“I’ll take care of it.” April lowered her voice. “Watch yourself in there. Cusack will be looking out for his own hide, not yours.”

“I will. Thanks.”

She and April parted ways in the center corridor. Louisa paused outside the director’s door to button her jacket. Composed, she walked into the outer office. The blonde receptionist talking on the phone waved her through. Two sharp-eyed men sat in the guest chairs that faced the director’s antique mahogany desk. Behind his desk, Dr. Hamish Cusack, director and chief curator, stood, prompting his guests to do the same.

“Dr. Hancock, come in.” Lured from a museum in northern England seven years before, Director Cusack’s accent was as impeccable and British as his manners. In a tailored charcoal suit that contrasted with his guests’ off-the-rack attire, he was tall and fit for his fifty years. Cusack gestured to the men one at a time. “These are Detectives Jackson and Ianelli.”

Detective Jackson was a wiry African American in his midfifties with a shaved head that reflected the overhead light like polished walnut. Ianelli was younger, perhaps forty, with dark hair and olive-toned skin that suggested Mediterranean ancestry. The buttons of his blue dress shirt strained against the bulge of his belly.

“Let me get you a chair.” Cusack rounded his desk, picked up a wing chair in the corner by the seat back, and angled it between his desk and the detectives. Louisa was no genius at reading subtle human body language, but her boss’s position was blatant. He was declaring his neutrality. He’d neatly put her between him and the police and distanced himself from the situation.

She shook the policemen’s hands and perched on the chair. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

The older detective, Jackson, cleared his throat. “We’d like you to look at a few pictures, Dr. Hancock. But I need to warn you they might be a little . . . disturbing.”

Louisa touched the pearls at her throat.

“We’ve found a couple of symbols that look strange. Director Cusack thinks they’re Celtic. He says you’re the expert.” Jackson’s shrewd eyes watched her fidget.

She lowered her hand, interlocking her fingers on her lap to hold them still, and glanced at her boss. He avoided eye contact. The rat. The museum Cusack ran in England was full of Celtic artifacts. “Where did you find the symbols?”

Jackson’s response was abrupt. “On a murder victim.”

She flinched. They couldn’t want her to . . . She met the detective’s unwavering gaze. They did. Despite a silk blouse and suit jacket, a wave of damp cold rolled over Louisa’s arms like fog across the bay. “You want me to look at a dead body.”

“Not exactly,” Jackson said in an equally flat voice. “Photos.”