The Mephisto Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

O’Donnell, leading the way into her living room. “You can listen to it, but there’s nothing to hear.”
    Not much had changed since the last time Jane had visited this house. She saw the same abstract paintings on the walls, the same richly hued Oriental carpets. The only new feature was the Christmas tree. The trees of Jane’s childhood had been decorated with haphazard taste, the branches hung with the mismatched assortment of ornaments hardy enough to have survived earlier Rizzoli Christmases. And there’d been tinsel—lots and lots of it.
Vegas trees,
Jane used to call them.
    But on this tree, there was not a single strand of tinsel. No Vegas in this house. Instead, the branches were hung with crystal prisms and silver teardrops, reflecting wintry sunshine on the walls, like dancing chips of light.
Even her damn Christmas tree makes me feel inadequate.
    O’Donnell crossed to her answering machine. “This is all I have now,” she said, and pressed Play. The digital voice announced: “You have no new messages.” She looked at the detectives. “I’m afraid the recording you asked about is gone. As soon as I got home last night, I played all my messages. Erased them as I went. By the time I got to your message, about preserving the recording, it was too late.”
    “How many messages were there?” asked Jane.
    “Four. Yours was the last.”
    “The call we’re interested in would have come in around twelve-ten.”
    “Yes, and the number’s still there, in the electronic log.” O’Donnell pressed a button, cycling back to the 12:10 call. “But whoever called at that time didn’t say anything.” She looked at Jane. “There was no message at all.”
    “What did you hear?”
    “I told you. There was nothing.”
    “Extraneous noises? TV, traffic?”
    “Not even heavy breathing. Just a few seconds of silence, and then the hang-up click. That’s why I immediately erased it. There was nothing to hear.”
    “Is the caller’s number familiar to you?” asked Frost.
    “Should it be?”
    “That’s what we’re asking you,” Jane said, the bite in her voice unmistakable.
    O’Donnell’s gaze met hers and Jane saw, in those eyes, a flash of disdain.
As though I’m not even worth her attention.
“No, I didn’t recognize the phone number,” said O’Donnell.
    “Do you know the name Lori-Ann Tucker?”
    “No. Who’s that?”
    “She was murdered last night, in her own home. That call was made from her telephone.”
    O’Donnell paused and said, reasonably, “It could have been a wrong number.”
    “I don’t think so, Dr. O’Donnell. I think the call was meant to reach
you.
”
    “Why call me and then say nothing? It’s more likely that she heard the recording on my answering machine, realized she’d made a mistake, and simply hung up.”
    “I don’t believe it was the victim who called you.”
    Again, O’Donnell paused, this time longer. “I see,” she said. She moved to an armchair and sat down, but not because she was shaken. She looked perfectly unruffled sitting in that chair, an empress holding court. “You think it was the killer who called me.”
    “You don’t sound at all worried by that possibility.”
    “I don’t know enough yet to be worried. I don’t know anything about this case. So why don’t you tell me more?” She gestured to the couch, an invitation for her visitors to sit down. It was the first hint of hospitality that she’d offered.
    Because now we have something interesting to offer her,
thought Jane.
She’s caught a whiff of blood. It’s exactly what this woman craves.
    The couch was a pristine white, and Frost paused before settling onto it, as though afraid to smudge the fabric. But Jane didn’t give it a second glance. She sat down in her snow-dampened slacks, her focus on O’Donnell.
    “The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman,” said Jane. “She was killed last night, around midnight.”
    “Suspects?”
    “We’ve made no