“He’s on the intelligence committee.”
“I interviewed him back in November or December. The article’s there somewhere.”
She scanned down the headlines, about Congressional hearings and terrorism alerts and a Massachusetts congressman arrested for drunk driving, and found the article about Senator Conway. Then her gaze strayed to a different headline, dated January 15.
Reston Man Found Dead Aboard Yacht. Businessman Missing Since January 2nd.
It was the date that she focused on. January 2nd. She clicked on the entry and the page filled with text. Only a moment before, Lukas had talked about the tingle. She was feeling it now.
She turned to look at him. “Tell me about Charles Desmond.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Everything.”
THIRTY
Who are you, Mila? Where are you?
Somewhere, there had to be a trace of her. Jane poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table and surveyed all the files she had collected in the days since coming home from the hospital. Here were autopsy and Boston PD crime lab reports, Leesburg PD files on the Ashburn massacre, Moore’s files on Joseph Roke and Olena. She had already combed these files several times, searching for a trace of Mila, the woman whose face no one knew. The only physical evidence that Mila had ever existed had come from the interior of Joseph Roke’s car: several human head hairs, found on the backseat, which matched neither Roke’s nor Olena’s.
Jane took a sip of coffee, and reached once again for the file on Joseph Roke’s abandoned car. She had learned to work around Regina’s nap times, and now that her daughter was finally asleep, she wasted no time plunging back into the search for Mila. She scanned the list of items found in the vehicle, reviewing again the pathetic collection of his worldly possessions. There’d been a duffel bag full of dirty clothes and stolen towels from Motel Six. There’d been a bag of moldy bread and a jar of Skippy peanut butter and a dozen cans of Vienna sausages. The diet of a man who had no chance to cook. A man on the run.
She turned to the trace evidence reports and focused on the hair and fiber findings. It had been an extraordinarily filthy car, both the front and the back seats yielding up a large variety of fibers, both natural and man-made, as well as numerous hair strands. It was the hairs on the backseat that interested her, and she lingered over the report.
Human. A02/B00/C02 (7 cm)/D42
Scalp hair. Slightly curved, shaft is seven centimeters, pigment is medium red.
So far, this is all we know about you, thought Jane. You have short red hair.
She turned to the photographs of the car. She had seen these before, but once again, she studied the empty Red Bull soda cans and crumpled candy wrappers, the wadded-up blanket and dirty pillow. Her gaze paused on the tabloid newspaper lying on the backseat.
The Weekly Confidential.
Again, she was struck by how incongruous that newspaper was, in a man’s car. Could Joe really have cared about what was troubling Melanie Griffith, or whose out-of-town husband was enjoying lap dances? The Confidential was a woman’s tabloid; women did care about the woes of film stars.
She left the kitchen and peeked into her daughter’s room. Regina was still asleep—one of those rare moments that would all too soon be over. Quietly she closed the nursery door, then slipped out of the apartment and headed up the hall to her neighbor’s.
It took a few moments for Mrs. O’Brien to answer her door, but she was clearly delighted to have a visitor. Any visitor.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Jane.
“Come in, come in!”
“I can’t stay. I left Regina in her crib, and—”
“How is she? I heard her crying again last night.”
“I’m sorry about that. She’s not a good sleeper.”
Mrs. O’Brien leaned close and whispered. “Brandy.”
“Excuse me?”
“On a pacifier. I did it with both my boys, and they slept like angels.”
Jane knew the woman’s two sons. Angels was not a word that still applied to them. “Mrs. O’Brien,” she said, before she had to listen to any more bad-mother tips, “you subscribe to the Weekly Confidential, don’t you?”
“I just got this week’s issue. ‘Pampered Hollywood pets!’ Did you know some hotels have special rooms just for your dog?”
“Do you still have any issues from last month? I’m looking for the one with Melanie Griffith on the cover.”
“I know just the one you’re talking about.” Mrs. O’Brien waved her into the apartment. Jane followed her into the living room and stared in amazement at tottering stacks of magazines piled on every horizontal surface. There had to be a decade’s worth of People and Entertainment Weekly and US magazines.
Mrs. O’Brien went straight to the appropriate pile, rifled through the stack of Confidentials, and pulled out the issue with Melanie Griffith. “Oh yes, I remember, this was a good one,” she said. “ ‘Plastic Surgery Disasters!’ If you ever think about getting a face-lift, you’d better read this issue. It’ll make you forget the whole thing.”
“Do you mind if I borrow it?”
“You’ll bring it back, though?”
“Yes, of course. It’s just for a day or two.”
“Because I do want it back. I like to reread them.”
She probably remembered every detail, too.
Back at her own kitchen table, Jane looked at the tabloid’s issue date: July 20th. It had gone on sale only a week before Olena was pulled from Hingham Bay. She opened the Confidential and began to read. Found herself enjoying it even as she thought: God, this is trash, but it’s fun trash. I had no idea he was gay, or that she hasn’t had sex in four years. And what the hell was this craze about colonics, anyway? She paused to ogle the plastic surgery disasters, then moved on, past the fashion emergencies and “I Saw Angels” and “Courageous Cat Saves Family.” Had Joseph Roke lingered over the same gossip, the same celebrity fashions? Had he studied the faces disfigured by plastic surgeons and thought: Not for me. I’ll grow old gracefully?
No, of course not. Joseph Roke wasn’t a man who’d read this.
Then how did it end up in his car?
She turned to the classified ads on the last two pages. Here were columns of advertisements for psychic services and alternative healers and business opportunities at home. Did anyone actually answer these? Did anyone really think you could make “up to $250 a day at home stuffing envelopes”? Halfway down the page, she came to the personal ads, and her gaze suddenly froze on a two-line ad. On four familiar words.
The Die Is Cast.
Beneath it was a time and date and a telephone number with a 617 area code. Boston.
The phrase could be just a coincidence, she thought. It could be two lovers arranging a furtive meeting. Or a drug pickup. Most likely it had nothing at all to do with Olena and Joe and Mila.
Heart thumping, she picked up the kitchen telephone and dialed the number in the ad. It rang. Three times, four times, five times. No answering machine picked up, and no voice came on the line. It just kept ringing until she lost count. Maybe it’s the phone of a dead woman.
“Hello?” a man said.
She froze, her hand already poised to hang up. She snapped the receiver back to her ear.
“Is anyone there?” the man said, sounding impatient.
“Hello?” Jane said. “Who is this?”
“Well, who’s this? You’re the one calling.”
“I’m sorry. I, uh, was given this number, but I didn’t get a name.”
“Well, there’s no name on this line,” the man said. “It’s a public pay phone.”
“Where are you?”
“Faneuil Hall. I was just walking by when I heard it ringing. So if you’re looking for someone in particular, I can’t help you. Bye.” He hung up.
She stared down again at the ad. At those four words.
The Die Is Cast.
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Once again, she reached for the phone and dialed.
“Weekly Confidential,” a woman answered. “Classifieds.”
“Hello,” said Jane. “I’d like to place an ad.”
“You should have talked to me first,” said Gabriel. “I can’t believe you just did this on your own.”
“There was no time to call you,” said Jane. “Their deadline for ads was five P.M. today. I had to make a decision right then and there.”
“You don’t know who’s going to respond. And now your cell phone number will be in print.”
“The worst that can happen is I’ll get a few crank calls, that’s all.”
“Or you get sucked into something a lot more dangerous than we realize.” Gabriel tossed the tabloid down on the kitchen table. “We have to set this up through Moore. Boston PD can screen and monitor the calls. This needs to be thought out first.” He looked at her. “Cancel it, Jane.”
“I can’t. I told you, it’s too late.”
“Jesus. I run over to the field office for two hours, and come home to find my wife’s playing dialing for danger in our kitchen.”
“Gabriel, it’s only a two-line ad in the personals. Either someone calls me back, or no one takes the bait.”
“What if someone does?”
“Then I’ll let Moore handle it.”
“You’ll let him?” Gabriel gave a laugh. “This is his job, not yours. You’re on maternity leave, remember?”
As if to emphasize the point, a loud wail suddenly erupted from the nursery. Jane went to retrieve her daughter, and found Regina had, as usual, kicked her way free of the blanket and was flailing her fists, outraged that her demands were not being instantly met. No one’s happy with me today, thought Jane as she lifted Regina from the crib. She directed the baby’s hungry mouth to her breast and winced as little gums clamped down. I’m trying to be a good mom, she thought, I really am, but I’m tired of smelling like sour milk and talcum powder. I’m tired of being tired.
I used to chase bad guys, you know.
She carried her baby into the kitchen and stood rocking from leg to leg, trying to keep Regina content, even as her own temper was about to combust.
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t cancel the ad anyway,” she said defiantly. She watched as Gabriel crossed to the phone. “Who are you calling?”
“Moore. He takes over from here.”
“It’s my cell phone. My idea.”
“It’s not your investigation.”
“I’m not saying I need to run the show. I gave them a specific time and date. How about we all sit together that night and wait to see who calls? You, me, and Moore. I just want to be there when it rings.”
“You need to back off on this, Jane.”
“I’m already part of this.”
“You have Regina. You’re a mother.”
“But I’m not dead. Are you listening to me? I’m. Not. Dead.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air, her fury still reverberating like a clash of cymbals. Regina suddenly stopped suckling and opened her eyes to stare at her mother in astonishment. The refrigerator gave a rattle and went still.
“I never said you were,” Gabriel said quietly.
“But I might as well be, the way you talk. Oh, you have Regina. You have a more important job now. You need to stay home and make milk and let your brain rot. I’m a cop, and I need to go back to work. I miss it. I miss having my goddamn beeper go off.” She took a breath and sat down at the kitchen table, her breath escaping in a sob of frustration. “I’m a cop,” she whispered.
He sat down across from her. “I know you are.”
“I don’t think you do.” She wiped a hand across her face. “You don’t get who I am at all. You think you married someone else. Mrs. Perfect Mommy.”
“I know exactly who I married.”
“Reality’s a bitch, ain’t it? And so am I.”
“Well.” He nodded. “Sometimes.”
“It’s not like I didn’t warn you.” She rose to her feet. Regina was still strangely quiet, still staring at Jane as though Mommy had suddenly become interesting enough to watch. “You know who I am, and it’s always been take it or leave it.” She started out of the kitchen.
“Jane.”
“Regina needs her diaper changed.”
“Damn it, you’re running away from a fight.”
She turned back to him. “I don’t run from fights.”
“Then sit down with me. Because I’m not running from you, and I don’t plan to.”
For a moment she just looked at him. And she thought: This is so hard. Being married is so hard and scary, and he’s right about my wanting to run. All I really want to do is retreat to a place where no one can hurt me.
She pulled out the chair and sat down.
“Things have changed, you know,” he said. “It’s not like before, when we didn’t have Regina.”
She said nothing, still angry that he’d agreed she was a bitch. Even if it was true.
“Now if something happens to you, you’re not the only one who gets hurt. You have a daughter. You have other people to think about.”
“I signed up for motherhood, not prison.”
“Are you saying you’re sorry we had her?”
She looked down at Regina. Her daughter was staring up, wide-eyed, as though she understood every word being said. “No, of course not. It’s just …” She shook her head. “I’m more than just her mother. I’m me, too. But I’m losing myself, Gabriel. Every day, I feel like I’m disappearing a little more. Like the Cheshire Cat in Wonderland. Every day it seems harder and harder to remember who I was. Then you come home and get ticked off at me for placing that ad. Which, you have to admit, is a brilliant idea. And I think: Okay, now I’m really lost. Even my own husband has forgotten who I am.”
He leaned forward, his gaze burning a hole in her. “Do you know what it was like for me, when you were trapped in that hospital? Do you have any idea? You think you’re so tough. You strap on a weapon and suddenly you’re Wonder Woman. But if you get hurt, you’re not the only one who bleeds, Jane. I do, too. Do you ever think of me?”
She said nothing.
He laughed, but it came out the sound of a wounded animal. “Yeah, I’m a pain in the ass, always trying to protect you from yourself. Someone has to do it, because you are your own worst enemy. You never stop trying to prove yourself. You’re still Frankie Rizzoli’s despised little sister. A girl. You’re still not good enough for the boys to play with, and you never will be.”
She just stared back at him, resenting how well he knew her. Resenting the accuracy of his arrows, which had so cruelly hit their mark.
“Jane.” He reached across the table. Before she could pull away, his hand was on hers, holding on with no intention of releasing her. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me, or Frankie, or anyone else. I know it’s hard for you right now, but you’ll be back at work before you know it. So give the adrenaline a rest. Give me a rest. Let me enjoy just having my wife and daughter safe at home for a while.”
He still held her hand captive on the table. She looked down at their hands and thought: This man never wavers. No matter how hard I push against him, he is always right there for me. Whether I deserve him or not. Slowly their fingers linked in a silent armistice.
The phone rang.
Regina gave a wail.
“Well.” Gabriel sighed. “That moment of peace didn’t last long.” Shaking his head, he rose to answer the call. Jane was just carrying Regina out of the kitchen when she heard him say: “You’re right. Let’s not talk about this on the phone.”
Instantly she was alert, turning to search his face for the reason his voice had suddenly dropped. But he was facing the wall, and she focused instead on the knotted muscles of his neck.
“We’ll be waiting for you,” he said, and hung up.
“Who was that?”
“Maura. She’s on her way over.”
&nbs
p; THIRTY-ONE
Maura did not show up at their apartment alone. Standing beside her in the hallway was an attractive man with dark hair and a trim beard. “This is Peter Lukas,” she said.
Jane shot Maura an incredulous look. “You brought a reporter?”
“We need him, Jane.”
“Since when do we ever need reporters?”
Lukas gave a cheery wave. “Nice to meet you, too, Detective Rizzoli, Agent Dean. Can we come in?”
“No, let’s not talk in here,” said Gabriel, as he and Jane, carrying Regina, stepped out into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” asked Lukas.
“Follow me.”
Gabriel led the way up two flights of stairs, and they emerged on the apartment rooftop. Here, the building’s tenants had established an exuberant garden of potted plants, but the heat of a city summer and the baking surface of asphalt tiles was starting to wilt this oasis. Tomato plants drooped in their pots, and morning glory vines, their leaves scorched brown by the heat, clung like withering fingers to a trellis. Jane set Regina in her infant seat under the shade of the umbrella table, and the baby promptly dozed off, her cheeks a rosy pink. From this vantage point, they could see other rooftop gardens, other welcome patches of green in the concrete landscape.
Lukas placed a folder beside the sleeping baby. “Dr. Isles thought you’d be interested in seeing this.”
Gabriel opened the folder. It contained a news clipping, with a photo of a man’s smiling face and the headline: Reston Man Found Dead Aboard Yacht. Businessman Missing Since January 2nd.
“Who was Charles Desmond?” asked Gabriel.
“A man very few people really knew,” said Lukas. “Which, in and of itself, was what intrigued me about him. It’s the reason I focused on this story. Even though the medical examiner conveniently ruled it a suicide.”
“You question that ruling?”
“There’s no way to prove it wasn’t suicide. Desmond was found in the bathroom on his motor yacht, which he kept moored at a marina on the Potomac River. He died in the tub, with both his wrists slashed, and left a suicide note in the stateroom. By the time they found him, he’d been dead for about ten days. The medical examiner’s office never released any photos, but, as you can imagine, it must have been quite a pleasant postmortem.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 149
