The Mephisto Club

calling him Vince?
    “He called to invite you and Gabriel to a party,” said Angela.
    “And you, too, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Korsak said, winking at Angela. “The more chicks that come, the better!”
    Angela flushed, and it wasn’t from the oven’s heat.
    “And I bet he smelled the cookies over the phone,” said Jane.
    “I just happened to be here baking. I told him that if he came right over, I’d whip up an extra batch for him.”
    “No way I’d pass up an offer like that,” laughed Korsak. “Hey, pretty nice having your mom here, huh?”
    Jane eyed the crumbs all over his wrinkled shirt. “I see you’re off your diet.”
    “And I see you’re in a good mood.” He took a sloppy gulp of coffee and swiped a fat hand across his mouth. “I hear you caught yourself a freakin’ weird one.” He paused, glanced at Angela. “Pardon my French, Mrs. Rizzoli.”
    “Oh, say whatever you want,” said Angela. “I want you to feel right at home.”
    Please don’t encourage him.
    “Some kinda satanic cult,” he said.
    “You heard that?”
    “Retirement didn’t make me deaf.”
    Or dumb. As much as he might irritate her with his crude jokes and appalling hygiene, Korsak was one of the sharpest investigators she knew. Although retired since his heart attack last year, he had never really left the badge behind. On a weekend night, she could still find him hanging out at JP Doyle’s, a favorite Boston PD watering hole, catching up on the latest war stories. Retired or not, Vince Korsak would die a cop.
    “What else did you hear?” asked Jane, sitting down at the table.
    “That your perp’s an artist. Leaves cute little drawings behind. And he likes to”—Korsak paused and glanced at Angela, who was sliding cookies off the pan—“slice and dice. Am I warm?”
    “A little too warm.”
    Angela lifted off the last of the cookies and sealed them in a ziplock bag. With a flourish, she placed them in front of Korsak. This was not the Angela whom Jane had expected to come home to. Her mother was actually
bustling
around the kitchen now, gathering pans and bowls, splashing soapsuds as she washed up in the sink. She didn’t look miserable or abandoned or depressed; she looked ten years younger.
Is this what happens when your husband walks out on you?
    “Tell Jane more about your party,” said Angela, refilling Korsak’s coffee cup.
    “Oh yeah.” He took a noisy slurp. “See, I signed my divorce papers last week. Almost a year of wrangling over money, and it’s finally over. I figured it was time to celebrate my new status as a free man. I got my apartment all decorated. Nice leather couch, big-screen TV. I’m gonna buy a few cases, get some friends together, and we’re all gonna par-
tee
!”
    He’d turned into a fifty-five-year-old teenager with a potbelly and a comb-over. Could he get any more pathetic?
    “So you’re coming, right?” he asked Jane. “Second Saturday in January.”
    “Let me check the date with Gabriel.”
    “If he can’t make it, you can always come stag. Just be sure to bring your older sister here.” He gave Angela a wink, and she giggled.
    This was getting more painful by the minute. Jane was almost relieved to hear the muffled ringing of her cell phone. She went into the living room, where she’d left her purse, and dug out her phone.
    “Rizzoli,” she said.
    Lieutenant Marquette did not waste time with pleasantries. “You need to be more respectful of Anthony Sansone,” he said.
    In the kitchen, she could hear Korsak laughing, and the sound suddenly irritated her.
If you’re going to flirt with my mom, for God’s sake, take it somewhere else.
    “I hear you’ve been giving him and his friends a hard time,” said Marquette.
    “Maybe you could define what you mean by
hard time
?”
    “You questioned him for nearly two hours. Grilled his butler, his dinner guests. Then you went back to see him again this afternoon. You’re making him feel as if he’s the one under investigation.”
    “Well, gee, I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings. We’re just doing what we always do.”
    “Rizzoli, try to keep in mind the man is not a suspect.”
    “I haven’t reached that conclusion yet. O’Donnell was in his house. Eve Kassovitz was killed in his garden. And when his butler finds the body, what does Sansone do? He takes photos. Passes them around to his friends. You wanna know the truth? These people are not normal. Certainly Sansone isn’t.”
    “He’s not a