I Know a Secret

But, no, Frankie had to go there, straight to murder, and he did it while slicing his meat, releasing a river of blood-tinged juices.

  “This isn’t the time or place, Frankie,” Jane muttered.

  “Angela, this meal is amazing,” said Gabriel, as always the considerate son-in-law. “Every Christmas you manage to top yourself!”

  “It’s been more than a week,” said Frankie, undeterred. “That’s way past the first forty-eight.” He turned to their father, Frank, and said, with an air of authority, “In case you haven’t heard the term, Dad, the first forty-eight hours after a murder is when it’s most likely to get solved. And it sounds like Boston PD doesn’t even have a suspect yet.”

  Grimly, Jane cut up potatoes and green beans for her three-year-old daughter, Regina. “You know I can’t talk about the case.”

  “Sure you can. We’re all family here. Besides, it’s been all over the news, what the perp did to that girl.”

  “First, that particular detail about her eyeballs was not supposed to be made public. Someone leaked it, and I’m trying to find out who the hell it was. Second, she was not a girl. She was twenty-six years old, and that makes her a woman.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You keep ragging on about that.”

  “And you keep ignoring it.” She turned to Angela. “Ma, this roast turned out perfect. How did you get it to be so tender?”

  “It’s all in the marinade, Janie. I gave you the recipe last year, remember?”

  “I’ll have to find it. But it’ll never turn out as good as yours.”

  “Carving out a girl’s eyeballs, that’s gotta have some deep psychological meaning,” said Frankie, the all-knowing authority about everything. “Makes you wonder what the symbolism is. This guy must have an issue with the way girls—excuse me, women—look at him.”

  Jane laughed. “So you think you’re a profiler now?”

  “Janie,” Frank, Sr., said, “your brother has every right to his opinion.”

  “About something he knows nothing about?”

  “I know what I heard,” said Frankie.

  “And that would be?”

  “The victim’s eyes were cut out and the perp left the eyeballs in her hand.”

  Angela slapped down her knife and fork. “It’s Christmas Eve. Do we have to talk about such horrible things?”

  “This is their job,” said Jane’s father, shoveling potatoes into his mouth. “We gotta learn to deal with it.”

  “Since when is it Frankie’s job?” said Jane.

  “Since he started taking all those criminology courses over at Bunker Hill. You’re his sister; you should encourage him. You can give him a leg up when it comes time for him to apply.”

  “But I’m not applying to Boston PD,” said Frankie with a maddening note of superiority. “I’m already at stage three in the SASS. It’s looking good, real good.”

  Jane frowned. “What’s the SASS?”

  “Your hubby knows.” Frankie glanced over at Gabriel.

  Up till now, Gabriel had occupied himself slicing Regina’s meat into bite-size pieces. With a look of resignation, he answered, “It stands for Special Agent Selection System.”

  “Cool, huh?” said Frank, Sr., slapping his son on the back. “Our Frankie here’s gonna be an FBI agent.”

  “Now, hold on, Pop,” said Frankie, modestly raising both hands in protest. “It’s still early in the process. I passed the first exam. Next I go for the meet and greet. That’s where having my brother-in-law in the agency is gonna work in my favor. Right, Gabe?”

  “It can’t hurt” was Gabriel’s noncommittal answer. He turned to Angela. “May I have some more green beans? Regina’s gobbling them all up.”

  “That’s why I want to keep track of current investigations,” said Frankie. “Like this gal who got her eyes cut out. I want to watch how the case is handled at the local level.”

  “Well, Frankie,” said Jane, “I don’t think I have much to teach you. Seeing as I just work at the local level.”

  “What kinda attitude is that?” her father snapped. “Frankie’s not good enough to be in your club?”

  “It’s not a matter of good enough, Dad. It’s an active investigation. I can’t talk about it.”

  “Did your creepy friend do the autopsy?” asked Frankie.

  “What?”

  “I hear the cops call her the Queen of the Dead.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I got my sources.” Frankie grinned at their father. “Wouldn’t mind a night in the morgue with her.”

  Angela shoved her chair back and stood up. “Why do I even bother to cook? Next time I’m just gonna order pizza.” She pushed through the swinging door, into the kitchen.

  “Eh, don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine,” said Frank, Sr. “Give her a few minutes to cool down.”

  Jane slapped down her fork. “Way to go, you two.”

  “What?” said her father.

  “You and Mom just got back together. And this is the way you treat her?”

  “What’s the problem?” said her brother. “It’s the way they’ve always been.”

  “And that makes it okay, does it?” Jane dropped her napkin and stood up.

  “Now you’re leaving the table too?” said her father.

  “Someone’s gotta help Ma poison the dessert.”

  In the kitchen, Jane found Angela standing by the sink, pouring herself a generous glass of wine.

  “Want to share the bottle?” asked Jane.

  “No. I think I deserve the whole damn thing.” Angela took a desperate gulp. “It’s back to the old days, Janie. Nothing’s changed.”

  You’ve changed. The old Angela would have shrugged off her husband’s thoughtless comments and soldiered on through dinner. But for this new Angela, those comments must have felt like a thousand small cuts to her soul. And here she was, trying to medicate the pain with Chianti.

  “You sure you want to drink alone?” said Jane.

  “Oh, all right. Here, join me,” said Angela, and she filled a glass for Jane. They both gulped and sighed.

  “You cooked a really wonderful meal, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  “Dad knows it too. He just doesn’t know how to express his appreciation.”

  They took another sip. And Angela asked softly, “Have you seen Vince lately?”

  Jane paused, startled by the mention of Vince Korsak, the retired cop who had made Angela briefly, deliriously happy. Until Frank returned to reclaim his wife. Until Angela’s Catholic guilt and sense of duty forced her to end the affair with Korsak.

  Frowning into her wine, Jane said, “Yeah, I see Vince every so often. Usually eating lunch at Doyle’s.”

  “How does he look?”

  “The same,” she lied. The truth was, Vince Korsak looked miserable. He looked like a man determined to eat and drink himself to death.

  “Is he…seeing anyone new?”

  “I don’t know, Ma. Vince and I haven’t had a chance to talk much.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him if he was seeing someone. He has a right to move on, but…” Angela set down her glass. “Oh, God, I think I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let him go, and now it’s too late.”

  The kitchen door swung open and Jane’s brother lumbered in. “Hey, Dad wants to know what’s for dessert.”

  “Dessert?” Angela quickly wiped her eyes and turned to the refrigerator. She pulled out a carton of ice cream and handed it to Frankie. “There.”

  “Is this it?”

  “What, you expected Baked Alaska?”

  “Okay, okay. Just wondering.”

  “I got chocolate syrup too. Go scoop it out for everyone.”

  He started to leave the kitchen, then turned back to Angela. “Ma, it’s really good to have everything back to normal. You and Dad, I mean. It’s the way things are supposed to be.”

  “Sure, Frankie,” sighed Angela. “The way things should be.”

  Jane’s cell phone ra
ng. She dug it out of her pocket, took one look at the caller’s number, and answered crisply: “Detective Rizzoli.”

  To Jane’s annoyance, Frankie watched her conversation with eagle eyes, Mr. Would-be Special Agent ready to insinuate himself into the case. “I’ll be right there,” she said, and hung up. She looked at Angela. “I’m sorry, Ma. I have to leave.”

  “You got another case?” said Frankie. “What is it?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Read tomorrow’s paper.”

  —

  “IS IT JUST ME, OR does it seem like we always get the weird ones?” said Frost.

  They stood shivering on the pier at Jeffries Point, where the wind blowing in across the inner harbor felt like icicles piercing her face. She pulled up her scarf to cover her already numb nose. Only four days into what was officially winter, and already there were thin cakes of ice bobbing in the harbor. At nearby Logan Airport, a jet lifted into the sky, and the roar of its engines briefly drowned out the rhythmic slap of water on the pilings.

  “All homicides are weird in their own ways,” said Jane.

  “This is not how I wanted to spend Christmas Eve. I had to leave Alice just as things were starting to get cozy.” He stared down at the reason why he and Jane had been pulled away from their holiday meals to meet up at this desolate spot. “At least the cause of death shouldn’t be hard to figure out on this one.”

  Under the glare of their flashlights lay a young white man, his bare chest exposed to the winter wind. He was otherwise well dressed, in wool slacks, an ostrich belt, and leather wing-tip shoes. Nice-looking fellow, maybe in his mid-twenties, thought Jane. Clean-shaven and well groomed, with a trendy haircut that featured a blond swoop of a forelock. He had no dirt under his fingernails, no calluses on his hands. Someone you might find working in a downtown business office.

  Not lying shirtless on a windswept pier with three arrows protruding from his chest.

  Approaching headlights made Jane turn as a Lexus pulled up behind the parked police cruiser. Maura Isles stepped out, her long coat flaring like a cape in the wind. She was dressed all in winter black: boots, slacks, turtleneck. Appropriate attire for Boston’s Queen of the Dead.

  “Merry Christmas,” said Jane. “Got you a special present.”

  Maura didn’t answer; her attention was focused on the young man lying at their feet. She pulled off her wool gloves, stuffed them in her pocket. The purple latex gloves she donned instead would be no protection in this wind, and before frostbite could set in, she quickly crouched down and studied the arrows. All three had entered the front of the chest, two on the left side of the sternum, one on the right. All three had pierced so deeply that only half the shafts were visible.

  “Looks like someone got a brand-new bow and arrow for Christmas,” said Jane. “And used this poor guy for target practice.”

  “What’s the story here?” asked Maura.

  “Security guard making his rounds found the victim. He swears the body wasn’t here three hours ago when he last came by. It’s a remote spot, so no security cameras in the area. I’m guessing witnesses are going to be hard to find, especially on Christmas Eve.”

  “These look like standard aluminum arrows, all with the same orange fletchings. You can probably buy these in any sporting-goods store,” said Maura. “They entered at slightly different angles. I don’t see any other wounds…”

  “And that seems weird to me,” said Frost.

  Jane laughed. “That’s the only thing that seems weird to you?”

  “The guy gets shot with three arrows, all in the front of his chest. It takes a second or two to nock an arrow in the bow. Meanwhile, wouldn’t you think this guy would turn and run? It’s like he just stood there and let someone shoot him three times in the chest.”

  “I don’t think these arrows killed him,” said Maura.

  “At least one of those arrows should have pierced a lung or something.”

  “Certainly, based on their locations. But look how little blood there is from any of these wounds. Shine your lights here.” As Jane and Frost aimed their flashlights at the torso, Maura reached under the right armpit and pressed gloved fingers into the skin. “There’s already some faint lividity in the right axilla, and it appears fixed.” She stepped around to the other side of the body to examine the opposite armpit. “But there’s no lividity on the left. Help me roll him onto his side. I want to get a better look at his back.”

  Jane and Frost both squatted beside the body. Careful not to dislodge any of the arrows, they logrolled the corpse onto its right side. Through Jane’s latex gloves, the flesh felt cold, like chilled meat pulled straight from the refrigerator. Eyes stinging in the wind, she squinted down at the exposed back, now illuminated by Maura’s flashlight.

  “Has this body been repositioned since it was found?” asked Maura.

  “Security guard says he didn’t even touch it. Why?”

  “Do you see how the lividity is only on the right side of the torso? Gravity made the blood settle there because he was lying on his right side for at least a few hours after death. Yet here he’s lying supine.”

  “So he was killed somewhere else. Maybe brought here in the trunk of a car.”

  “The pattern of livor mortis would suggest that.” Maura reached down to flex the arm. “Rigor mortis is just starting in the limbs. I would estimate time of death somewhere between two and six hours ago.”

  “Then he’s moved here and left on his back.” Jane stared down at the three arrows, the orange fletches quivering in the wind. “What’s the point of sticking him with arrows, if he was already dead? This is some weird symbolic shit.”

  “It could be a rage killing,” said Maura. “The perp didn’t get enough of an emotional release when he killed this man. So he killed him again and again, by piercing him with arrows.”

  “Or maybe the arrows mean something,” said Frost. “You know what this makes me think of? Robin Hood. Steal from the rich, give to the poor. His belt’s made of ostrich leather, and that’s not cheap. This guy looks well off.”

  “Yet he ends up dead and shirtless on a pier,” said Jane. She turned to Maura. “If the arrows didn’t kill him, what did?”

  At that moment, another jet lifted into the sky from Logan Airport. Maura stood silent, cruiser rack lights flaring blue and white on her face, as she waited for the jet’s roar to fade.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  MAURA COULD NOT REMEMBER A Christmas morning so cold. She stood at her kitchen window, a coffee mug cupped in her hands, looking out at the ice that glazed her backyard. The outdoor thermometer registered six degrees, not accounting for windchill, and the flagstone patio was now as slick as a skating rink. This morning when she’d stepped out to pick up her newspaper, she’d slipped on the front walkway and almost fallen, and her back muscles still ached from twisting around to catch herself. This was not a day to leave the house, and she was grateful she didn’t have to. Today her colleague Abe Bristol was on call for the ME’s office, and she could spend a lazy day catching up on her reading and tonight enjoy a quiet meal alone. Already, a lamb shank was defrosting in the sink and a bottle of amarone waited to be uncorked.

  She refilled her coffee cup and sat down at the kitchen table to read The Boston Globe. The Christmas Day edition was so thin it was almost not worth paging through it, but this was her morning ritual whenever she had a day off: two cups of coffee, an English muffin, and the newspaper. A real newspaper, not pixels glaring from a laptop. She ignored the gray tabby, who kept mewing and rubbing against her ankles, demanding his second breakfast. A month ago, she’d adopted the greedy animal after finding it wandering at a crime scene, and not a day went by that she didn’t regret bringing the Beast home. Now it was too late; the cat belonged to her. Or she belonged to the cat. Sometimes it was hard to tell who owned whom.

  She nudged the Beast away with her foot and turned to a new page of
the Globe. Last night’s discovery of the body on the pier had not yet made it into the newspaper, but she saw an update on Cassandra Coyle’s murder.

  Cause of Woman’s Death Remains Unknown

  The death of a young woman found last Tuesday has been called “suspicious” by investigators. Cassandra Coyle, age 26, was found at home by her father after she failed to show up at a luncheon date. An autopsy was performed on Wednesday, but the medical examiner’s office has not yet determined the cause of death….

  The cat jumped onto the table and sat down on the newspaper, its rump planted squarely on the article.

  “Thank you for your comment,” Maura said, and dropped the Beast back on the floor. It gave her a parting look of disdain and strutted out of the kitchen. So this is what it’s come to, she thought. I’m now talking to my cat. When had she turned into another lonely cat lady, ruled by a feline? She didn’t have to be alone on Christmas. She could have driven up to Maine and visited her seventeen-year-old ward, Julian, at his boarding school. She could have thrown a holiday party for her neighbors, or volunteered at a soup kitchen, or accepted any number of invitations to dinner.

  I could have called Daniel.

  She thought of the Christmas Eve when she had been so desperate to catch a glimpse of him, even from a distance, that she had slipped into a pew at the back of his church to hear him celebrate the holiday Mass. She, a nonbeliever, had listened to his words about God and love and hope, but their love for each other had led only to heartbreak for them both. On this Christmas morning, as Daniel stood before his congregation, did he scan the pews, hoping to see her again? Or would they grow old in parallel, their lives never again to intersect?

  The doorbell rang.

  She jerked straight, startled by the sound. She’d been so focused on thoughts of Daniel that of course he was the one she instantly pictured, waiting to see her. Who else would ring her bell on Christmas morning? Hello, Temptation. Do I dare answer?

  She went to the foyer, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  It was not Daniel but a middle-aged woman who stood on the porch, holding a large cardboard box. Bundled in a puffy down coat and wool scarf, with a knit cap pulled low over her eyebrows, only part of her face was visible. Maura saw tired brown eyes and wind-chapped cheeks. A few wisps of blond hair had escaped the hat and fluttered in the wind.