“Saint Vigilius of Trent, celebrated on June twenty-six,” said Daniel. “He’s often depicted holding the clog that killed him.”
“Yeah, well, I doubt our killer packs a wooden shoe in the trunk of his car just in case he finds someone whose birthday is June twenty-six. No, our perp chooses his victim in advance, and then he gathers his tools. Which means he has access to their birth dates.”
Gabriel shook his head. “You’ll have to cast a very big net to find him. Birth dates are easy to find. Employee records, medical records. Facebook.”
“But at least we’ve picked up his pattern! Mutilations that match the victims’ birth dates. If this perp has killed before, now we can track it on ViCAP.” She opened a new file on the laptop and turned the screen to Daniel. “Okay, I have a new job for you.”
“What’s this file I’m looking at?” he asked.
“These are all the unsolved homicides in New England this past year. Frost and I compiled a list of every victim who had postmortem injuries. After we eliminated firearm deaths, we were able to narrow it down to these thirty-two victims.”
“Do you have their birth dates?” asked Daniel.
She nodded. “They would be on the attached autopsy reports. You know the liturgical calendar. Tell me if any of the victims’ injuries match those of the saint celebrated on their birth date.”
As Daniel slowly worked his way through the list, Jane stood up to make a fresh pot of coffee. This could be a very long night, but even without a new infusion of caffeine, her nerves were already humming. We’ve found it, she thought, the key to identifying the killer’s earlier victims. Every new name, every new data point, improved their chances of finding some crucial link between the victims and the killer. She refilled everyone’s coffee cup and sat down to watch Daniel click through the files.
An hour later, Daniel sighed and shook his head. “Nothing matches up.”
“You’ve gone through them all?”
“All thirty-two cases. None of these injuries correlate with the victims’ birth dates.” He looked at Jane. “Maybe your two cases are his first kills. Maybe there aren’t any other victims yet.”
“Or we haven’t searched widely enough,” said Jane. “We should go back two years, even three. Expand the geographical region beyond New England.”
“I don’t know, Jane,” said Gabriel. “What if Maura’s wrong and you’re looking for connections that don’t exist? This could end up being nothing but a huge distraction.”
She scowled at the book of saints, which she’d pored over all evening, and suddenly focused on the cover image of Saint Polycarp, his flesh engulfed by flames. Fire. It destroys everything. Bodies. Evidence.
She reached for her cell phone. As Gabriel and Daniel watched in bewilderment, she called Frost.
“Do you still have that list of fire-related deaths?” she asked him.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Email it to me. Including all the cases that were classified accidental.”
“We excluded the accidentals.”
“I’m including them again. Every fire death involving a lone adult victim.”
“Okay, I’m on it. Check your in-box.”
“Accidental fire deaths?” said Gabriel as she hung up.
“Fire destroys evidence. And not every victim who dies in a fire gets a tox screen. I’m wondering if some of those accidental deaths weren’t accidents at all.”
Her laptop chimed with Frost’s email.
She opened the attached file and a new list of cases appeared. Here were the two dozen victims who’d perished in accidental fires throughout New England in the last year. “Take a look,” she said, and turned the laptop to Daniel.
“A ruling of accidental fire death usually means there’s evidence of smoke inhalation at autopsy,” said Gabriel. “That doesn’t fit your perp’s pattern. Not if he suffocates them with a plastic bag.”
“If your victim’s unconscious, you can let fire do the job. You don’t need to suffocate him.”
“Still, it’s a different pattern, Jane.”
“I’m not ready to give up on this theory yet. Maybe suffocation is a new technique for him. Maybe he’s refining his—”
“Sarah Basterash, age twenty-six,” said Daniel. He looked up from the laptop. “She died in a house fire in Newport, Rhode Island.”
“Newport?” Jane peered over Daniel’s shoulder to read the file. “November tenth, single-family home burned to the ground. Victim was alone, found in her bedroom. No evidence of trauma.”
“Ketamine?” asked Gabriel.
She sighed in frustration. “A tox screen wasn’t done.”
“But look at her birth date,” said Daniel. “It’s May thirtieth. And she died in a fire.”
Jane frowned at him. “Which saint is celebrated on May thirtieth?”
“Joan of Arc.”
THE LAST TIME JANE HAD visited Newport, it was the height of summer, and the narrow streets were packed with tourists. She remembered trudging in shorts and sandals in the scorching heat as melting strawberry ice cream dripped down her arm. She had been eight months’ pregnant with Regina, her ankles looked like swollen sausages, and she wanted nothing more than to take a nap. Still, the town had charmed her with its historic buildings and bustling waterfront, and no meal would ever top the rich lobster stew that she and Gabriel had devoured that night.
What a different town Newport was on this cold January day.
As Frost drove through the village, Jane peered out the car window at souvenir shops and restaurants that were now shuttered, at streets that winter had swept clear of all the tourists. One lone couple stood smoking cigarettes and shivering outside a pub.
“Did you ever go on a tour of the cottages when you were here?” said Frost.
“Yeah. I thought it was funny how they call them cottages. I could move my whole family into one of the closets.”
“After we toured the Breakers, Alice went on a rant. I thought it was a really cool mansion, but she said it was an outrage that so much money was controlled by just one family.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot Alice was a commie.”
“She’s not a commie. She just has a strong sense of social justice.”
Jane shot him a suspicious look. “You’re sure talking a lot about Alice these days. Are you two really back together again?”
“Maybe. And I don’t want to hear you say anything bad about her.”
“Why would I say anything bad about your lovely ex-wife?”
“Because you can’t help yourself.”
“Apparently you can’t help yourself either.”
“Hey, look.” He pointed to the pier. “There’s a nice fish restaurant down there. Wonder if it’s open? Maybe we could go there for lunch.”
“Let me guess. You and Alice ate there.”
“So what?”
“So I’m not in the mood to revisit all your happy memories with Alice. Let’s just grab a burger on the way back.” She eyed the GPS screen. “Turn left.”
They drove down Bellevue Avenue, past the lavish homes that had lit the fires of Alice’s socialist rage. In an earlier era, this was where tycoon families came to play during the summer, bringing their servants and carriages and ball gowns. And every autumn, those families returned to their equally lavish homes in the city, leaving these palaces empty and silent, awaiting next summer’s round of parties. Jane had no illusions about where she would have stood in that social hierarchy. She’d be scrubbing pots in the kitchen or washing corsets and undergarments. Certainly she would not be one of the fortunate young ladies swaying to music in a gilded ballroom. Jane knew her place in the universe, and she’d learned to be satisfied with it.
“This is the street,” she said. “Turn right.”
They left behind the mansions and drove down a street where the homes were not as large but were still far more expensive than anything a Boston cop could afford. Sarah Basterash’s husband worked for a major ex
port firm, and Sarah would have enjoyed a comfortable life in this neighborhood where Lexuses and Volvos were parked in the driveways, where every front yard was impeccably landscaped. On this street of beautiful homes, it was a shock to suddenly come upon the blackened stone foundation.
Jane and Frost stepped out of the car and stared at the empty lot where the Basterash house had once stood. Though the charred remains had been hauled away, it was evident from the scorched bark on the trees that a fire had raged here, and when Jane inhaled, she imagined she could smell the stench of smoke and ash. The neighboring homes had not been touched, and they loomed on either side of the Basterash property like defiant survivors with perfect porches and manicured hedges. But the ruined foundation of their neighbor’s home proved that tragedy could strike anyone. Fire made no distinction between rich and poor; the flames devoured them all.
—
“I WAS IN BEIJING ON a business trip when it happened,” said Kevin Basterash. “My company exports agricultural products, and I was negotiating a deal to ship milk powder to China.” His voice faded and he stared down at the beige carpet, which was so recently installed it still gave off the chemical smell of a new home. His apartment was spacious and sunlit, but everything about it struck Jane as temporary, from the bare walls to the empty bookshelves. Two months ago, Kevin Basterash had lost his house and his wife to the flames. Now this was what he called home, a characterless apartment complex five miles from the neighborhood where he and Sarah had once dreamed of children. In this soulless living room, not a single photograph was displayed.
The fire had taken everything.
“I got the news just before lunch, Beijing time,” he said. “Our neighbor here in Newport called to tell me my house was in flames and the fire trucks had arrived. They hadn’t found Sarah yet, and the neighbor was hoping she might be away and not in the house. But I already knew. I knew because Sarah didn’t call me that morning, as usual. She always called me at the same time, every day.” He looked at Jane and Frost. “They said it was an accident.”
Jane nodded. “According to the fire investigators, your wife left candles burning on the nightstand and then she fell asleep. They found a bottle of scotch by her bed, so they assumed—”
“They assumed she was drunk and careless.” Kevin gave an angry shake of his head. “That would not be Sarah. She was never careless. Yeah, she liked a drink or two at bedtime, but that doesn’t mean she’d get intoxicated and sleep through a fire. That’s what I told the police, the fire investigators. The problem was, the more I insisted it couldn’t be an accident, the more they looked at me. They asked if I’d had any affairs, or if Sarah and I were arguing. The husband’s always the prime suspect, right? So what if I was in China when it happened? I could have hired a killer to do it! After a while, I just had to accept that it must have been an accident. Because who’d want to hurt her? No one.” He focused on Jane. “Then I got your call. And now everything’s changed.”
“Not necessarily,” said Jane. “This is simply part of a larger investigation. We’re looking at two homicide cases in Boston and trying to determine if they have any links to your wife’s death. Does the name Timothy McDougal mean anything to you?”
Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know that name.”
“What about Cassandra Coyle?”
This time he hesitated. “Cassandra,” he murmured, as though trying to conjure up a face, a memory. “Sarah did mention a friend named Cassandra, but I don’t remember her last name.”
“When was this?”
“Early last year. Sarah said she’d gotten a call from some girl she knew as a kid, and they were going to have lunch together. I never got the chance to meet the friend.” He shook his head in self-disgust. “Probably because I was on some goddamn business trip.”
“Where was your wife raised, Mr. Basterash?” asked Frost.
“Massachusetts. She moved to Newport after she found a job here, at the Montessori School.”
“Did she visit the Boston area very often? Have friends or family there?”
“No, her parents are both dead, so there was really no one left for her to visit in Brookline.”
Jane looked up from the notepad she’d been writing in. “Sarah grew up in Brookline?”
“Yes. She lived there until she graduated from high school.”
Jane and Frost glanced at each other. Both Cassandra Coyle and Timothy McDougal had grown up in Brookline.
“Was your wife Catholic, Mr. Basterash?” asked Jane.
He frowned, clearly bewildered by Jane’s question. “Her parents were Catholic, but Sarah left the Church years ago.” He gave a sad laugh. “She said she was still traumatized by growing up Catholic.”
“What did she mean by that?”
“It was just a joke. She used to say that the Bible should be rated R for violence.”
Jane leaned forward, her pulse quickening. “How much did your wife know about Catholic saints?”
“A lot more than I do. I was raised agnostic, but Sarah could look at a painting and say, That’s Saint Stephen, who got stoned to death.” He shrugged. “I guess that’s what they teach kids in Sunday school.”
“Do you know which church she attended as a child?”
“I have no idea.”
“Which high school?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” He paused. “If I ever knew.”
“Do you know any of her childhood friends from Brookline?”
For a long time he thought about this question but failed to answer it. Instead, he looked at the window, where curtains had not been hung, because this was not really a home yet. Perhaps it would never be a home but merely temporary lodging for Kevin Basterash, a place to grieve and heal before moving on.
“No,” he finally said. “I blame myself for that.”
“Why, sir?” Frost asked gently.
“Because I was never here for her. I was always traveling for business. Gone half the time, living out of a suitcase. Hammering out deals in Asia when I should have been home.” He looked at them, and Jane saw guilt shining in his eyes. “Here you are, asking these questions about Sarah’s childhood in Brookline, and I can’t answer a single one.”
Maybe someone else can, thought Jane.
—
SHE HAD NOT SPOKEN TO Elaine Coyle in weeks, and as Jane dialed the woman’s number, she dreaded the question that Elaine would almost certainly ask her: Have you caught my daughter’s killer yet? It’s the one piece of news every victim’s family wants to hear. They don’t want more questions. They don’t want excuses. They want an end to their uncertainty. They want justice.
“I’m sorry,” Jane had to tell Elaine. “We don’t have a suspect yet, Mrs. Coyle.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Do you know the name Sarah Basterash?”
A pause. “No, I don’t think so. Who is she?”
“A young woman who recently died in a fire in Rhode Island. She grew up in Brookline and I wondered if she knew Cassandra. She was about your daughter’s age, so they may have attended the same school or the same church.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember any girl with the last name Basterash.”
“Her maiden name was Sarah Byrne. Her family lived less than a mile from—”
“Sarah Byrne? Sarah’s dead?”
“Then you did know her.”
“Yes. Yes, the Byrnes used to live down the road from us. Frank Byrne died of a heart attack a few years ago. And then his wife—”
“There’s another name I need to ask you about,” Jane cut in. “Do you remember Timothy McDougal?”
“Detective Frost asked me about him last week. That’s the young man who was killed on Christmas Eve.”
“Yes. But now I’m asking about a boy named Tim McDougal. A boy about your daughter’s age, who may have gone to school with her.”
“Detective Frost never told me the dead man grew up in Brookline.”
“We didn’t think it was relevant at the time. Do you remember him?”
“There was a boy named Tim, but I’m not sure what his last name was. And it happened so long ago. Twenty years…”
“What happened twenty years ago?”
There was a long silence. When Elaine finally answered, she spoke in barely a whisper. “The Apple Tree.”
“WHEN THE APPLE TREE DAYCARE abuse case went to trial, I was still in high school, so I don’t know any more than you do. But you should be able to find what you need in these documents,” said Norfolk County Assistant DA Dana Strout. Though she was only in her mid-thirties, gray roots were already peeking out in her hair, visible testimony to her stressful job as a prosecutor and a schedule too demanding for a much-needed visit to the hairdresser. “These boxes should get you started,” Dana said as she dropped yet another load of files onto the conference room table.
Frost stared in dismay at the half dozen boxes that were already lined up on the table. “This is just to get us started?”
“The Apple Tree Daycare case was one of the longest criminal trials in the history of Norfolk County. These boxes contain the documents for just the pretrial investigation, which lasted over a year. So you’ve got a lot of homework. Good luck, Detectives.”
Frost asked, with a note of desperation, “Can someone in this office give us the CliffsNotes version? Who was the prosecutor on the case?”
“The lead prosecutor was Erica Shay, but she’s out of town this week.”
“Is there anyone else who remembers the case?”
Dana shook her head. “The trial was twenty years ago, and the other attorneys on that case have all moved on. You know how it is in public service, Detective. Too much work for too small a paycheck. People move on to better jobs.” She added, under her breath, “I’m thinking about it myself.”
“We need to track down all the children who gave evidence in that trial. We can’t find their names anywhere,” said Jane.