Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “It confirms my first impression that it’s not human. As for species, this scale shape is characteristic of mink, seals, and house cats.”

  “Common things are common. So I’m guessing this is from a house cat.”

  Erin nodded. “I can’t say it with one hundred percent certainty, but a cat is the most likely source. A single cat sheds hundreds of thousands of hairs in a single year.”

  “Holy cow. That’s a lot of vacuuming.”

  “And if you’ve got more than one cat in the house, or dozens of them like some of those cat hoarders, imagine how many hairs that adds up to.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I saw one forensic study that showed it’s impossible to enter a residence where a cat lives without picking up some of its hair. Most American households have at least one cat or dog, so who knows how this particular hair got transferred to the victim’s bathrobe? If she didn’t have a cat herself, she could have been around a friend’s cat.”

  “Her sister says the victim was severely allergic and avoided animals. I’m wondering if she picked up these hairs from a secondary source. The killer.”

  “And you think this killer transferred them from the Leon Gott crime scene.”

  “Gott had two cats and a dog, so his house was like a fur factory. I got covered in cat hair just walking through the place. The killer would have picked up hairs, too. If I collected a few hairs from Gott’s cats, can you run DNA comparisons with these three strands?”

  Erin sighed and slid her glasses up on her head. “I’m afraid DNA would present a bit of a problem. All three of these strands from Jodi Underwood’s bathrobe were shed during the animals’ telogen phase. These hairs have no root tags, ergo no nuclear DNA.”

  “What about under the microscope? Just a visual comparison?”

  “That would only tell us we’re looking at white hairs that might be from the same cat. Not good enough as proof in court.”

  “Is there any way I can prove these hairs were transferred from Gott’s house?”

  “Possibly. If you spend any time around cats, you’ll notice how much they clean themselves. They’re constantly grooming, and every time they lick their own hair, they shed epithelial cells from their mouths. We might be able to get mitochondrial DNA markers off these strands. I’m afraid it’ll take weeks to get back the results.”

  “It would be proof, though?”

  “Yes, it would be.”

  “Then I guess I need to collect some cat hairs.”

  “Pulled directly from the animal itself, so we can harvest root material.”

  Jane groaned. “That’s not going to be easy, since one of the cats doesn’t want to be caught. He’s still somewhere in the victim’s house, running loose.”

  “Oh dear. I hope someone’s feeding him.”

  “Guess who goes over there every single day to leave food and water and change the litter box?”

  Erin laughed. “Don’t tell me. Detective Frost?”

  “He claims he can’t stand cats, but I swear he’d run into a burning building just to save a kitty.”

  “You know, I always liked Detective Frost. He’s such a sweetie.”

  Jane snorted. “Yeah, makes me look like a bitch in comparison.”

  “What he needs is to find himself another wife,” said Erin as she removed the microscope slide. “I wanted to set him up with one of my girlfriends, but she refuses to date cops. Says they have control issues.” She placed a new slide under the microscope. “Okay, let me show you another hair collected from the same bathrobe. This is the one that’s got me completely stumped.”

  Jane settled back onto the lab stool and peered into the eyepiece. “It looks like the first strand. What’s different about it?”

  “At first glance, it does seem similar. White, straight, about five centimeters. It has the same color banding that tells us this is probably not human. Initially I thought it was also from Felis catus, a house cat. But when you examine it at 1500X, you’ll see it’s from a very different origin.” She swiveled back to her computer and opened a second window on the screen, showing a different photomicrograph. She arranged the two images side by side.

  Jane frowned. “The second hair looks nothing like a house cat’s.”

  “The cuticular scales are very different. They look like little flat-topped mountain peaks. Not at all like a housecat’s spinous scales.”

  “What animal is this second hair from?”

  “I’ve compared it to every animal hair in my database. But this is something I’ve never seen before.”

  A mystery creature. Jane thought of Leon Gott’s house and its wall of mounted trophy heads. And she thought of his taxidermy workshop where he regularly scraped and dried and stretched the pelts of animals from around the world. “Could this hair be from a snow leopard?” she asked.

  “That’s pretty specific. Why a snow leopard?”

  “Because Gott was working on a snow leopard pelt, and it’s now missing.”

  “They’re extremely rare animals, so I don’t know where I’d get a hair sample to compare. But there is a way to determine species. Remember how we ID’d that weird hair from the Chinatown murder? The strand that turned out to be from a monkey?”

  “You sent it to a lab in Oregon.”

  “Right, the Wildlife Forensics Lab. They have a database of keratin patterns from species around the world. With electrophoresis, you can analyze a hair’s protein component and match it against known keratin patterns.”

  “Let’s do it. If this hair came from a snow leopard, then it was almost certainly transferred from Gott’s house.”

  “In the meantime,” said Erin, “get me that house cat hair. If the DNA matches, you’ll have the proof you need that these two murders are linked.”

  Seventeen

  “You were a big mistake,” said Maura. “I never should have brought you home.”

  The cat ignored her and licked its paw, fastidiously cleaning up after devouring a meal of imported Spanish tuna packed in olive oil. An extravagance at ten dollars a serving, but he’d refused to touch the dry cat food, and Maura had forgotten to pick up more cans of gourmet cat food on her way home that afternoon. A search of her pantry had turned up that one precious can of tuna, which she’d intended to use in a nice salade Niçoise with crisp green beans and red potatoes. But no, her greedy little houseguest lapped up every tasty morsel and sauntered out of the kitchen, making it clear that Maura’s services were no longer needed.

  So much for companionship. I’m just the maid. Maura rinsed the cat bowl in hot soapy water and placed it in the dishwasher for a thorough, microbe-blasting scrub. Could you catch Toxoplasma gondii from a cat in just a week? Lately she’d been obsessed with toxoplasmosis, because she’d read it could lead to schizophrenia. Crazy cat ladies were crazy because of their cats. This is how these crafty animals control us, she thought. They infect us with a parasite that makes us serve them ten-dollar cans of tuna.

  The doorbell rang.

  She washed and dried her hands thinking Die, microbes! and walked to the front door.

  Jane Rizzoli stood on the porch. “I’m here for the cat hair,” she said and pulled tweezers and an evidence bag from her pocket. “You do the honors.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “He’s your cat.”

  With a sigh, Maura took the tweezers and went into the living room, where the cat now sat on the coffee table, staring at her with suspicion in his green eyes. They’d been together for a week and she had not yet bonded with the animal. Was it possible to actually bond with a cat? At the Gott crime scene, he had lavished affection on Maura, mewing and rubbing against her until she’d been seduced into adopting him. Since she’d brought him home, his attitude had been sheer indifference, even though she’d lavished him with tuna and sardines. It was the universal lament of disappointed wives: He charmed me, wooed me, and now I’m his maid.

  She knelt down beside the cat, who promptly ju
mped off the coffee table and strolled toward the kitchen with an attitude of sleek disdain.

  “It has to be plucked straight from the animal,” said Jane.

  “I know, I know.” Maura followed the cat down the hallway, muttering: “Why do I feel so ridiculous?”

  Maura found the cat sitting where his bowl should be and his eyes fixed on hers with an accusing glare.

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” said Jane.

  “I just fed him.”

  “So feed him again.” Jane opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of heavy cream.

  “I need that for a recipe,” said Maura.

  “I need cat hair.” Jane poured the cream into a bowl and set it down. The cat instantly started lapping it up. He never even noticed when Jane plucked three hairs from his back. “When all else fails, try bribery,” said Jane, sealing the hairs in the evidence bag. “Now I just need to get a sample from that other cat.”

  “No one’s been able to catch the other cat.”

  “Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. Frost’s been to the house every day this week and hasn’t even spotted it.”

  “Are you sure it’s still in the house? It hasn’t escaped?”

  “Something’s eating the cat food, and that house has a lot of places to hide. Maybe I can trap him. You got a cardboard box I can use?”

  “You’ll also need gloves. Do you have any idea how many nasty infections you can get from a cat scratch?” Maura went to the hall closet and found a pair of brown leather gloves. “Try those.”

  “Gee, these look really expensive. I’ll try not to ruin them.” She turned toward the front door.

  “Hold on. I need a pair. I know I’ve got some more in here.”

  “You’re coming, too?”

  “That cat doesn’t want to be caught.” Maura reached into a coat pocket and found a second pair of gloves. “This is definitely a two-woman job.”

  The smell of death still lingered in the house. Though the body and entrails had been removed days ago, decomposition releases its chemical signature into the air, a ripe bouquet of scents that find their way into every closet and crevice, seeping into furniture and carpets and drapes. Like smoke after a fire, the stench of decay does not easily surrender its quarters, and it stubbornly clung to Gott’s home, like a ghost of the man himself. No cleaning service had yet come to mop and scrub, and bloody pawprints still tracked across the floor. A week ago, when Maura had entered, she’d been in the company of detectives and criminalists whose voices had echoed throughout the rooms. Today she heard the stillness of an abandoned house, the silence broken only by the hum of one lone fly circling aimlessly in the living room.

  Jane set down the cardboard box. “Let’s go room by room. Downstairs first.”

  “Why am I suddenly thinking about that dead zookeeper?” said Maura.

  “This is a house cat, not a leopard.”

  “Even cute little house cats are predators, deep down in their DNA.” Maura pulled on gloves. “One study I read estimates that pet cats kill almost four billion birds a year.”

  “Billions? For real?”

  “It’s what they’re designed to do. Silent, agile, and fast.”

  “In other words, hard to catch.” Jane sighed.

  “Unfortunately.” Maura reached into the box and pulled out a bath towel that she’d brought from home. Her plan was to toss it over the fugitive kitty and bundle him into the box without getting clawed. “This has to be done eventually anyway. Poor Frost can’t spend the rest of his life delivering cat food and kitty litter. Once we catch it, do you think Frost wants it?”

  “If we take it to the pound, he’ll never speak to us again. Trust me, when I drop it off at his house, it’s there to stay.”

  They both pulled on gloves. Mounted animal heads stared down at them as they began their hunt. Jane got down on hands and knees and peered under the sofa and armchair. Maura searched cabinets and cubbyholes where the cat might have retreated. Clapping dust from her hands, she straightened and suddenly focused on the mounted African lion head, its glass eyes agleam with such life-like intelligence that she half expected the animal to leap from the wall.

  “There he is!” Jane shouted.

  Maura spun around and saw something white streak across the living room and dart up the stairs. She snatched up the cardboard box and followed Jane to the second floor.

  “Master bedroom!” Jane yelled.

  They stepped into the room and shut the door behind them.

  “Okay, we’ve got him trapped,” said Jane. “I know he came in here. So where the hell is he hiding?”

  Maura scanned the furniture. Saw a queen bed, twin nightstands, and a massive chest of drawers. A mirror on the wall reflected their flushed and frustrated faces.

  Jane dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. “Not here,” she announced.

  Maura turned to the walk-in closet, its door hanging ajar. It was the only other hiding place in the room. They glanced at each other and simultaneously took deep breaths.

  “A hunting we will go,” Jane sang softly and flipped on the closet light. They eyed jackets and sweaters and far too many plaid shirts. Jane nudged aside a heavy parka to peer deeper into the closet. Flinched back as the cat came flying out, yowling.

  “Shit!” Jane stared at her right arm, where her sleeve had been clawed open. “I now officially hate cats. Where the fuck did it go?”

  “It ran under the bed.”

  Jane stalked toward her feline nemesis. “No more Mrs. Nice Cop. Cat, you are mine.”

  “Jane, you’re bleeding. I’ve got alcohol swabs in my purse downstairs.”

  “First we catch him. Go to the other side of the bed. Scare him toward me.”

  Maura dropped to her knees and looked under the bed frame. A pair of yellow eyes glared back at her, and the growl that rumbled from the animal’s throat was so feral it made the hairs lift on Maura’s arms. This was no nice little kitty. This was Demon Fluffy.

  “Okay, I’m ready with the towel,” said Jane. “Chase him my way.”

  Maura gave a timid swipe at the animal. “Shoo.”

  The cat bared its teeth and hissed.

  “Shoo?” Jane snorted. “Seriously, Maura, that’s the best you can do?”

  “Okay, then. Move, cat!” Maura waved her arm and the cat backed away. Maura pulled off her shoe and swung it at the animal. “Go!”

  The cat shot out from under the bed. Though Maura couldn’t see the struggle that ensued, she heard the yowling and hissing and Jane’s muttered oaths as she wrestled her prey. By the time Maura was back on her feet, Jane had Demon Fluffy securely bundled in the bath towel. Jane dumped the struggling cat and towel into the cardboard box and closed the flaps. The box rattled and shook with fifteen pounds of angry cat.

  “Do I need a rabies shot?” Jane asked, looking at her clawed arm.

  “What you need first is soap and antiseptic. Wash your arm. I’ll go downstairs and get those alcohol swabs.”

  The old Boy Scout motto of Be Prepared was one that Maura also shared, and in her purse she had latex gloves, alcohol swabs, tweezers, shoe covers, and plastic evidence bags. Downstairs, she found her purse on the coffee table where she’d left it. She dug out the bundle of alcohol wipes and was turning to go back upstairs when she suddenly noticed the bare nail in the wall. Surrounding the empty spot were framed photos of Leon Gott on various hunting expeditions, posing with his rifle and his lifeless trophies. Deer, a buffalo, wild boar, a lion. Also framed was the printed article about Gott from Hub Magazine: “The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.’ ”

  Jane came down the stairs, into the living room. “So should I worry about rabies?”

  Maura pointed to the bare nail. “Was something removed from here?”

  “I’m worried about my arm falling off, and you’re asking about an empty spot on the wall.”

  “There’s something missing here, Jane. Was it like this last week?�
��

  “Yeah, it was. I noticed that nail before. I can check the crime scene videos to confirm.” Jane paused, suddenly frowning at the exposed nail. “I wonder …”

  “What?”

  Jane turned to her. “Gott called Jodi Underwood, asking for Elliot’s photos from Africa.” She pointed to the empty space on the wall. “You think this has to do with why he called her?”

  Maura shook her head, perplexed. “A missing photo?”

  “That same day, he also called Interpol in South Africa. Again, it was about Elliot.”

  “Why would he focus on his son now? Didn’t Elliot vanish years ago?”

  “Six years ago.” Once again Jane turned to look at the naked spot where something had been removed. “In Botswana.”

  Eighteen

  Botswana

  How long can a man stay awake, I wonder as I watch Johnny nodding off in the firelight, his eyes half closed, his torso slumping forward like a tree on the verge of collapse. Yet his fingers are still wrapped around the rifle in his lap, as if the weapon is part of his body, an extension of his limbs. All evening the others have been watching him, and I know Richard’s tempted to wrestle control of that gun, but even a half-asleep Johnny is too formidable to tangle with. Since Isao’s death, Johnny has caught only snatches of sleep during the day and he’s determined to stay awake all night. If he keeps this up, in another few days he will be either catatonic or insane.

  Either way, he’ll be the one with the gun.

  I look at the faces around the fire. Sylvia and Vivian huddle together, their blond hair equally tangled, faces equally tight with worry. It’s strange, what the bush does to even beautiful women. It strips them of all superficial gloss, dulls their hair, scours away makeup, erodes them down to flesh and bone. That’s what I see when I look at them now: two women slowly being eroded to their bare elements. Already it has happened to Mrs. Matsunaga, who’s been worn down to her fragile, fractured core. She is still not eating. The plate of meat I gave her sits untouched at her feet. To coax some sort of nutrition into her, I added two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea, but she immediately spat it out, and now she looks at me with distrust, as if I tried to poison her.