The Mephisto Club

by Tess Gerritsen

  Jane’s back went rigid. Don’t let her do this to you. Don’t let her dig those claws in deeper.

  “I believe your daughter’s name is Regina, isn’t it?”

  Jane rose to her feet, and though she was shorter than O’Donnell, something in Jane’s eyes made the other woman abruptly step back. “We’ll be calling on you again,” said Jane.

  “Call me all you want,” said O’Donnell. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

  “She’s lying,” said Jane.

  She yanked open the car door and slid in behind the wheel. There she sat, staring at a scene that was Christmas card–pretty, the sun glistening on icicles, the snow-frosted houses decked in tasteful wreaths and holly. No garish Santas and reindeer on this street, no rooftop extravaganzas like the ones in Revere, where she had grown up. She thought of Johnny Silva’s house, just down the street from her parents’, and of the long lines of rubberneckers from miles around who’d detour onto their street, just to gape at the eye-popping light show that the Silvas put up in their front yard every December. There you’d find Santa and the three wise men and the manger with Mary and Jesus and a menagerie of so many animals it would’ve sunk Noah’s ark. All lit up like a carnival. You could have powered a small African nation with the electricity the Silvas burned through every Christmas.

  But here on Brattle Street, there were no such gaudy spectacles, only understated elegance. No Johnny Silvas lived here. She’d rather have that moron Johnny for a neighbor than the woman who lived in this house.

  “She knows more about this case than she’s telling us.”

  “How do you draw that conclusion?” asked Frost.

  “Instinct.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in instinct. That’s what you always tell me. That it’s nothing better than a lucky guess.”

  “But I know this woman. I know what makes her tick.” She looked at Frost, whose winter pallor seemed even more pronounced in the weak sunshine. “She got more than a hang-up call from the killer last night.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Why did she erase it?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? If the caller left no message?”

  “That’s her story.”

  “Oh man. She got to you.” He shook his head. “I knew she would.”

  “She didn’t get close.”

  “Yeah? When she started talking about Regina, that didn’t light your fuse? She’s a shrink. She knows just how to manipulate you. You shouldn’t even be dealing with her.”

  “Who should? You? That weenie Kassovitz?”

  “Someone who doesn’t have a history with her. Someone she can’t touch.” He gave Jane a probing look that made her want to turn away. They had been partners for two years now, and even though they were not the closest of friends, they understood each other in a way that mere friends or even lovers seldom did, because they had shared the same horrors, fought the same battles. Frost, better than anyone, even better than her husband, Gabriel, knew her history with Joyce O’Donnell.

  And with the killer known as the Surgeon.

  “She still scares you, doesn’t she?” he asked quietly.

  “All she does is piss me off.”

  “Because she knows what does scare you. And she never stops reminding you of him, never forgets to bring up his name.”

  “Like I’m the least bit afraid of a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes? Who can’t pee unless some nurse shoves a tube up his dick? Oh yeah, I’m real scared of Warren Hoyt.”

  “You still having the nightmares?”

  His question stopped her cold. She couldn’t lie to him; he’d see it. So she said nothing at all, but just looked straight ahead, at that perfect street with its perfect houses.

  “I’d be having them,” he said, “if it’d happened to me.”

  But it didn’t, she thought. I’m the one who felt Hoyt’s blade at my throat, who bears the scars from his scalpel. I’m the one he still thinks about, fantasizes about. Though he could never again hurt her, just knowing that she was the object of his desires made her skin crawl.

  “Why are we talking about him?” she said. “This is about O’Donnell.”

  “You can’t separate the two.”

  “I’m not the one who keeps bringing up his name. Let’s stick to the subject, okay? Joyce P. O’Donnell, and why the killer chose to call her.”

  “We can’t be sure it was the perp who called her.”

  “Talking to O’Donnell is every pervert’s idea of great phone sex. They can tell her their sickest fantasies, and she’d lap it up and beg for more, all the while taking notes. That’s why he’d call her. He’d want to crow about his accomplishment. He’d want a willing ear, and she’s the obvious person to call. Dr. Murder.” With an angry twist of the key, she started the car. Cold air blasted from the heating vents. “That’s why he called her. To brag. To bask in her attention.”

  “Why would she lie about it?”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell us where she was last night? It makes you wonder who she was with. Whether that call wasn’t an invitation.”

  Frost frowned at her. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Sometime before midnight, our perp does his slice-and-dice on Lori-Ann Tucker. Then he makes a phone call to O’Donnell. She claims she wasn’t home—that her answering machine picked up. But what if she was at home at the time? What if they actually spoke to each other?”

  “We called her house at two A.M. She wasn’t answering then.”

  “Because she was no longer at home. She said she was out with friends.” Jane looked at him. “What if it was just one friend? One bright, shiny new friend.”

  “Come on. You really think she’d protect this perp?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past her.” Jane let out the brake and pulled away from the curb. “Anything.”

  FIVE

  “This is no way to spend Christmas day,” said Angela Rizzoli, glancing up from the stove at her daughter. Four pots simmered on the burners, lids clattering, as steam curled in a wispy wreath around Angela’s sweat-dampened hair. She lifted a pot lid and slid a plateful of homemade gnocchi into the boiling water. They plopped in, their splash announcing that dinner was now imminent. Jane gazed around the kitchen at endless platters of food. Angela Rizzoli’s worst fear was that someone, someday, would leave her house hungry.

  Today was not that day.

  On the countertop was a roasted leg of lamb, fragrant with oregano and garlic, and a pan of sizzling potatoes browned with rosemary. Jane saw ciabatta bread and a salad of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella. A green bean salad was the lone contribution that Jane and Gabriel had brought to the feast. On the stove, the simmering pots released yet other aromas, and in the boiling water, tender gnocchi bobbed and swirled.

  “What can I do in here, Mom?” asked Jane.

  “Nothing. You worked today. You sit there.”

  “You want me to grate the cheese?”

  “No, no. You must be tired. Gabriel says you were up all night.” Angela gave the pot a quick stir with a wooden spoon. “I don’t see why you had to work today, too. It’s unreasonable.”

  “It’s what I gotta do.”

  “But it’s Christmas.”

  “Tell it to the bad guys.” Jane pulled the grater from the drawer and began scraping a block of Parmesan cheese across the blades. She could not just sit still in this kitchen. “How come Mike and Frankie aren’t helping in here, anyway? You must’ve been cooking all morning.”

  “Oh, you know your brothers.”

  “Yeah.” She snorted. Unfortunately.

  In the other room, football was blaring from the TV, as usual. Men’s shouts joined the roar of stadium crowds, all cheering some guy with a tight butt and a pigskin ball.

  Angela bustled over to inspect the green bean salad. “Oh, this looks good! What’s in the dressing?”

  “I don’t know. Gabriel made it.”

  “You’re so
lucky, Janie. You got a man who cooks.”

  “You starve Dad a few days, he’ll know how to cook, too.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He’d just waste away at the dining table, waiting for dinner to float in all by itself.” Angela lifted up the pot of boiling water and turned it upside down, dumping the cooked gnocchi into a colander. As the steam cleared, Jane saw Angela’s sweating face, framed by tendrils of hair. Outside, the wind sliced across ice-glazed streets, but here in her mother’s kitchen, heat flushed their faces and steamed the windows.

  “Here’s Mommy,” said Gabriel, walking into the kitchen with a wide-awake Regina in his arms. “Look who’s up from her nap already.”

  “She didn’t sleep long,” said Jane.

  “With that football game going on?” He laughed. “Our daughter is definitely a Patriots fan. You should have heard her howl when the Dolphins scored.”

  “Let me hold her.” Jane opened her arms and hugged a squirming Regina against her chest. Only four months old, she thought, and already my baby is trying to wriggle away from me. Ferocious little Regina had come into the world with fists swinging, her face purple from screaming. Are you so impatient to grow up? Jane wondered as she rocked her daughter. Won’t you stay a baby for a while and let me hold you, enjoy you, before the passing years send you walking out our door?

  Regina grabbed Jane’s hair and gave it a painful yank. Wincing, Jane pried away tenacious fingers and stared down at her daughter’s hand. And she thought, suddenly, of another hand, cold and lifeless. Someone else’s daughter, now lying in pieces in the morgue. Here it is, Christmas. Of all days, I should not have to think of dead women. But as she kissed Regina’s silky hair, as she inhaled the scent of soap and baby shampoo, she could not shut out the memory of another kitchen and of what had stared up at her from the tiled floor.

  “Hey, Ma, it’s halftime. When’re we gonna eat?”

  Jane looked up as her older brother, Frankie, lumbered into the room. The last time Jane had seen him was a year ago, when he’d flown home from California for Christmas. Since then, his shoulders had bulked up even more. Every year, Frankie seemed to grow bigger, and his arms were now so thick with muscle that they could not hang straight, but swung in simian arcs. All those hours in the weight room, she thought, and where has it gotten him? Bigger, but definitely no smarter. She shot an appreciative glance at Gabriel, who was opening a bottle of Chianti. Taller and leaner than Frankie, he was built like a racehorse, not a draft horse. When you have a brain, she thought, who needs monster muscles?

  “Dinner’s in ten minutes,” said Angela.

  “That means it’ll run into the third quarter,” said Frankie.

  “Why don’t you guys just turn off the TV?” said Jane. “It’s Christmas dinner.”

  “Yeah, and we’d all be eating a lot earlier if you’d shown up on time.”

  “Frankie,” snapped Angela. “Your sister worked all night. And look, she’s in here helping. So don’t you go picking on her!”

  There was sudden silence in the kitchen as both brother and sister stared at Angela in surprise. Did Mom actually take my side, for once?

  “Well. This is some great Christmas,” said Frankie, and he walked out of the kitchen.

  Angela slid the colander of drained gnocchi into a serving bowl and ladled on steaming veal sauce. “No appreciation for what women do,” she muttered.

  Jane laughed. “You just noticed?”

  “Like we don’t deserve some respect?” Angela reached for a chef’s knife and attacked a bunch of parsley, mincing it with machine-gun raps. “I blame myself. Should have taught him better. But really, it’s your father’s fault. He sets the example. No appreciation for me whatsoever.”

  Jane glanced at Gabriel, who chose just that moment to conveniently escape the room. “Uh…Mom? Did Dad do something to tick you off?”

  Angela looked over her shoulder at Jane, her knife blade poised over the mangled parsley. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “I’m not going to go there, Janie. Oh, no. I believe every father deserves his child’s respect, no matter what he does.”

  “So he did do something.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to go there.” Angela scooped up the minced parsley and flung it onto the bowl of gnocchi. Then she stomped to the doorway and yelled, over the sound of the TV: “Dinner! Sit.”

  Despite Angela’s command, it was a few minutes before Frank Rizzoli and his two sons could tear themselves away from the TV. The halftime show had begun, and leggy girls in sequins strutted across the stage. The three Rizzoli men sat with eyes transfixed on the screen. Only Gabriel rose to help Jane and Angela shuttle platters of food into the dining room. Though he didn’t say a word, Jane could read the look he gave her.

  Since when did Christmas dinner turn into a war zone?

  Angela slammed the bowl of roast potatoes on the table, walked into the living room, and snatched up the remote. With one click, she shut off the TV.

  Frankie groaned. “Aw, Mom. They got Jessica Simpson coming on in ten…” He saw Angela’s face and instantly shut up.

  Mike was the first to jump up from the couch. Without a word, he scooted obediently into the dining room, followed at a more sullen pace by his brother Frankie and Frank senior.

  The table was magnificently set. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Angela had laid out her blue and gold china and linen napkins and the new wineglasses she’d just bought over at the Dansk outlet. When Angela sat down and surveyed the feast, it was not with pride but with a look of sour dissatisfaction.

  “This looks wonderful, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel.

  “Why, thank you. I know you appreciate how much work goes into a meal like this. Since you know how to cook.”

  “Well, I didn’t really have a choice, living on my own for so many years.” He reached under the table and squeezed Jane’s hand. “I’m lucky I found a girl who can cook.” When she gets around to it was what he should have added.

  “I taught Janie everything I know.”

  “Ma, can you pass the lamb?” called Frankie.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The lamb.”

  “What happened to please? I’m not passing it until you say the word.”

  Jane’s father sighed. “Geez Louise, Angie. It’s Christmas. Can we just feed the boy?”

  “I’ve been feeding this boy for thirty-six years. He’s not going to starve just because I ask for a little courtesy.”

  “Um…Mom?” ventured Mike. “Could you, uh, please pass the potatoes?” Meekly, he added again, “Please?”

  “Yes, Mikey.” Angela handed him the bowl.

  For a moment no one spoke. The only sounds were jaws chewing and silverware sawing against china. Jane glanced at her father, seated at one end of the table, and then at her mother, seated at the other end. There was no eye contact between them. They might have been dining in different rooms, so distant were they from each other. Jane did not often take the time to study her parents, but tonight she felt compelled to, and what she saw depressed her. When did they get so old? When did Mom’s eyes start to droop, and Dad’s hair recede to such thin wisps?

  When did they start hating each other?

  “So Janie, tell us what kept you so busy last night,” said her dad, his gaze on his daughter, studiously avoiding even a glance at Angela.

  “Um, no one really wants to hear about it, Dad.”

  “I do,” said Frankie.

  “It’s Christmas. I think maybe—”

  “Who got whacked?”

  She glanced across the table at her older brother. “A young woman. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Doesn’t bother me any to talk about it,” Frankie said, shoving a chunk of pink lamb into his mouth. Frankie the Master Sergeant, challenging her to gross him out.

  “This one would bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”

  “Was she good-looking?”

  �
��What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “It’s an idiotic question.”

  “Why? If she’s good-looking, it helps you understand the guy’s motive.”

  “To kill her? Jesus, Frankie.”

  “Jane,” said her dad. “It’s Christmas.”

  “Well, Janie has a point,” snapped Angela.

  Frank looked at his wife in astonishment. “Your daughter cusses at the dinner table, and you’re getting on my back?”

  “You think that only pretty women are worth killing?”

  “Ma, I didn’t say that,” said Frankie.

  “He didn’t say that,” said his father.

  “But it’s what you think. Both of you. Only good-looking women are worth the attention. Love ’em or kill ’em, it’s only interesting if they’re pretty.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Please what, Frank? You know it’s true. Look at you.”

  Jane and her brothers all frowned at their father.

  “Look at him why, Ma?” asked Mike.

  “Angela,” said Frank, “it’s Christmas.”

  “I know it’s Christmas!” Angela jumped to her feet and gave a sob. “I know.” She walked out of the room, into the kitchen.

  Jane looked at her father. “What’s going on?”

  Frank shrugged. “Women that age. Change of life.”

  “This isn’t just change of life. I’m going to go see what’s bothering her.” Jane rose from her chair and followed her mother into the kitchen.

  “Mom?”

  Angela did not seem to hear her. She was standing with her back turned, whipping cream in a stainless steel bowl. The beater clattered, sending flecks of white spraying across the countertop.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Gotta get the dessert started. I completely forgot about whipping the cream.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I should have had this ready before we sat down. You know your brother Frankie gets impatient if he has to wait too long for the next course. If we make him sit there for more than five minutes, next thing you know, he’ll turn on that TV again.” Angela reached for the sugar and sprinkled a spoonful of it into the bowl as the beater churned up the cream. “At least Mikey tries his best to be nice. Even when all he sees are bad examples. Every which way he looks, just bad examples.”