The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Maura wasn’t walking,” said Jane. “She was staggering.”

  “And his car ends up parked right outside her house. If you ask me, it looks like they left the reception together, she stabbed him in Olmsted Park, and then she drove home in his car.”

  “In a semiconscious state?”

  “The amnesia story is a little too convenient, don’t you think? Plus, there was no evidence of sexual assault, no presence of semen. If Scanlon went to all the trouble of drugging her and getting her home, why didn’t he collect his prize?”

  It enraged Jane to hear him so casually toss around the intimate details of Maura’s ordeal. This was not just a victim they were discussing; this was her friend, and she rocked forward in her chair, planting fists on the table. “Then where’s the blood on her dress? Tell me that. You don’t stab a guy fifteen times and walk away spotless.”

  “She changed clothes.”

  “She was wearing that dress in the museum surveillance video.”

  “If he was killed by someone else after he brought her home, how did he get to Olmsted Park?” said Crowe. “His car was still parked at her house.”

  “Obviously there was another vehicle,” said Jane. “Someone else was involved. Someone who drove Scanlon to Olmsted Park and killed him there.”

  “Right. This mysterious second man you keep talking about.”

  “Unknown male DNA was found inside Sarah Shapiro. There is a second man.”

  “Or Sarah Shapiro’s a flake. Lied about when she last had sex with a boyfriend, and then accused the wrong guy.”

  Frost said, “Sarah didn’t strike me as a flake at all. She’s a serious professional with a good head on her shoulders.”

  Crowe looked at Frost and laughed. “So says our resident expert on women.”

  It was a particularly cruel barb to direct at Frost, whose wife had walked out on him, and who still mourned the breakup of his marriage. Though Frost stiffened, he didn’t return the cruelty; he never did.

  “You’re so fixated on Maura,” Jane said to Crowe, “you’re trying to make the evidence fit your theory.”

  “You’re the one calling her Maura,” Crowe pointed out. “Which makes it obvious you’ve got a problem being objective.” He turned to Marquette. “It’s hard to conduct an investigation when your friend’s the prime suspect.”

  “She’s the victim here,” said Jane.

  “That’s exactly what she wants us to believe,” said Crowe. “Look, I’m not saying that Scanlon didn’t have it coming. Whoever killed him did us all a favor. Maybe he tried to assault her. Dr. Isles flew into a rage and delivered a little justice. After all, she does cut up people for a living. And she’s brilliant enough to come up with a good cover story.”

  Jane looked around the table. “You cannot be seriously considering this.”

  “We have to consider every possibility, Rizzoli,” said Marquette. “What else do we have?” He turned to Detective Moore. “Anything more on Scanlon’s vehicle?”

  Moore, ever the calm voice of the unit, said: “CSU is still working on the cell phone they found under the front seat. It’s a TracFone, password-protected, so we haven’t been able to get into it yet. The fact that it was tucked way up under the seat makes me think it’s a phone he used only occasionally.”

  “To call his partner,” said Jane.

  “We unlock that phone, we may be able to find out the identity of Predator Number Two,” said Moore. “I’ve checked the other cases in the CODIS database. All the rapes where the unknown DNA showed up. They span a period of four years, all within thirty miles of Boston.” He typed on his laptop keyboard and swung the screen around to show Marquette the images of three women. “You’ll notice the similarities among these victims, as well as with both Sarah Shapiro and Kitty O’Brien. All of them educated, accomplished women. All targeted in upscale venues such as cocktail receptions or business conventions. Most were last seen, before the assaults, with a man matching Scanlon’s description.”

  “But his DNA wasn’t found in any of them,” said Marquette.

  “No,” said Moore. “Scanlon may have abducted them. But he didn’t rape them.”

  Marquette frowned. “He was merely the supplier.”

  “Which may be why he didn’t need a job,” said Frost. “He claimed to be a software developer, but we can’t find any recent employment records to support that. He died with three hundred thousand dollars in various accounts. That was his job.” Frost pointed to the victims’ photos on the screen. “And it looks like he was well paid for it.”

  “No wonder,” said Marquette. “Scanlon takes all the risks. Shows his face in public. Transports the women in his car to their own residences.”

  “Easy enough to get the addresses off their drivers’ licenses,” pointed out Frost.

  “And that’s when the second man shows up. The women are drugged, so they never see the man who’s actually assaulting them. The DNA isn’t Scanlon’s, so even if he is arrested, he can’t be convicted of rape. It’s a perfect partnership, with Scanlon as the employee.”

  “Whoever hired him is obviously loaded and pays him well,” said Frost. “But maybe Scanlon got greedy. Maybe he tried to blackmail his boss. That would be a motive for murder.”

  “Then why was Scanlon still working for him?” asked Marquette. “Because it seems that’s what he was doing Saturday night. He crashed that reception to look for the next victim.”

  And he chose just the kind of woman his employer craves, thought Jane. Intelligent. Attractive. Accomplished. All words that described Maura Isles.

  “He wants only the best,” she said softly, staring at the faces on Moore’s computer screen. “Maybe he’s afraid of women like this. Or he resents them. And this is how he conquers them, how he cuts them down to size. The question is, Why couldn’t he find these women himself? Why take on the risk of a partner?”

  “Maybe he’s deformed,” said Frost. “Unable to get close to them.”

  “Or he’s too prominent,” suggested Moore. “Someone who’s immediately recognizable.”

  That second possibility disturbed Jane. Money and power, she thought. Is that what they were up against? A killer who paid someone else to take the risks while awaiting delivery of his next victim?

  It would have been Maura.

  But on Saturday night, something went awry for those partners. It started off well enough at the reception, where Scanlon chose his target and slipped Rohypnol into her drink. He guided his increasingly wobbly victim to his car. In her purse, he found Maura’s driver’s license and jotted down her address on the back of her business card, which he tucked into his pocket. He drove to her house in Brookline, used her keys to unlock the door, and carried her inside, where he deposited her on the sofa, unconscious and ready to be taken.

  But for some reason, the partner did not claim her. Did he show up at all that night? Or did he decide he would wait for another time?

  He already knows where to find her.

  It was late in the afternoon when Maura walked into the medical examiner’s building, and she saw Dr. Costas freeze beside the coffeepot, a cup clutched in his hand. She saw her secretary, Louise, staring at her over her computer screen. Maura said nothing, but walked straight past Louise’s desk into her own office and closed the door. No doubt they’d all heard the news; in both medicine and law enforcement, there were few secrets. Maura had not been present at Christopher Scanlon’s autopsy, but she knew that Dr. Bristol had performed it, which meant he knew the circumstances of Scanlon’s death. He knew that her home address was found in the victim’s pocket, that Scanlon’s vehicle was parked at her house, and that her fingerprints and her shoe were in that vehicle.

  But what tormented her most wasn’t all the damning details that made her look like a suspect; no, it was the details that made her look like a victim. The gullible woman, charmed and drugged by a predator. Though she had not been raped, she felt as ashamed and exposed as any rape vi
ctim, and it had taken all her fortitude to walk into the building today. This is how you fight back, she thought. You start by just showing your face.

  Louise knocked and came into the office, closing the door behind her. “How are you?” she asked. “I was so worried. We were all worried.”

  “I’m fine, Louise.” Maura calmly booted up her computer, as if this day were like any other. A day to inspect the wounds of others, not her own.

  “Are you, really?” Louise had worked for the ME’s office for so long that Maura could not imagine a time when the woman would not be here to greet her every morning, cheerfully fetching her coffee. In an office that dealt every day with tragedy, Louise was always ready with a kind word, a comforting smile. But Maura wanted no sympathy from her today.

  “I need Christopher Scanlon’s autopsy report,” she said.

  That request startled Louise. “That’s … the man …”

  “I know who he is. Could you get it for me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Louise opened the door to leave, then glanced back at Maura. “If you need to talk, if you need anything at all, you know I’m here.”

  No doubt Louise thought Maura needed a hug, a shoulder to cry on. But what Maura needed most was information. Anything that would help her reconstruct what had happened during the hours she could not remember. For all I know, I killed a man that night.

  She already knew a great deal about Christopher Scanlon. She knew he’d been arrested twice, accused both times by women who told eerily similar stories. Scanlon had met them in crowded settings and offered to refresh their drinks. Both Kitty O’Brien and Sarah Shapiro woke up hours later in their own homes, with no memory of what had happened. In both cases, the charges were dropped.

  Kitty O’Brien never recovered from the emotional trauma. Months later, she committed suicide, a heartbreaking end to the case.

  No, not quite the end.

  She found an online news article about Kitty’s father, Harry O’Brien, who’d threatened to kill Scanlon. In the photograph, she saw the bottomless grief in Harry’s face, the sunken eyes haunted by loss. That image so transfixed her that she barely noticed when Louise laid Scanlon’s autopsy report on her desk and quietly exited again.

  Harry O’Brien. Why does your face seem familiar?

  She opened the report and read the description of Scanlon’s injuries. Dr. Bristol counted fifteen stab wounds in all, of various depths, in the chest and back. She turned to the conclusions and was startled by Bristol’s statement:

  Based on varying width and depth of wounds, it appears that at least two separate blades were used.

  A frenzied attack. Two different knives.

  As far as she knew, the murder weapons had not been found. Her own treasured set of chefs’ knives had been confiscated by Boston PD, and was now being analyzed in the crime lab. Could she have done it? Plunged a blade again and again in Scanlon’s chest and back? She knew that under the influence of the drug Ambien, patients had been known to drive, to eat, to behave in purposeful ways that made them appear fully conscious, yet awaken with no memory of what they had done. Drugged with Rohypnol, could she have performed similarly automatic tasks? Or had some monster from her id, released from her darkest subconscious, emerged to take control?

  Maybe I am not so different from my mother after all.

  Shaken by the possibility, she closed her eyes, hunting for the flimsiest strand of a memory. Glimpsed lights, heard a voice, distant as an echo. But nothing solid, nothing she could grasp and hold on to.

  If I killed him, would I recognize the place where it happened?

  She barely murmured a goodbye to Louise as she walked out, and once again felt her colleagues watching her, perhaps wondering if she could have done it. Even she didn’t know the answer.

  It was a warm summer evening, and when she arrived at Olmsted Park, she saw joggers dutifully running along the riverway and couples lolling on the bank of Leverett Pond. She followed the path along the Muddy River, toward the location where the body had been found, according to the autopsy report. It wasn’t difficult to spot the place; a bright strand of crime scene tape was still snagged in a tangle of brush. She recognized the riverside bench and the same overarching pair of trees she’d seen in the death scene photos. Parallel gouges in the soil marked the trail of the stretcher that had borne the body up the riverbank, and she stared down at the disturbed earth, which marked the comings and goings of crime scene personnel.

  According to the autopsy report, Scanlon had been attacked on the paved path. His body was then rolled down the steep bank and had landed just short of the river’s edge, where the stones were stained brown. That’s where he bled to death, she thought. But here, on this path where she now stood, was where he had been stabbed.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this spot as it would have looked in the dark. Tried to dredge up some memory of being here. Of holding a knife and plunging it, again and again, into flesh.

  The snap of a twig made her eyes fly open. She turned and saw, a few dozen yards away, a man standing among the trees. Had he been there all along? In her single-minded pursuit of the death location, had she simply missed seeing him? All at once she noticed how silent it was on this isolated stretch of the riverwalk. No joggers, no strolling couples. Only her and this man, who was now gazing at her through the trees.

  He started toward her, and as he passed from shadow into sunlight, she saw that his hair was gray, and he had the gait of someone with a bad hip. No longer fearful, she remained where she was as the man slowly made his way toward her.

  “Are you with the police?” he called out.

  “No. No, I just came to see …”

  “You heard about it, then. A man was killed here Saturday night. It’s been all over the news.” He came to a stop beside her, his gaze on the river below. “To think it happened right down there.”

  She studied him, and suddenly realized why he looked familiar. “You’re Harry O’Brien,” she said.

  Startled, he looked straight at her, and she thought she saw a similar flash of recognition in his eyes. But that was impossible; they had never met.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “I know your daughter was one of his victims.” She gestured down the riverbank, where Scanlon’s body had been found. “I read the article in the Globe. How you threatened him, after she …” Her voice trailed off.

  He finished the painful thought for her. “After she killed herself.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Brien. I can’t imagine how horrible it is to lose a child.”

  “No one can. Until it happens. Then it’s all you think about, all you feel.” He stared down at the river. “I came here to spit on his grave. Does that make me evil?”

  “It makes you a grieving father.”

  He nodded, and his thin shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would, knowing he’s dead. All I feel is … relief.” He looked at her, and once again she felt that strange shock of recognition. Somehow I know this man. And I think he knows me. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “I wanted to see where he died.”

  “Did you know him?” He paused. Asked, quietly: “Did the bastard hurt you, too?”

  She didn’t respond, but she felt certain he could see the answer in her face. Yes, he hurt me. The question is: Did I hurt him?

  “Savor this moment,” he said. “The death of monsters should always be celebrated. I was afraid I wouldn’t live to see it, but here I am. While he burns in hell.”

  Those last three words jolted a nerve of recognition. Not just the words, but the voice, deep with rage. She had heard it before.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, backing away.

  He looked straight at her, his eyes fixed on her face. Seeing too much.

  A pair of joggers came around the bend, huffing toward them. That’s when Maura made her escape. Swiftly she walked away, heading back to Leverett Pond. Toward oth
er people. Only once did she pause to look back, and she saw he was standing where she’d left him, but his eyes were still on her.

  She drove straight home, hands shaking as she clutched the wheel. Only when she was in her garage, the door safely closed, did her breathing begin to steady, her heart to slow.

  Inside the house, the first thing she did was call Jane.

  “Harry O’Brien,” she said. “Did you question him?”

  “Of course we did,” said Jane. “How do you even know about O’Brien?”

  “I know he once threatened Scanlon. It made the newspapers, after Kitty O’Brien’s suicide. Jane, I think he’s involved. I recognized his voice.”

  “You spoke to him? What the hell are you doing, getting in the middle of an investigation?”

  “We met by accident, in Olmsted Park. I went to the death scene, to see if I remembered anything, and O’Brien was there. We had a few words, and I had this—this sudden flash of recognition. I’ve heard his voice before, Jane. Maybe it was that night.”

  “Saturday?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? Even though there’s so much I don’t remember, there could be bits and pieces that I did retain. A face, a voice.”

  “It couldn’t have been O’Brien that night. He had an alibi.”

  “You’re absolutely sure it’s real?”

  “He was visiting a friend in Swampscott. Frost and I interviewed her, and she swears O’Brien was at her house till midnight.”

  “Is she reliable?”

  “She’s an architect. Her mother was there that night, too. Apparently the evening was some sort of matchmaking plot to pair Mom off with Harry. It’s rock-solid, Maura.”

  But even as she hung up, Maura could not shake off the certainty that she’d heard Harry O’Brien’s voice that night.

  She sat on her living room sofa and stretched out on the cushions, trying to call up another memory. Here was where she’d awakened Sunday morning. The night before, someone had laid her on this sofa. Had words been spoken, words that she might still remember? She closed her eyes.