The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “These are the unidentifieds. Lane six is from that semen stain on the Yeagers’ rug. Lane seven is the fresh semen collected from Gail Yeager’s vaginal vault.”

  “These last two look like a match.”

  “That’s correct. Both unidentified DNA samples are from the same man. And, you’ll notice, it’s not Dr. Yeager or Mr. Valentine. This effectively eliminates Mr. Valentine as the semen source.”

  She stared at the two unidentified lanes. The genetic fingerprint of a monster.

  “There’s your unsub,” said De Groot.

  “Have you called CODIS? Any chance we could talk them into moving a little faster on a data search?”

  CODIS was a national DNA data bank. It stored the genetic profiles of thousands of convicted offenders, as well as unidentified profiles from crime scenes across the country.

  “Actually, that’s the reason I paged you. I sent them the rug stain DNA last week.”

  She sighed. “Meaning we’ll hear back from them in a year.”

  “No, Agent Dean just called me. Your unsub’s DNA isn’t in CODIS.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Agent Dean gave you the news?”

  “He must have cracked the whip at them or something. In all my time here, I’ve never seen a CODIS request expedited this fast.”

  “Did you confirm that directly with CODIS?”

  De Groot frowned. “Well, no. I assumed that Agent Dean would know—”

  “Please call them. I want it confirmed.”

  “Is there some, uh, question about Dean’s reliability?”

  “Let’s just play it safe, okay?” She looked, once again, at the light box. “If it’s true our boy’s not in CODIS …”

  “Then you’ve got yourself a new player, Detective. Or someone who’s managed to stay invisible to the system.”

  She stared in frustration at the chain of blots. We have his DNA, she thought. We have his genetic profile. But we still don’t know his name.

  Rizzoli slipped a disk into her CD player and sank onto the couch as she toweled off her wet hair. The rich strains of a solo cello poured from the speaker like melted chocolate. Though she was not a fan of classical music, she had bought a CD of Alex Ghent’s early recordings in the Symphony Hall gift shop. If she was to familiarize herself with every aspect of his death, so, too, should she know about his life. And much of his life was music.

  Ghent’s bow glided over the cello strings, the melody of Bach’s Suite no. 1 in G Major rising and falling like the swells of an ocean. It had been recorded when he was only eighteen. When he’d sat in a studio, his fingers warm flesh as they’d pressed the strings, steadied the bow. Those same fingers now lay white and chilled in the morgue refrigerator, their music silenced. She had watched his autopsy that morning and had noted the fine, long fingers, had imagined them flying up and down the cello’s neck. That human hands could unite with mere wood and strings to produce such rich sounds seemed a miracle.

  She picked up the CD cover and studied his photograph, taken when he was still only a boy. His eyes gazed downward, and his left arm was draped around the instrument, embracing its curves, as he would one day embrace his wife, Karenna. Though Rizzoli had searched for a CD featuring both of them, all their joint recordings were sold out in the gift shop. Only Alexander’s was in stock. The lonely cello, calling to its mate. And where was that mate now? Alive and in torment, facing the ultimate terror of death? Or was she beyond pain and already in the early stages of decomposition?

  The phone rang. She turned down the CD player and picked up the receiver.

  “You’re there,” said Korsak.

  “I came home to take a shower.”

  “I called just a few minutes ago. You didn’t answer.”

  “Then I guess I didn’t hear it. What’s up?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “If anything turns up, you’ll be the first one I call.”

  “Yeah. Like you called me even once today? I had to hear about Joey Valentine’s DNA from the lab guy.”

  “I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I’ve been running around like crazy.”

  “Remember, I’m the one who first brought you in on this.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “You know,” said Korsak, “it’s going on fifty hours since he took her.”

  And Karenna Ghent has probably been dead for two days, she thought. But death wouldn’t deter her killer. It would whet his appetite. He’d look at her corpse and see only an object of desire. Someone he can control. She doesn’t resist him. She is cool, passive flesh, yielding to any and all indignities. She is the perfect lover.

  The CD was still playing softly, Alexander’s cello weaving its mournful spell. She knew where this was going, knew what Korsak wanted. And she didn’t know how to turn him down. She rose from the couch and turned off the CD. Even in the silence, the strains of the cello seemed to linger.

  “If it’s like the last time, he’ll dump her tonight,” said Korsak.

  “We’ll be ready for him.”

  “So am I part of the team or what?”

  “We’ve already got our stakeout crew.”

  “You don’t have me. You could use another warm body.”

  “We’ve already assigned the positions. Look, I’ll call you as soon as anything—”

  “Fuck this ‘calling me’ shit, okay? I’m not gonna sit by the phone like some goddamn wallflower. I’ve known this perp longer than you, longer than anyone. How would you feel, someone cuts in on your dance? Leaves you outta the takedown? You think about that.”

  She did. And she understood the anger that was now raging through him. Understood it better than anyone, because it had once happened to her. The shunting aside, the bitter view from the sidelines while others moved in to claim her victory.

  She looked at her watch. “I’m leaving right now. If you want to join me, you’ll have to meet me there.”

  “What’s your stakeout position?”

  “The parking area across the road from Smith Playground. We can meet at the golf course.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  twelve

  At two A.M. in Stony Brook Reservation, the air was muggy and thick as soup. Rizzoli and Korsak sat in her parked car, closely abutting dense shrubbery. From their position, they could observe all cars entering Stony Brook from the east. Additional surveillance vehicles were stationed along Enneking Parkway, the main thoroughfare winding through the reservation. Any vehicle that pulled off onto one of the dirt parking areas could swiftly be hemmed in on all sides by converging vehicles. It was a purse-string trap, from which no car could escape.

  Rizzoli was sweating in her vest. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Forest smells.

  “Hey, you’re letting in mosquitoes,” complained Korsak.

  “I need the fresh air. It smells like cigarettes in here.”

  “I only lit up one. I don’t smell it.”

  “Smokers never do.”

  He looked at her. “Jeez, you been snapping at me all night. You got a problem with me, maybe we should talk about it.”

  She stared out the window, toward the road, which remained dark and untraveled. “It’s not about you,” she said.

  “Who, then?”

  When she didn’t answer, he gave a grunt of comprehension. “Oh. Dean again. So what’d he do now?”

  “Few days ago, he complained about me to Marquette.”

  “What’d he tell him?”

  “That I’m not the right man for the job. That maybe I need counseling for unresolved issues.”

  “He talking about the Surgeon?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What an asshole.”

  “And today, I find out we got instant feedback from CODIS. It’s never happened before. All Dean has to do is snap his fingers, and everyone jumps. I just wish I knew what he was doing here.”

  “We
ll, that’s the thing about fibbies. They say information is power, right? So they keep it from us, ’cause it’s a macho game to them. You and me, we’re just pawns to Mr. James Fucking Bond.”

  “You’re getting confused with the CIA.”

  “CIA, FBI.” He shrugged. “All those alphabet agencies, they’re all about secrets.”

  The radio crackled. “Watcher Three. We got a vehicle, late-model sedan, moving south on Enneking Parkway.”

  Rizzoli tensed, waiting for the next team to report in.

  Now Frost’s voice, in the next vehicle. “Watcher Two. We see him. Still moving south. Doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”

  Seconds later, a third unit reported: “Watcher Five. He’s just passed the intersection of Bald Knob Road. Heading out of the park.”

  Not our boy. Even at this early-morning hour, Enneking Parkway was well traveled. They had lost count of how many vehicles they’d tracked through the reservation. Too many false alarms punctuating long intervals of boredom had burned up all her adrenaline, and she was fast sliding into sleep-deprived torpor.

  She leaned back with a disappointed sigh. Beyond the windshield she saw the blackness of woods, lit only by the occasional spark of a firefly. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she murmured. “Come to Mama.…”

  “You want some coffee?” asked Korsak.

  “Thanks.”

  He poured a cup from his thermos and handed it to her. The coffee was black and bitter and utterly disgusting, but she drank it anyway.

  “Made it extra strong tonight,” he said. “Two scoops of Folgers instead of one. Puts hair on your chest.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need.”

  “I figure, I drink enough of this stuff, some of that hair might migrate back up to my head.”

  She looked off toward the woods, where darkness hid rotting leaves and foraging animals. Animals with teeth. She remembered the gnawed remains of Rickets Lady and thought of raccoons chewing on ribs and dogs rolling skulls around like balls, and what she imagined, staring into the trees, was not Bambi.

  “I can’t even talk about Hoyt anymore,” she said. “Can’t mention him without people giving me that pitying look. Yesterday, I tried to point out the parallels between the Surgeon and our new boy, and I could see Dean thinking: She’s still got the Surgeon on the brain. He thinks I’m obsessed.” She sighed. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s how it’ll always be. I’ll walk onto any crime scene and I’ll see his handiwork. Every perp will have his face.”

  They both glanced at the radio as Dispatch said, “We have a request for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Any units in the area?”

  No one responded.

  Dispatch repeated the request: “We have a call for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Possible unauthorized entry. Unit Twelve, are you still in the area?”

  “Unit Twelve. We’re on the ten-forty, River Street. It’s a code one. We’re unable to respond.”

  “Roger that. Unit Fifteen? What’s your ten-ten?”

  “Unit Fifteen. West Roxbury. Still on that Missile six. These folks are not calming down. Estimate at least a half hour, hour till we can get to Fairview.”

  “Any units?” said Dispatch, trolling the radio waves for an available patrol car. On a warm Saturday night, a routine premises check of a cemetery was not a high-priority call. The dead are beyond caring about frolicking couples or teenage vandals. It is the living who must command a cop’s first attention.

  Radio silence was broken by a member of Rizzoli’s stakeout team. “Uh, this is Watcher Five. We’re situated on Enneking Parkway. Fairview Cemetery’s in our immediate vicinity—”

  Rizzoli grabbed the mike and hit the transmit button. “Watcher Five, this is Watcher One,” she cut in. “Do not abandon your position. You copy?”

  “We have five vehicles on stakeout—”

  “The cemetery is not our priority.”

  “Watcher One,” said Dispatch. “All units are on calls right now. Any chance you could release one?”

  “Negative. I want my team to hold position. Copy, Watcher Five?”

  “Ten-four. We are holding. Dispatch, we can’t respond to that premises-check call.”

  Rizzoli huffed out a sigh. There might be complaints about this come morning, but she was not going to release a single vehicle from her surveillance team, not for a trivial call.

  “It’s not like we’re swamped with action,” said Korsak.

  “When it happens, it’ll be fast. I’m not going to let anything foul this up.”

  “You know that thing we were talking about earlier? About you being obsessed?”

  “Don’t start in now.”

  “No, I’m not gonna go there. You’ll bite off my head.” He shoved open his door.

  “Where you going?”

  “Take a leak. I need permission?”

  “Just asking.”

  “That coffee’s going right through me.”

  “No wonder. Your coffee’d burn a hole through cast iron.”

  He stepped out of the car and walked into the woods, his hands already fumbling at his fly. He didn’t bother to step behind any tree but just stood there, urinating into the bushes. This she didn’t need to see, and she averted her gaze. Every class has its gross-out kid, and Korsak was it, the boy who openly picked his nose and belched with gusto and wore his lunch on the front of his shirt. The kid whose moist and pudgy hands you avoided touching at all costs, because you were sure to catch his cooties. She felt both repelled by him and sorry for him. She looked down at the coffee he’d poured for her, and she tossed what was left out the window.

  Fresh chatter erupted over the radio, startling her.

  “We got a vehicle moving east on Dedham Parkway. Looks like a Yellow Cab.”

  Rizzoli responded, “A taxicab at three A.M.?”

  “That’s what we got.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Just turned north onto Enneking.”

  “Watcher Two?” said Rizzoli, calling the next unit on the route.

  “Watcher Two,” said Frost. “Yeah, we see him. Just went past us.…” A silence. Then, with sudden tension: “He’s slowing down …”

  “Doing what?”

  “Braking. Looks like he’s about to pull over—”

  “Location?” snapped Rizzoli.

  “The dirt parking area. He’s just pulled into the parking area!”

  It’s him.

  “Korsak, we’re hot!” she hissed out the window. As she slipped on her personal comm unit and adjusted the earpiece, every nerve was singing with excitement.

  Korsak zipped up his fly and scrambled back into the car. “What? What?”

  “Vehicle just pulled off Enneking—Watcher Two, what’s he doing?”

  “Just sitting there. Lights are off.”

  She hunched forward, pressing the headset to her ear in concentration. The seconds ticked by, transmissions silent, everyone waiting for the suspect’s next move.

  He’s checking out the area. Confirming that it’s safe to proceed.

  “It’s your call, Rizzoli,” said Frost. “We move on him?”

  She hesitated, weighing their options. Afraid to spring the trap too soon.

  “Wait,” said Frost. “He just turned his headlights back on. Ah, shit, he’s backing out. He’s changed his mind.”

  “Did he spot you? Frost, did he spot you?”

  “I don’t know! He’s pulled back onto Enneking. Proceeding north—”

  “We’ve spooked him!” In that split second, the only possible decision was crystal clear to her. She barked into her comm unit: “All units, go, go, go! Box him in now!”

  She started the car, jammed the gear into drive. Her tires spun, digging a trough through soft dirt and fallen leaves, branches whipping at the windshield. She heard her team’s rapid-fire transmissions and the far-off blare of multiple sirens.

  “Watcher Three. We now have Enneking north blocked off—”
<
br />   “Watcher Two. In pursuit—”

  “Vehicle is approaching! He’s braking—”

  “Box him in! Box him in!”

  “Do not confront without backup!” Rizzoli ordered. “Wait for backup!”

  “Roger that. Vehicle has halted. We are holding position.”

  By the time Rizzoli screeched to a halt, Enneking Parkway was a knot of cruisers and throbbing blue lights. Rizzoli felt temporarily blinded as she stepped out of her car. The surge of adrenaline had excited them all to fever pitch and she could hear it in their voices, the crackling tension of men on the edge of violence.

  Frost yanked open the suspect’s door, and half a dozen weapons were pointed at the driver’s head. The cabbie sat blinking and disoriented, blue lights pulsing on his face.

  “Step out of the vehicle,” Frost ordered.

  “What—what’d I do?”

  “Step out of the vehicle.” On this adrenaline-drenched night, even Barry Frost had transformed into someone frightening.

  The cabbie slowly emerged, hands held high. The instant both his feet touched the ground, he was spun around and shoved facedown against the hood of the cab.

  “What’d I do?” he cried as Frost patted him down.

  “State your name!” said Rizzoli.

  “I don’t know what this is all about—”

  “Your name!”

  “Wilensky.” He gave a sob. “Vernon Wilensky—”

  “Check,” said Frost, reading the cabbie’s I.D. “Vernon Wilensky, white male, born 1955.”

  “Matches the carriage permit,” said Korsak, who’d leaned into the cab to check the I.D. clipped to the visor.

  Rizzoli glanced up, eyes narrowing against the glare of oncoming headlights. Even at three A.M., there was traffic moving along the parkway, and with the road now blocked by police vehicles, they’d soon have cars backing up in both directions.

  She focused again on the cabbie. Grabbing his shirt, she turned him around to face her and aimed her flashlight in his eyes. She saw a middle-aged man, blond hair gone thin and scraggly, skin sallow in the harsh beam of light. This was not the face she’d envisioned as their unsub. She had looked into the eyes of evil more times than she cared to count and carried, in her memory, all the faces belonging to the monsters she had encountered in her career. This scared man did not belong in that gallery.