“I don’t trust her. She’s a gunslinger for the bad guys. Pay her enough to testify, and she’ll walk into court and defend just about any killer. She’ll claim he’s neurologically damaged and not responsible for his actions. That he belongs in a hospital, not a jail.”
Marquette added, “She’s not popular with law enforcement, Dr. Zucker. Anywhere.”
“Look, even if we loved her,” said Jane, “we’re still left with unanswered questions. Why did the killer call her from the crime scene? Why wasn’t she at home? Why won’t she tell us where she was?”
“Because she knows you’re already hostile.”
She has no idea how hostile I can get.
“Detective Rizzoli, are you implying that Dr. O’Donnell had something to do with this crime?”
“No. But she’s not above exploiting it. Feeding off it. Whether she meant to or not, she inspired it.”
“How?”
“You know how a pet cat will sometimes kill a mouse and bring it home to its master as sort of an offering? A token of affection?”
“You think our killer is trying to impress O’Donnell.”
“That’s why he called her. That’s why he set up this elaborate death scene, to pique her interest. Then, to make sure his work gets noticed, he calls nine-one-one. And a few hours later, while we’re standing in the kitchen, he calls the victim’s house from a pay phone, just to make sure we’re there. This perp is reeling us all in. Law enforcement. And O’Donnell.”
Marquette said, “Does she realize how much danger she could be in? Being the focus of a killer’s attention?”
“She didn’t seem too impressed.”
“What does it take to scare that woman?”
“Maybe when he sends her that little token of affection. The equivalent of a dead mouse.” Jane paused. “Let’s not forget. Lori-Ann Tucker’s hand is still missing.”
TEN
Jane could not stop thinking about that hand as she stood in her kitchen, slicing cold chicken for a late-night snack. She carried it to the table, where her usually impeccably groomed husband was sitting with his sleeves rolled up, baby drool on his collar. Was there anything sexier than a man patiently burping his daughter? Regina gave a lusty belch and Gabriel laughed. What a sweet and perfect moment this was. All of them together and safe and healthy.
Then she looked down at the sliced chicken and she thought of what had rested on another dinner plate, on another woman’s dining table. She pushed the plate aside.
We are just meat. Like chicken. Like beef.
“I thought you were hungry,” said Gabriel.
“I guess I changed my mind. It suddenly doesn’t look so appetizing.”
“It’s the case, isn’t it?”
“I wish I could stop thinking about it.”
“I saw the files you brought home tonight. Couldn’t help looking through them. I’d be preoccupied, too.”
Jane shook her head. “You’re supposed to be on vacation. What are you doing, checking out autopsy photos?”
“They were lying right there on the counter.” He set Regina in her infant carrier. “You want to talk about it? Bounce it off me, if you’d like. If you think it’ll help.”
She glanced at Regina, who was watching them with alert eyes, and suddenly she gave a laugh. “Geez, when she’s old enough to understand, this is gonna be really appropriate family conversation. So, honey, how many headless corpses have you seen today?”
“She can’t understand us. So talk to me.”
Jane got up and went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Adam’s Ale, and popped off the top.
“Jane?”
“You really want to hear the details?”
“I want to know what’s bothering you so much.”
“You saw the photos. You know what’s bothering me.” She sat down again and took a gulp of beer. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, looking down at the sweating bottle, “I think it’s crazy to have children. You love them, raise them. Then you watch them walk into a world where they just get hurt. Where they meet up with people like…” Like Warren Hoyt was what she was thinking, but she didn’t say his name; she almost never said his name. It was as if saying it aloud was to summon the Devil himself.
The sudden buzz of the intercom made her snap straight. She looked up at the wall clock. “It’s ten-thirty.”
“Let me see who it is.” Gabriel walked into the living room and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
An unexpected voice responded over the speaker. “It’s me,” said Jane’s mother.
“Come on up, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel, and buzzed her in. He shot a surprised look at Jane.
“It’s so late. What’s she doing here?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
They heard Angela’s footsteps on the stairs, slower and more ponderous than usual, accompanied by an intermittent thumping, as though she were hauling something behind her. Only when she reached the second-floor landing did they see what it was.
A suitcase.
“Mom?” said Jane, but even as she said it, she could not quite believe that this woman with the wild hair and even wilder eyes was her mother. Angela’s coat was unbuttoned, the flap of her collar was turned under, and her slacks were soaked to the knees, as though she’d trudged through a snowbank to reach their building. She gripped the suitcase with both hands and looked ready to fling it at someone. Anyone.
She looked dangerous.
“I need to stay with you tonight,” said Angela.
“What?”
“Well, can I come in or not?”
“Of course, Mom.”
“Here, let me get that for you, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Gabriel said, taking the suitcase.
“You see?” said Angela, pointing to Gabriel. “That’s how a man’s supposed to behave! He sees that a woman needs help, and he steps right up to the plate. That’s what a gentleman’s supposed to do.”
“Mom, what happened?”
“What happened? What happened? I don’t know where to begin!”
Regina gave a wail of protest at being ignored for too long.
At once, Angela scurried into the kitchen and lifted her granddaughter from the infant seat. “Oh baby, poor little girl! You have no idea what you’re in for when you grow up.” She sat down at the table and rocked the baby, hugging her so tightly that Regina squirmed, trying to free herself from this suffocating madwoman.
“Okay, Mom,” sighed Jane. “What did Dad do?”
“You won’t hear it from me.”
“Then who am I going to hear it from?”
“I won’t poison my children against their father. It’s not right for parents to bad-mouth each other.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. I need to know what’s going on.”
But Angela did not offer an explanation. She continued to rock back and forth, hugging the baby. Regina looked more and more desperate to escape.
“Um…how long do you think you’ll be with us, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
Jane looked up at Gabriel, who’d been wise enough so far to stay out of the conversation. She saw the same flash of panic in his eyes.
“I might need to find a new place to live,” said Angela. “My own apartment.”
“Wait, Mom. You’re not saying you’re never going back.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m going to make a new life, Janie.” She looked at her daughter, her chin jutting up in defiance. “Other women do it. They leave their husbands and they do just fine. We don’t need them. We can survive all by ourselves.”
“Mom, you don’t have a job.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past thirty-seven years? Cooking and cleaning for that man? You think he ever appreciated it? Just comes home and gulps down what I put in front of him. Doesn’t taste the care that goes into it. You know how many people have told me I should open up a restaurant?”
Actually, th
ought Jane, it’d be a great restaurant. But she wasn’t about to say anything to encourage this insanity.
“So don’t ever say to me, You don’t have a job. My job was to take care of that man, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. I might as well do the same work and get paid.” She hugged Regina with renewed vigor and the baby let out a squawk of protest. “I’ll stay with you only a little while. I’ll sleep in the baby’s room. On the floor is perfectly okay with me. And I’ll watch her when you two go to work. It takes a village, you know.”
“All right, Mom.” Jane sighed and crossed to the telephone. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on, maybe Dad will.”
“What are you doing?”
“Calling him. I bet he’s all ready to apologize.” I bet he’s hungry and wants his personal chef back. She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Don’t even bother,” said Angela.
The phone rang once, twice.
“I’m telling you, he won’t answer. He’s not even there.”
“Well, where is he?” asked Jane.
“He’s at her house.”
Jane froze as the phone in her parents’ home rang and rang unanswered. Slowly she hung up and turned to face her mother. “Whose house?”
“Hers. The slut’s.”
“Jesus, Ma.”
“Jesus has nothing to do with it.” Angela took in a sudden gulp of air and her throat clamped down on a sob. She rocked forward, Regina clutched to her chest.
“Dad’s seeing another woman?”
Wordlessly, Angela nodded. Lifted her hand up to wipe her face.
“Who? Who’s he seeing?” Jane sat down to look her mother in the eye. “Mom, who is she?”
“At work…” Angela whispered.
“But he works with a bunch of old guys.”
“She’s new. She—she’s”—Angela’s voice suddenly broke—“younger.”
The phone rang.
Angela’s head shot up. “I won’t talk to him. You tell him that.”
Jane glanced at the number on the digital readout, but she didn’t recognize it. Maybe it was her dad calling. Maybe he was calling from her phone. The slut’s.
“Detective Rizzoli,” she snapped.
A pause, then, “Having a rough night, are you?”
And getting worse, she thought, recognizing the voice of Detective Darren Crowe.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Bad things. We’re up on Beacon Hill. You and Frost will want to get over here. I hate being the one to tell you about this, but—”
“Isn’t this your night?”
“This one belongs to all of us, Rizzoli.” Crowe sounded grimmer than she’d ever heard him, without a trace of his usual sarcasm. He said, quietly, “It’s one of ours.”
One of ours. A cop.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s Eve Kassovitz.”
Jane couldn’t speak. She stood with her fingers growing numb around the telephone, thinking, I saw her only a few hours ago.
“Rizzoli?”
She cleared her throat. “Give me the address.”
When she hung up, she found that Gabriel had taken Regina into the other room, and Angela was now sitting with shoulders slumped, her arms sadly empty. “I’m sorry, Mom,” said Jane. “I have to go out.”
Angela gave a demoralized shrug. “Of course. You go.”
“We’ll talk when I get back.” She bent to kiss her mom’s cheek and saw up close Angela’s sagging skin, her drooping eyes. When did my mother get so old?
She buckled on her weapon and pulled her coat out of the closet. As she buttoned up, she heard Gabriel say, “This is pretty bad timing.”
She turned to look at him. What happens when I get old, like my mom? Will you leave me for a younger woman, too? “I could be gone awhile,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”
ELEVEN
Maura stepped out of her Lexus and her boots crunched on rime-glazed pavement, cracking through ice as brittle as glass. Snow that had melted during the warmer daylight hours had been flash-frozen again in the brutally cold wind that had kicked up at nightfall, and in the multiple flashes from cruiser lights, every surface gleamed, slick and dangerous. She saw a cop skate his way along the sidewalk, arms windmilling for balance, and saw the CSU van skid sideways as it braked, barely kissing the rear bumper of a parked cruiser.
“Watch your step there, Doc,” a patrolman called out from across the street. “Already had one officer go down on the ice tonight. Think he mighta broke his wrist.”
“Someone should salt this road.”
“Yeah.” He gave a grunt. “Someone should. Since the city sure ain’t keeping up with the job tonight.”
“Where’s Detective Crowe?”
The cop waved a gloved hand toward the row of elegant town homes. “Number forty-one. It’s a few houses up the street. I can walk you there.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She paused as another cruiser rounded the corner and skidded up against the curb. She counted at least eight parked cruisers already clogging the narrow street.
“We’re going to need room for the morgue van to get through,” she said. “Do all these patrol cars really need to be here?”
“Yeah, they do,” the cop said. The tone of his voice made her turn to look at him. Lit by the strobe flashes of rack lights, his face was carved in bleak shadows. “We all need to be here. We owe it to her.”
Maura thought about the death scene on Christmas Eve, when Eve Kassovitz had stood doubled over in the street, retching into a snowbank. She remembered, too, how the patrol officers had snickered about the barfing girl detective. Now that detective was dead, and the snickers were silent, replaced by the grim respect due every police officer who has fallen.
The cop’s breath came out in an angry rush. “Her boyfriend, he’s one, too.”
“Another police officer?”
“Yeah. Help us get this perp, Doc.”
She nodded. “We will.” She started up the sidewalk, aware, suddenly, of all the eyes that must be watching her progress, all the officers who had surely taken note of her arrival. They knew her car; they all knew who she was. She saw nods of recognition among the shadowy figures who stood huddled together, their breaths steaming, like smokers gathered for a furtive round of cigarettes. They knew the grim purpose of her visit, just as they knew that any one of them might someday be the unfortunate object of her attention.
The wind suddenly kicked up a cloud of snow, and she squinted, lowering her head against the sting. When she raised it again she found herself staring at someone she had not expected to see here. Across the street stood Father Daniel Brophy, talking softly to a young police officer who had sagged backward against a Boston PD cruiser, as though too weak to stand on his own feet. Brophy put his arm around the other man’s shoulder to comfort him, and the officer collapsed against him, sobbing, as Brophy wrapped both arms around him. Other cops stood nearby in awkward silence, boots shuffling, their gazes to the ground, clearly uncomfortable with this display of raw grief. Although Maura could not hear the words Brophy murmured, she saw the young cop nod, heard him force out a tear-choked response.
I could never do what Daniel does, she thought. It was far easier to cut dead flesh and drill through bone than to confront the pain of the living. Suddenly Daniel’s head lifted and he noticed her. For a moment they just stared at each other. Then she turned and continued toward the town house, where a streamer of crime scene tape fluttered from the porch’s cast-iron railing. He had his job and she had hers. It was time to focus. But even as she kept her gaze on the sidewalk ahead, her mind was on Daniel. Whether he would still be there when she finished her task here. And if he was, what happened next? Should she invite him out for a cup of coffee? Would that make her seem too forward, too needy? Should she simply say good night and go her own way, as always?
What do I want to happen?
She reached the building and paused on the s
idewalk, gazing up at the handsome three-story residence. Inside, every light was blazing. Brick steps led up to a massive front door, where a brass knocker gleamed in the glow of decorative gaslight lanterns. Despite the season, there were no holiday decorations on this porch. This was the only front door on the street without a wreath. Through the large bow windows, she saw the flicker of a fire burning in the hearth, but no twinkle of Christmas tree lights.
“Dr. Isles?”
She heard the squeal of metal hinges and glanced at the detective who had just pushed open the wrought-iron gate at the side of the house. Roland Tripp was one of the older cops in the homicide unit and tonight he was definitely showing his age. He stood beneath the gaslight lamp and the glow yellowed his skin, emphasizing his baggy eyes and drooping lids. Despite the bulky down jacket, he looked chilled, and he spoke with a clenched jaw, as though trying to suppress chattering teeth.
“The victim’s back here,” he said, holding open the gate to let her in.
Maura walked through, and the gate clanged shut behind them. He led the way into a narrow side yard, their path lit by the jerky beam of his flashlight. The walkway had been shoveled since the last storm, and the bricks had only a light dusting of windblown snow. Tripp halted, his flashlight aimed at the low mound of snow at the edge of the walkway. At the splash of red.
“This is what got the butler worried. He saw this blood.”
“There’s a butler here?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re talking that kind of money.”
“What does he do? The owner of this house?”
“He says he’s a retired history professor. Taught at Boston College.”
“I had no idea history professors did this well.”
“You should take a look inside. This ain’t no professor’s house. This guy’s got other money.” Tripp aimed his flashlight at a side door. “Butler came out this exit here, carrying a bag of garbage. Started toward those trash cans when he noticed the gate was open. That’s when he first got an inkling that something wasn’t right. So he comes back, up this side yard, looking around. Spots the blood and knows that something really isn’t right. And notices more blood streaking along these bricks, toward the back of the house.”