symbols. Using weird pigments. It’s like he wants to screw around with our heads.”
    Jane was still studying the map. She thought of the symbol drawn on the door in Anthony Sansone’s garden. Udjat, the all-seeing eye. She looked at Frost. “Egypt is directly south of Cyprus.”
    “You’re thinking of the eye of Horus?”
    “What’s that?” Erin asked.
    “That symbol left at the Beacon Hill crime scene,” said Jane. “Horus is the Egyptian sun god.”
    “Is that a satanic symbol?”
    “We don’t know what it means to this perp,” said Frost. “Everyone’s got a theory. He’s a Satanist. He’s a history buff. Or it could just be plain old-fashioned insanity.”
    Erin nodded. “Like Son of Sam. I remember the police wasted a lot of time wondering who the mysterious Sam was. It turned out to be nothing more than the killer’s auditory hallucination. A talking dog.”
    Jane closed the folder. “You know, I kind of hope our perp is crazy, too.”
    “Why?” asked Erin.
    “Because I’m a lot more scared of the alternative. That this killer is perfectly sane.”
             
    Jane and Frost sat in the car as the engine warmed and the defroster melted the fog from the windshield. If only it was so easy to clear the mist cloaking the killer. She couldn’t form a picture of him; she couldn’t begin to imagine what he looked like. A mystic? An artist? An historian?
All I do know is that he’s a butcher.
    Frost shifted into gear, and they pulled into traffic, which was moving far more slowly than usual, on roads slick with ice. Under clear skies, the temperature was dropping, and tonight the cold would be the bitterest so far this winter. It was a night to stay home and eat a hearty stew, a night, she hoped, when evil would stay off the streets.
    Frost drove east on Columbus Avenue, then headed toward Beacon Hill, where they planned to take another look at the crime scene. The car at last had warmed, and she dreaded stepping out again, into that wind, into Sansone’s courtyard, still stained with frozen blood.
    She noticed they were approaching Massachusetts Avenue and she said, suddenly, “Could you turn right?”
    “Aren’t we going to Sansone’s place?”
    “Just turn here.”
    “If you say so.” He made a right.
    “Keep going. Toward Albany Street.”
    “We going to the M.E.’s?”
    “No.”
    “So where we headed?”
    “It’s right down here. Another few blocks.” She watched the addresses go by, and said, “Stop. Right here.” She stared across the street.
    Frost pulled over to the curb and frowned at her. “Kinko’s?”
    “My dad works there.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s just about noon.”
    “What are we doing?”
    “Waiting.”
    “Aw geez, Rizzoli. This isn’t about your mom, is it?”
    “It’s screwing up my whole life right now.”
    “Your parents are having a tiff. It happens.”
    “Wait till your mother moves in with
you.
See how Alice likes it.”
    “I’m sure this’ll blow over and your mom’ll go home.”
    “Not if there’s another woman involved.” She sat up straight. “There he is.”
    Frank Rizzoli stepped out the front door of Kinko’s and zipped up his jacket. He glanced at the sky, gave a