“Where does it come from? Where did you get this video?”
“The Mother keeps it in her room. We didn’t know. We only wanted the money.”
This is the reason for the massacre, thought Jane; this is why the women in that house were killed. Because they knew what happened in that room. And this videotape is the proof.
“Who is he?” Mila asked.
Jane stared at the blank TV. “I don’t know. But I know someone who might.” She crossed to the telephone.
Mila stared at her in alarm. “No police!”
“I’m not calling the police. I’m going to ask a friend to come here. A reporter. He knows people in Washington. He’s lived there. He’ll know who that man is.” She flipped through the phone book until she found the listing for Peter Lukas. His address was in Milton, just south of Boston. As she dialed, she could feel Mila watching her, clearly not ready to trust her. If I make one false move, Jane thought, this girl will run. I have to be careful not to scare her.
“Hello?” said Peter Lukas.
“Could you come over right now?”
“Detective Rizzoli? What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“This sounds serious.”
“It could be your Pulitzer Prize, Lukas.” She stopped.
Someone was ringing her apartment buzzer.
Mila shot Jane a look of sheer panic. Snatching up her tote bag, she made a dash toward the windows.
“Wait. Mila, don’t—”
“Rizzoli?” said Lukas. “What’s happening over there?”
“Hold on. I’ll call you right back,” said Jane, and hung up.
Mila was darting from window to window, desperately searching for the fire escape.
“It’s okay!” said Jane. “Calm down.”
“They know I am here!”
“We don’t even know who’s at the door. Let’s just find out.” She pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Detective Rizzoli, it’s John Barsanti. Can I come up?”
Mila’s reaction was instantaneous. She went sprinting toward the bedrooms, looking for an escape route.
“Wait!” Jane called, following her up the hall. “You can trust this man!”
Already, the girl was lifting up the bedroom window.
“You can’t leave.”
Again, they heard the apartment buzzer. It sent Mila scrambling through the window, onto the fire escape. If she leaves, I’ll never see her again, thought Jane. The girl has survived this long on sheer instinct. Maybe I should listen to her.
She grabbed Mila’s wrist. “I’ll come with you, okay? We’ll go together. Just don’t leave without me!”
“Hurry,” Mila whispered.
Jane turned. “The baby.”
Mila followed her back into the living room and kept a nervous eye on the door as Jane ejected the videotape and threw it into the diaper bag. Then she unlocked the gun drawer, took out her weapon, and slipped it into the diaper bag as well. Just in case.
The buzzer sounded again.
Jane swept Regina into her arms. “Let’s go.”
Mila scrambled down the fire escape ladder, quick as a monkey. Once, Jane would have been just as quick, just as reckless. But now she was forced to take care with every step, because she was holding Regina. Poor baby, I have no choice now, she thought. I have to drag you along on this adventure. At last she dropped to the alley, and led the way to her parked Subaru. As she unlocked the car door, she could still hear, through the open apartment window, Barsanti’s persistent buzzing.
Driving west on Tremont Street, she kept her eye on the rearview mirror, but she saw no sign of pursuit, no headlights dogging them. Now to find a secure location where Mila won’t freak out, she thought. Where she won’t see police uniforms. Above all, some place I can keep Regina perfectly safe.
“Where do we go?” Mila asked.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She glanced down at her cell phone, but now she did not dare call her mother. She did not dare call anyone.
Abruptly she turned south, onto Columbus Avenue. “I know a safe place,” she said.
THIRTY-FIVE
Peter Lukas stared in silence as the brutal assault played out on his TV screen. When the tape at last ended, he did not move. Even after Jane turned off the VCR, Lukas sat frozen, his gaze fixed on the screen, as though he could still see the girl’s battered body, the bloodstained sheets. The room had gone silent. Regina dozed on the couch; Mila stood near the windows, glancing out at the road.
“Mila never learned the girl’s name,” said Jane. “There’s a good chance the body’s buried somewhere in the woods behind the house. It’s a lonely spot, with a lot of places to dispose of a corpse. God knows how many other girls might be buried back there.”
Lukas dropped his head. “I feel like throwing up.”
“You and me both.”
“Why would anyone videotape something like that?”
“This man clearly didn’t realize he was caught on film. The camera was mounted in a closet, where the clients couldn’t see it. Maybe it was just another source of revenue. Sell the girls for sex, videotape the acts, then offer the tapes on the pornography market. Every which way you turn, there’s money to be made. This brothel was just another one of their subsidiaries, after all.” She paused, and added drily: “Ballentree seems to believe in diversification.”
“But this is a snuff film! Ballentree could never get away with selling this.”
“No, this was too explosive. The house mother definitely knew it was. She hid it in the tote bag. Mila says they carried around that bag for months without knowing what was on the video. Then Joe finally played it on a motel room VCR.” Jane looked at the TV. “Now we know why those women in Ashburn were killed. Why Charles Desmond was killed. Because they knew this client; they could ID him. They all had to die.”
“So this is all about covering up a rape and murder.”
She nodded. “Suddenly Joe realizes he’s holding dynamite. What to do with the evidence? He didn’t know who to trust. And who would listen to a guy who’s already been labeled a paranoid kook? That must be what he sent you. A copy of this tape.”
“Only I never received it.”
“And by then they’d split up, to avoid capture. But each of them took a copy. Olena was caught before she could bring hers to the Tribune. Joe’s was probably swept up after the hospital takedown.” She pointed to the TV. “This is the last copy.”
Lukas turned to Mila, who’d been hanging back in a far corner of the room, like a skittish animal afraid to come any closer. “Have you yourself seen this man in the video, Mila? He came to the house?”
“The boat,” she said, and gave a visible shudder. “I saw him at a party, on the boat.”
Lukas looked at Jane. “You think she means Charles Desmond’s yacht?”
“I think this is how Ballentree did business,” said Jane. “Desmond’s world was a boys’ club. Defense contracts, Pentagon players. Whenever there are big boys playing with a lot of money, you can bet sex comes into it. A way to close the deal.” She ejected the videocassette and turned to face Lukas. “Do you know who this man is? The one on the video?”
Lukas swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time believing that tape is real.”
“The man’s got to be a major player. Look at everything he’s managed to do, the resources he’s been able to call up, to track down this videotape.” She stood before Lukas. “Who is he?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
“Should I?”
“Not unless you were watching last month’s confirmation hearings. He’s Carleton Wynne. Our new director of National Intelligence.”
She released a sharp breath and sank into a chair facing him. “Jesus. You’re talking about the guy in charge of every intelligence agency in the country.”
Lukas nodded. “The FBI. CIA. Military Intelligence. Fifteen age
ncies in all, including branches of Homeland Security and the Department of Justice. This is someone who can pull strings from the inside. The reason you don’t recognize Wynne is that he’s not a very public man. He’s one of those guys in the gray suits. He left the CIA two years ago, to head up the Pentagon’s new Strategic Support Branch. After the last intelligence director was forced to resign, the White House nominated Wynne to replace him. He’s just been confirmed.”
“Please,” interjected Mila. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“It’s down the hall,” murmured Lukas, not even glancing up as Mila slipped out of the living room. His gaze stayed on Jane. “This is not an easy man to bring down,” he said.
“With this videotape, you could bring down King Kong.”
“Director Wynne has a whole network of contacts in the Pentagon and the Company. This is the President’s hand-picked man.”
“Now he’s mine. And I’m taking him down.”
The doorbell rang. Jane looked up, startled.
“Relax,” said Lukas, rising to his feet. “It’s probably just my neighbor. I promised I’d feed his cat for the weekend.”
Despite that reassurance, Jane sat on the edge of her chair, listening, as Lukas answered the front door. His greeting was a casual: “Hey, come on in.”
“Everything under control?” the other man said.
“Yeah, we were just watching a video.”
That’s the moment she should have understood that something was not right, but Lukas’s relaxed tone of voice had disarmed her, had lulled her into feeling safe in this house, in his company. The visitor walked into the room. He had cropped blond hair and powerfully muscled arms. Even when Jane saw the gun he was holding, she did not fully accept what had just happened. Slowly she rose to her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. She turned to Lukas, and her shattered look of betrayal evoked in him merely a shrug. A look of sorry, but that’s how it goes.
The blond man took in the room at a glance, and his gaze focused on Regina, who slept soundly among the couch cushions. At once he turned his weapon on the baby, and Jane felt a stab of panic, sharp as a knife to the heart. “Not a word,” he said to Jane. He knew just how to control her, just how to find a mother’s most vulnerable spot. “Where’s the whore?” he asked Lukas.
“The bathroom. I’ll get her.”
It’s too late to warn Mila, thought Jane. Even if I screamed, she would have no chance to escape.
“So you’re the cop I heard about,” the blond man said.
The cop. The whore. Did he even know the names of the two women he was about to kill?
“My name is Jane Rizzoli,” she said.
“Wrong place, wrong time, Detective.” He did know her name. Of course; a professional would have to know. He also knew enough to keep a respectful distance from her, far enough away to react to any move she might make. Even without his gun, he was not a man she could easily tackle. His stance, the quietly efficient way he had taken control, told her that, unarmed, she did not have a chance against this man.
But armed . . .
She glanced at the floor. Where the hell had she left the diaper bag? Was it behind the couch? She didn’t see it.
“Mila?” Lukas was calling through the bathroom door. “Are you all right in there?”
Regina suddenly gave a start and let out a jittery cry, as though aware that something was wrong. That her mother was in trouble.
“Let me pick her up,” said Jane.
“She’s fine right where she is.”
“If you don’t let me pick her up, she’ll start screaming. And she knows how to scream.”
“Mila?” Lukas was rapping on the bathroom door now. “Unlock this, will you? Mila!”
Regina, as predicted, began to howl. Jane looked at the man, and he finally gave a nod. She gathered the baby into her arms, but her embrace seemed to hold no comfort for Regina. She can feel my heart pounding. She can feel my fear.
There was banging in the hallway, then a crash as Lukas broke through the door. Seconds later he came running back into the living room, his face flushed. “She’s gone.”
“What?”
“The bathroom window’s open. She must have crawled out.”
The blond man reacted with a mere shrug. “Then we’ll find her another day. The video is what he really wants.”
“We have it.”
“You’re sure it’s the last copy?”
“It’s the last.”
Jane stared at Lukas. “You already knew about the videotape.”
“Do you have any idea how much unsolicited junk a reporter gets in the mail?” said Lukas. “How many conspiracy theorists and paranoid nuts there are out there, desperate for the public to believe them? I wrote that one column about Ballentree, and suddenly I’m the new best friend for all the Joseph Rokes in this country. All the weirdos. They think if they tell me about their little delusions, I’ll take the story from there. I’ll be their Woodward and Bernstein.”
“That’s how it should work. That’s what journalists are supposed to do.”
“You know any rich reporters? Once you get past the rare superstars, how many names do you remember? The reality is, the public doesn’t give a shit about the truth. Oh, maybe there’d be a flutter of interest for a few weeks. A few front-page stories above the fold. Director of National Intelligence charged with murder. The White House would express the appropriate amount of horror, Carleton Wynne would plead guilty, and then this would go the way of every other scandal in Washington. In a few months, the public would forget about it. And I’d go back to writing my column, paying my mortgage, and driving the same beat-up Toyota.” He shook his head. “As soon as I saw the videotape Olena left me, I knew it was worth a lot more than just a Pulitzer. I knew who’d pay me for it.”
“That video Joe sent you. You did receive it.”
“Almost threw it away, too. Then I thought, what the hell, let’s see what’s on it. I recognized Carleton Wynne right away. Until I picked up the phone and called him, he didn’t even know the tape existed. He thought he was just chasing down a couple of whores. Suddenly this got much, much more serious. And more expensive.”
“He was actually willing to deal with you?”
“Wouldn’t you be? Knowing what this tape could do to you? Knowing there are other copies floating around out there?”
“Do you really think Wynne is going to let you live? Now that you’ve given him Joe and Olena? There’s nothing else he needs from you.”
The blond man cut in: “I’ll need a shovel.”
But Lukas was still looking at Jane. “I’m not stupid,” he said. “And Wynne knows that.”
“The shovel?” the blond man repeated.
“There’s one in the garage,” said Lukas.
“Get it for me.”
As Lukas walked toward the garage, Jane called out: “You’re a moron if you think you’re going to live long enough to enjoy any payoff.” Regina had fallen silent in her arms, stilled by her mother’s rage. “You’ve seen how these people play the game. You know how Charles Desmond died. They’re going to find you in your bathtub with your wrists slit. Or they’ll force a bottle of phenobarb tablets down your throat and dump you in the bay, like they did to Olena. Or maybe this guy will just put a bullet in your head, nice and simple.”
Lukas came back into the house, carrying a spade. He handed it to the blond man.
“How deep do those woods go, in back of the house?” the man asked.
“It’s part of Blue Hills Reservation. They go back at least a mile.”
“We’ll need to walk her in far enough.”
“Look, I don’t want anything to do with that. That’s what he pays you for.”
“Then you’ll have to take care of her car.”
“Wait.” Lukas reached behind the couch and came up holding the diaper bag. He handed it to the other man. “I don’t want any trace of her in my house.”
Give it to
me, thought Jane. Give me my goddamn bag.
Instead, the blond man slung it over his shoulder and said: “Let’s take a walk in the woods, Detective.”
Jane turned to give Lukas her parting shot. “You’ll get yours. You’re a dead man.”
Outside, a half-moon glowed in a starry sky. Holding Regina, Jane stumbled through underbrush and saplings, her path faintly lit by the beam of the gunman’s flashlight. He was careful to follow at a distance, giving her no chance to strike out at him. She could not have, in any event, not with Regina in her arms. Regina, who had known only a few short weeks of life.
“My baby can’t hurt you,” Jane said. “She’s not even a month old.”
The man said nothing. The only sound was their footfalls in the woods. The snap of twigs, the rustle of leaves. So much noise, but no one was around to listen. If a woman falls in the forest, but no one hears her . . .
“You could just take her,” said Jane. “Leave her where someone will find her.”
“She’s not my problem.”
“She’s just a baby!” Jane’s voice suddenly broke. She paused there among the trees, clutching her daughter to her chest as tears flooded her throat. Regina gave a soft coo, as though to comfort her, and Jane pressed her face to her daughter’s head and inhaled the sweetness of her hair, felt the heat of her velvety cheeks. How could I bring you into this? she thought. There is no worse mistake a mother can make. And now you’ll die with me.
“Keep walking,” he said.
I’ve fought back before and survived, she thought. I can do it again. I have to do it again, for you.
“Or do you just want me to finish it here?” he said.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of trees and damp leaves. She thought of the human remains she had examined in Stony Brook Reservation a summer ago. How vines had snaked through the orbital fossae, hugging the skull in greedy tendrils. How the hands and feet were missing, gnawed off and carried away by scavengers. She felt her own pulse, bounding in her fingers, and thought of how small and fragile were the bones in a human hand. How easily they are scattered across a forest floor.