It was Father Brophy who took command.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing her to the couch. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“You’re the guest in my house. I should be offering you the drink,” she said.

“Not under the circumstances.”

“I don’t even know what the circumstances are.”

“Detective Rizzoli will tell you.” He left the room and came back with a glass of water-not exactly her beverage of choice at that moment, but then, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask a priest to fetch the bottle of vodka. She sipped the water, feeling uneasy under his gaze. He sank into the chair across from her, watching her as though afraid she might vanish.

At last she heard Rizzoli and Frost come into the house, heard them murmuring in the foyer to a third person, a voice Maura didn’t recognize. Secrets, she thought. Why is everyone keeping secrets from me? What don’t they want me to know?

She looked up as the two detectives walked into the living room. With them was a man who introduced himself as Brookline Detective Eckert, a name she’d probably forget within five minutes. Her attention was completely focused on Rizzoli, with whom she had worked before. A woman she both liked and respected.

The detectives all settled into chairs, Rizzoli and Frost facing Maura across the coffee table. She felt outnumbered, four to one, everyone’s gazes on her. Frost pulled out his notepad and pen. Why was he taking notes? Why did this feel like the start of an interrogation?

“How are you doing, Doc?” Rizzoli asked, her voice soft with concern.

Maura laughed at the trite question. “I’d be doing a lot better if I knew what was going on.”

“Can I ask you where you’ve been tonight?”

“I just got home from the airport.”

“Why were you at the airport?”

“I flew in from Paris. From Charles de Gaulle. It was a long flight, and I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

“How long were you in Paris?”

“A week. I flew there last Wednesday.” Maura thought she detected a note of accusation in Rizzoli’s brusque questions, and her irritation was now building toward anger. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask my secretary, Louise. She’s the one who booked the flight for me. I was there for a meeting-”

“The International Conference of Forensic Pathology. Is that correct?”

Maura was taken aback. “You already know?”

“Louise told us.”

They’ve been asking questions about me. Even before I got home, they were talking to my secretary.

“She told us your plane was supposed to land at five P.M. at Logan,” said Rizzoli. “It’s now nearly ten o’clock. Where’ve you been?”

“We had a late departure from Charles de Gaulle. Something about extra security checks. The airlines are so paranoid, we were lucky just to get off the ground three hours late.”

“So your departure was three hours delayed.”

“I just told you that.”

“What time did you land?”

“I don’t know. About eight thirty.”

“It took you an hour and a half to get home from Logan?”

“My suitcase didn’t show up. I had to file a claims form with Air France.” Maura stopped, suddenly at her limit. “Look, goddamn it, what is this all about? Before I answer any more questions, I have a right to know. Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, Doc. We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to figure out the time frame.”

“Time frame for what?”

Frost said, “Have you received any threats, Dr. Isles?”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “What?”

“Do you know anyone who might have reason to hurt you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Maura gave a frustrated laugh. “Well, is anyone ever sure?”

“You must have had a few cases in court where your testimony pissed off someone,” said Rizzoli.

“Only if they’re pissed off by the truth.”

“You’ve made enemies in court. Perps you’ve helped convict.”

“I’m sure you have too, Jane. Just by doing your job.”

“Have you received any specific threats? Any letters or phone calls?”

“My phone number’s unlisted. And Louise never gives out my address.”

“What about letters sent to you at the medical examiner’s office?”

“There’s been the occasional weird letter. We all get them.”

“Weird?”

“People writing about space aliens or conspiracies. Or accusing us of trying to cover up the truth about an autopsy. We just put those letters in the screwball file. Unless there’s an overt threat, in which case we refer it to the police.”

Maura saw Frost scribble in his notebook, and she wondered what he had written. By now she was so angry, she wanted to reach across the coffee table and snatch the notebook out of his hands.

“Doc,” said Rizzoli quietly, “do you have a sister?”

The question, so out of the blue, startled Maura and she stared at Rizzoli, her irritation suddenly forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have a sister?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“I just need to know.”

Maura released a sharp breath. “No, I don’t have a sister. And you know that I’m adopted. When the hell are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

Rizzoli and Frost looked at each other.

Frost closed his notebook. “I guess it’s time to show her.”

Rizzoli led the way to the front door. Maura stepped outside, into a warm summer night that was lit up like a garish carnival by the flashing lights from the cruisers. Her body was still functioning on Paris time, where it was now four A.M., and she saw everything through a haze of exhaustion, the night as surreal as a bad dream. The instant she emerged from her house, all faces turned to stare at her. She saw her neighbors gathered across the street, watching her across the crime scene tape. As medical examiner, she was accustomed to being in the public eye, her every move followed by both police and media, but tonight the attention was somehow different. More intrusive, even frightening. She was glad to have Rizzoli and Frost flanking her, as though to shield her from curious eyes as they moved down the sidewalk, toward the dark Ford Taurus parked at the curb in front of Mr. Telushkin’s house.

Maura did not recognize the car, but she did recognize the bearded man standing beside it, his thick hands gloved in latex. It was Dr. Abe Bristol, her colleague from the M.E.’s office. Abe was a man of hearty appetites, and his girth reflected his love of rich foods, his belly spilling over his belt in flabby excess. He stared at Maura and said, “Christ, it’s uncanny. Could’ve fooled me.” He nodded toward the car. “I hope you’re ready for this, Maura.”

Ready for what?

She looked at the parked Taurus. Saw, backlit by the flashing lights, the silhouette of a figure slumped over the steering wheel. Black splatters obscured the windshield. Blood.

Rizzoli shone her flashlight on the passenger door. At first, Maura did not understand what she was supposed to be looking at; her attention was still focused on the blood-spattered window, and the shadowy occupant in the driver’s seat. Then she saw what Rizzoli’s Maglite beam was shining on. Just below the door handle were three parallel scratches, carved deep into the car’s finish.

“Like a claw mark,” said Rizzoli, curling her fingers as though to trace the scar.

Maura stared at the marks. Not a claw, she thought as a chill ran up her back. A raptor’s talon.

“Come around to the driver’s side,” said Rizzoli.

Maura asked no questions as she followed Rizzoli around the rear of the Taurus.

“ Massachusetts license plate,” Rizzoli said, her flashlight beam sweeping across the rear bumper, but it was just a detail mentioned in passing; Rizzoli continued around to the driver’s side of the car. There she paused and looked at Maura.

“This is what got us all so shook up,” she said. She aimed her flashlight into the car.