“You think Crowe’s right, don’t you?” said Maura, her voice tinged with bitterness.
“You know I always respect your opinion, Maura.”
“But in this case, you don’t agree with it.”
“You have to admit, there are differences between these two victims.”
“The cut marks. The nylon cord. Even the knots are similar, and—”
“A double square knot isn’t unique. If I were a perp, it’s probably what I’d use to tie up a victim.”
“The gutting? How many recent cases have you seen of that?”
“You found a single nick in the sternum. It’s not conclusive. These victims couldn’t be more different. Age, sex, location.”
“Until I ID this female, you can’t say there’s no connection with Gott.”
“Okay,” Jane conceded with a sigh. “True.”
“Why are we arguing? You’re always welcome to prove me wrong. Just do your job.”
Jane stiffened. “When haven’t I?”
That reply, so tight with tension, made Maura go still. Her dark hair, usually so smooth and sleek, was transformed by the chilly dampness into a wiry net that had trapped stray twigs. In the gloom of these trees, with her dirt-streaked pant cuffs and wrinkled blouse, she looked like a feral version of Maura, a stranger whose eyes glowed too brightly. Feverishly.
“What’s really going on here?” Jane asked quietly.
Maura looked away, a sudden avoidance of gaze as if the answer was too painful to share. Over the years they had been privy to each other’s miseries and missteps. They knew the worst of each other. Why now did Maura suddenly shrink from answering a simple question?
“Maura?” Jane prodded. “What’s happened?”
Maura sighed. “I got a letter.”
Fourteen
They sat in a booth at J. P. Doyle’s, a favorite Boston PD watering hole where, come five P.M., there would almost certainly be at least half a dozen cops at the bar, trading war stories. But three P.M. was a restaurant’s witching hour, and that afternoon only two other booths were occupied. Although Jane had eaten countless lunches at Doyle’s, this was Maura’s first meal here, yet another reminder that despite their years together as colleagues and friends, a gulf remained between them. Cop versus doc, community college versus Stanford University, Adams Ale versus Sauvignon Blanc. As the waitress stood waiting, Maura scanned the menu with an expression of What’s the least disgusting thing I can order?
“The fish-and-chips are good,” suggested Jane.
“I’ll take the Caesar salad,” said Maura. “Dressing on the side.”
The waitress left, and they sat for a moment in uneasy silence. In the booth across from them sat a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Older man, younger woman. Sex in the afternoon, thought Jane, and no doubt illicit as hell. It made her think of her own father, Frank, and his blond chickie, the affair that had fractured his marriage and sent heartbroken Angela into Vince Korsak’s arms. Jane wanted to yell: Hey, mister, go back to your wife now, before you fuck up everyone’s lives.
As if men drunk on testosterone ever listened to reason.
Maura glanced at the passionately entwined couple. “Nice place. Do they rent rooms by the hour?”
“When you’re on a cop’s salary, this is the place for decent food and lots of it. Sorry it doesn’t meet your standards.”
Maura winced. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m just not good company today.”
“You said you got a letter. Who sent it?”
“Amalthea Lank.”
The name was like a wintry breath, chilling Jane’s skin, lifting the hairs on her neck. Maura’s mother. The mother who’d abandoned her soon after birth. The mother who now resided in the women’s prison in Framingham, where she was serving a life term for multiple homicides.
No, not a mother. A monster.
“Why the hell are you getting letters from her?” said Jane. “I thought you cut off all contact.”
“I did. I asked the prison to stop forwarding her letters. I refused her phone calls.”
“So how did you get this letter?”
“I don’t know how she managed to slip it through. Maybe she bribed one of the guards. Or it was sent out in another inmate’s letter. But I found it in my mail when I got home last night.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve handled the whole thing. One visit to Framingham, and I’d make damn sure she’ll never bother you again.”
“I couldn’t call you. I needed time to think.”
“What’s to think about?” Jane leaned forward. “She’s screwing around with your head again. It’s the kind of thing she loves to do. Gives her a thrill to play mind games with you.”
“I know. I know that.”
“Open the door one tiny crack and she’ll shove her way into your life. Thank God she didn’t raise you. It means you don’t owe her a thing. Not one word, not one thought.”
“I carry her DNA, Jane. When I looked at her, I saw myself in her face.”
“Genes are overrated.”
“Genes determine who we are.”
“Does that mean you’re gonna pick up a scalpel and start slicing up people, like she did?”
“Of course not. But lately …” Maura paused and looked down at her hands. “Everywhere I look, I seem to see shadows. I see the dark side.”
Jane snorted. “Of course you do. Look at where you work.”
“When I walk into a crowded room, I’ll automatically wonder whom I should be afraid of. Who needs to be watched.”
“It’s called situational awareness. It’s smart.”
“It’s more than that. It’s as if I can feel the darkness. I don’t know if it comes from the world around me, or if it’s already inside me.” She was still staring at her hands, as if the answers were written there. “I find myself obsessed with looking for ominous patterns. Things that connect. When I saw that skeleton today, and I remembered Leon Gott’s body, I saw a pattern. A killer’s signature.”
“It doesn’t mean you’re sliding into the dark side. It just means you’re doing your medical examiner thing. Always looking for the gestalt, as you put it.”
“You didn’t see a signature. Why do I?”
“Because you’re smarter than me?”
“That’s a flippant answer, Jane. And it’s not true.”
“Okay, so using my amazing cop brain, let me make an observation. You’ve had a really rough year. You broke up with Daniel, and you probably still miss him. Am I right?”
“Of course I miss him.” She added, softly: “And I’m sure he misses me.”
“Then there was your testimony against Wayne Graff. You sent a cop to jail, and Boston PD gave you a rough time because of it. I’ve read about stress factors and how they make people sick. A broken love affair, conflict at work—hell, your stress score’s so high, you should have cancer by now.”
“Thank you for giving me one more thing to worry about.”
“And now this letter. This goddamn letter from her.”
They fell silent as the waitress returned with their food. A club sandwich for Jane, the Caesar salad—dressing on the side—for Maura. Only after their server walked away did Maura ask, quietly:
“Do you ever get letters from him?”
She didn’t have to say his name; they both knew whom she was talking about. Reflexively Jane clenched fingers over her scarred palms, where Warren Hoyt had plunged his scalpels. She had not laid eyes on him in four years, yet she could remember every detail of his face, a face so unremarkable that it could blend into any crowd. Incarceration and illness had no doubt aged him, but she had no interest in seeing the changes. She drew enough satisfaction knowing that she’d delivered justice with a single bullet to his spine, and his punishment would last a lifetime.
“He tried to send me letters from rehab,” Jane said. “He dictates them to his visitors, and they mail them to me. I toss them right ou
t.”
“You’ve never read them?”
“Why would I? It’s his way of trying to stay in my life. To let me know he’s still thinking about me.”
“The woman who got away.”
“I didn’t just get away. I’m the one who took him down.” Jane gave a hard laugh and picked up her sandwich. “He’s obsessed with me, but I won’t waste one millisecond thinking about him.”
“You really don’t think about him at all?”
The question, asked so softly, hung unanswered for a moment. Jane focused on her sandwich, trying to convince herself that what she’d said was true. But how could it be? Trapped though he was in his paralyzed body, Warren Hoyt still wielded power over her because of their shared history. He’d seen her helpless and terrified; he was a witness to the moment she’d been conquered.
“I won’t give him that power,” Jane said. “I refuse to think about him. And that’s what you should do.”
“Even though she’s my mother?”
“That word doesn’t apply to her. She’s a DNA donor, that’s it.”
“That’s a powerful it. She’s part of every cell in my body.”
“I thought you’d decided this, Maura. You walked away from her, and swore you were never going to look back. Why are you changing your mind?”
Maura looked down at her untouched salad. “Because I read her letter.”
“And I’m guessing she pressed all the right buttons. I’m your only blood relative. We have unbreakable bonds. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Maura admitted.
“She’s a sociopath and you don’t owe her a thing. Tear up the letter and forget about it.”
“She’s dying, Jane.”
“What?”
Maura looked at her, torment in her eyes. “She has six months, a year at the most.”
“Bullshit. She’s playing you.”
“I called the prison nurse last night, right after I read the letter. Amalthea had already signed the release form, so they shared her medical information with me.”
“She doesn’t miss a trick, does she? She knew exactly how you’d respond and she laid the trap.”
“The nurse confirmed it. Amalthea has pancreatic cancer.”
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving candidate.”
“My only blood relative and she’s dying. She wants my forgiveness. She’s begging me for it.”
“And she expects you to give it to her?” Jane wiped mayonnaise from her fingers with swift, angry strokes of her napkin. “What about all the people she slaughtered? Who’s gonna forgive her for that? Not you. You don’t have the right.”
“But I can forgive her for abandoning me.”
“Abandoning you was the only good thing she ever did. Instead of being raised by a psycho mom, you got a chance at a normal life. Trust me, she didn’t do it because it was right.”
“Yet here I am, Jane. Healthy and whole. I grew up with every advantage, raised by parents who loved me, so I have nothing to be bitter about. Why shouldn’t I give some comfort to a dying woman?”
“So write a letter. Tell her she’s forgiven, and then forget about her.”
“She only has six months. She wants to see me.”
Jane tossed down her napkin. “Let’s not forget who she really is. You once told me you felt a chill when you looked into her eyes, because you didn’t see a human being looking back at you. You said you saw a void, a creature without a soul. You’re the one who called her a monster.”
Maura sighed. “Yes, I did.”
“Don’t walk into the monster’s cage.”
Maura’s eyes suddenly shimmered with tears. “And in six months, when she’s dead, how do I deal with the guilt? The fact I turned down her last wish? It will be too late to change my mind. That’s what I worry about most. That for the rest of my life, I’ll feel guilty. And I’ll never get the chance to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why I am the way I am.”
Jane looked into her friend’s troubled face. “Meaning what? Brilliant? Logical? Too honest for your own damn good?”
“Haunted,” said Maura softly. “By the dark side.”
Jane’s cell phone rang. As she dug it out of her purse, she said: “It’s because of the job we do and the things we see. We both chose this work because we’re not sunshine-and-ponies kind of gals.” She hit the TALK button on her phone. “Detective Rizzoli.”
“The carrier finally released Leon Gott’s phone log,” said Frost.
“Anything interesting?”
“Really interesting. On the day of his death he made several phone calls. One was to Jerry O’Brien, which we already knew about.”
“About picking up Kovo’s carcass.”
“Yeah. He also made a phone call to Interpol in Johannesburg, South Africa.”
“Interpol? What was he calling them about?”
“About his son’s disappearance in Botswana. The investigator wasn’t in the office, so Gott left a message saying he’d call again later. He never did.”
“His son went missing six years ago. Why’s Gott asking about it now?”
“I have no idea. But here’s the really interesting item in his phone log. At two thirty P.M., he called a cell phone registered to Jodi Underwood, in Brookline. It lasted six minutes. That same night, at nine forty-six P.M., Jodi Underwood called Gott back. That call was only seventeen seconds long, so she might have just left a message on his answering machine.”
“There was no message on his answering machine from that night.”
“Right. And at nine forty-six, there’s a good chance Gott was already dead. Since the next-door neighbor said she saw his lights get turned off between nine and ten-thirty.”
“So who deleted this phone message? Frost, this is weird.”
“It gets a lot weirder. I called Jodi Underwood’s cell phone twice and it went straight to voice mail. Then it suddenly hit me that her name sounded familiar. You remember?”
“Hint, please.”
“Last week’s news. Brookline.”
Jane’s pulse suddenly kicked into a gallop. “There was a homicide …”
“Jodi Underwood was murdered in her home Sunday night. The same night as Leon Gott.”
Fifteen
“I went on her Facebook page,” said Frost as they drove to Brookline. “Check out her profile.”
For once he was the one driving as Jane played catch-up on Frost’s iPad, tapping through webpages that he had already visited. She pulled up the Facebook page and saw a photo of a pretty redhead. According to her profile she was thirty-seven years old, single, and a high school librarian. She had a sister named Sarah and she was a vegetarian whose likes included PETA, animal rights, and holistic health.
“She’s not exactly Leon Gott’s type,” said Jane. “Why would a woman who probably despised everything he stood for be talking to him on the phone?”
“I don’t know. I went back four weeks on his phone log and there are no other calls between them. Just those two, on Sunday. He called her at two thirty, she called him back at nine forty-six. When he was probably dead.”
Jane replayed the scenario as it must have unfolded that night. The killer still in Gott’s house, the dead body already hanging in the garage, perhaps in the process of being gutted. The phone rings, the answering machine picks up, and Jodi Underwood leaves her message. What’s on that message that compels the killer to delete it, leaving the bloody smear on the answering machine? What would make him drive to Brookline and commit a second murder that same night?
She looked at Frost. “We never did find a personal address book in his house.”
“No. Searched all over, too, ’cause we wanted his contacts. No address book turned up.”
She thought about the killer standing over that phone, seeing Jodi’s number on display, a number that Gott had called earlier that day. A number that Gott must have stored in his personal directory, along with Jodi’s
mailing address.
Jane scrolled down through Jodi’s Facebook page, reading the entries. The woman had posted fairly regularly, at least every few days. The last entry was on Saturday, the day before she died.
Check out this recipe for veggie pad Thai. I cooked it for my sister and her husband last night, and they didn’t even miss the meat. It’s healthy, tasty, and good for the planet!
Dining on rice noodles and tofu that night, did Jodi have any inkling it would be one of her last meals? That all her efforts to eat healthy would soon be irrelevant?
Jane scrolled back through Jodi’s earlier entries, about books she’d read and movies she’d enjoyed, about friends’ weddings and birthdays, about a gloomy day in October when she’d wondered about the point of life. Back another few weeks to September, more cheerful, the start of a new school year.
How nice to see familiar faces back in the library.
Then, in early September, she posted a photo of a smiling young man with dark hair, along with a melancholy entry.
Six years ago, I lost the love of my life. I will never stop missing you, Elliot.
Elliot. “His son,” Jane said softly.
“What?”
“Jodi’s Facebook entry is about a man named Elliot. She writes: Six years ago, I lost the love of my life.”
“Six years ago?” Frost looked at her with startled eyes. “That’s when Elliot Gott vanished.”
In the month of November, after clocks switch to standard time, the sun sets early in New England, and at four thirty on that gloomy afternoon it already felt like dusk. The sky had been threatening to rain all day, and a fine drizzle misted the windshield by the time Jane and Frost arrived at Jodi Underwood’s residence. A gray Ford Fusion was parked in front of it, and on the driver’s side they could see the silhouette of a woman’s head. Even before Jane had her seat belt unbuckled, the Ford’s door swung open and the driver stepped out. She was statuesque, her hair stylishly streaked with gray, and dressed in smart but practical attire: gray pants and suit jacket, a tan raincoat, and sturdy, comfortable flats. It was an outfit that could have come from Jane’s closet, which wasn’t surprising, since this woman, too, was a cop.
Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Page 13
