“Stony Brook Reservation,” said Rizzoli. “That’s where he’ll bring her. I’ll reinforce the surveillance team.” She glanced at Korsak. “You see any way Joey Valentine fits into this one?”
“I’m working on it. He finally gave me a sample of his blood. DNA’s pending.”
“That doesn’t sound like a guilty man. You still watching him?”
“I was. Till he filed a complaint that I was harassing him.”
“Were you?”
Korsak laughed, snorting out a lungful of smoke.
“Any grown man who gets off powder-puffing dead ladies is gonna squeal like a girl, no matter what I do.”
“How, exactly, do girls squeal?” she countered in irritation. “Kind of like boys do?”
“Aw, jeez. Don’t give me that bra-burning shit. My daughter’s always doing that. Then she runs out of money and comes whining to chauvinist-pig daddy for help.” Suddenly Korsak straightened. “Hey. Look who just showed up.”
A black Lincoln had pulled into a parking space across the street. Rizzoli saw Gabriel Dean emerge from the car, his trim, athletic figure pulled straight from the pages of GQ. He stood gazing up at the redbrick facade of the residence. Then he approached the patrolman manning the perimeter and showed his badge.
The patrolman let him through the tape.
“Get a load of that,” said Korsak. “Now that pisses me off. That same cop made me stand outside till you came out to get me. Like I’m just another bum off the street. But Dean, all he has to do is wave the magic badge and say ‘federal fucking agent’ and he’s golden. Why the hell does he get a pass?”
“Maybe because he bothered to tuck in his shirt.”
“Oh yeah, like a nice suit would do it for me. It’s all in the attitude. Look at him. Like he owns the goddamn world.”
She watched as Dean gracefully balanced on one leg to pull on a shoe cover. He thrust his long hands into gloves, like a surgeon preparing to operate. Yes, it was all in the attitude. Korsak was an angry pugilist who expected the world to kick him around. Naturally it did.
“Who called him here?” said Korsak.
“I didn’t.”
“Yet he just happens to show up.”
“He always does. Someone’s keeping him in the loop. It’s no one on my team. It goes higher.”
She stared at the front door again. Dean had stepped inside, and she imagined him standing in the living room, surveying the bloodstains. Reading them the way one reads a field report, the bright splatter detached from the humanity of its source.
“You know, I been thinking about it,” said Korsak. “Dean didn’t show up on the scene until nearly three days after the Yeagers were attacked. First time we see him is over at Stony Brook Reservation, when Mrs. Yeager’s body was found. Right?”
“Right.”
“So what took him so long? The other day, we were playing around with the idea it was an execution. Some trouble the Yeagers had gotten into. If they were already on the feds’ radar screen—under investigation, say, or being watched—you’d think the fibbies would be on the case the instant Dr. Yeager was whacked. But they waited three days to step in. What finally pulled them in? What got them interested?”
She looked at him. “Did you file a VICAP report?”
“Yeah. Took me a whole friggin’ hour to finish it. A hundred eighty-nine questions. Weird shit like, ‘Was any body part bitten off ? What objects got shoved into which orifices?’ Now I gotta file a supplementary report on Mrs. Yeager.”
“Did you request a profile evaluation when you transmitted the form?”
“No. I didn’t see the point of having some FBI profiler tell me what I already know. I just did my civic duty and sent in the VICAP form.”
VICAP, or the Violent Criminals Apprehension Program, was the FBI’s database of violent crimes. Compiling that database required the cooperation of often-harried law enforcement officers who, when confronted with the long VICAP questionnaire, many times did not even bother.
“When did you file the report?” she asked.
“Right after the postmortem on Dr. Yeager.”
“And that’s when Dean showed up. A day later.”
“You think that’s it?” asked Korsak. “That’s what pulled him in?”
“Maybe your report tripped an alarm.”
“What would get their attention?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at the front door, through which Dean had vanished. “And it’s pretty clear he’s not going to tell us.”
eleven
Jane Rizzoli was not a symphony kind of gal. The extent of her exposure to music was her collection of easy-listening CDs and the two years she’d played trumpet in the middle school band, one of only two girls who’d chosen that instrument. She’d been drawn to it because it produced the loudest, brassiest sound of all, not like those tooty clarinets or the chirpy flutes the other girls played. No, Rizzoli wanted to be heard, and so she sat shoulder to shoulder with the boys in the trumpet section. She loved it when the notes came blasting out.
Unfortunately, they were too often the wrong notes.
After her father banished her to the backyard for her practice sessions and then the neighborhood dogs began to howl in protest, she finally put the trumpet away for good. Even she could recognize that raw enthusiasm and strong lungs were not enough to make up for a discouraging lack of talent.
Since then, music had meant little more to her than white noise aboard elevators and thudding bass notes in passing cars. She had been inside the Symphony Hall on the corner of Huntington and Mass Ave only twice in her life, both times as a high school student attending field trips to hear BSO rehearsals. In 1990, the Cohen Wing had been added, a part of Symphony Hall that Rizzoli had never before visited. When she and Frost entered the new wing, she was surprised by how modern it looked—not the dark and creaky building that she remembered.
They showed their badges to the elderly security guard, who snapped his kyphotic spine a little straighter when he saw the two visitors were from Homicide.
“Is this about the Ghents?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Rizzoli.
“Terrible. Just terrible. I saw them last week, right after they got into town. They dropped by to check out the hall.” He shook his head. “Seemed like such a nice young couple.”
“Were you on duty the night they performed?”
“No, ma’am. I just work here during the day. Have to leave at five to pick up my wife from day care. She needs twenty-four-hour supervision, you know. Forgets to turn off the stove …” He stopped, suddenly reddening. “But I guess you folks aren’t here to pass the time. You come to see Evelyn?”
“Yes. Which way to her office?”
“She’s not there. I saw her go into the concert hall a few minutes ago.”
“Is there a rehearsal going on or something?”
“No, ma’am. It’s our quiet season. Orchestra stays out in Tanglewood during the summer. This time of year, we just get a few visiting performers.”
“So we can walk right into the hall?”
“Ma’am, you got the badge. Far as I’m concerned, you can go anywhere.”
They did not immediately spot Evelyn Petrakas. As Rizzoli stepped into the dim auditorium, all she saw at first was a vast sea of empty seats, sweeping down toward a spotlighted stage. Drawn toward the light, they started down the aisle, wood floor creaking like the timbers of an old ship. They had already reached the stage when a voice called out, faintly:
“Can I help you?”
Squinting against the glare, Rizzoli turned to face the darkened rear of the auditorium. “Ms. Petrakas?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Rizzoli. This is Detective Frost. Can we speak to you?”
“I’m here. In the back row.”
They walked up the aisle to join her. Evelyn did not rise from her seat but remained huddled where she was, as though hiding from the light. She gave the detect
ives a dull nod as they took the two seats beside her.
“I’ve already spoken to a policeman. Last night,” Evelyn said.
“Detective Sleeper?”
“Yes. I think that was his name. An older man, quite nice. I know I was supposed to wait and talk to some other detectives, but I had to leave. I just couldn’t stay at that house any longer …” She looked toward the stage, as though mesmerized by a performance only she could see. Even in the gloom, Rizzoli could see it was a handsome face, perhaps forty, with premature streaks of silver in her dark hair. “I had responsibilities here,” Evelyn said. “All the ticket refunds. And then the press started showing up. I had to come back and deal with it.” She gave a tired laugh. “Always putting out fires. That’s my job.”
“What is your job here exactly, Ms. Petrakas?” asked Frost.
“My official title?” She gave a shrug. “ ‘Program coordinator for visiting artists.’ What it means is, I try to keep them happy and healthy while they’re in Boston. It’s amazing how helpless some of them can be. They spend their lives in rehearsal halls and studios. The real world’s a puzzle to them. So I recommend places for them to stay. Arrange for their pickup at the airport. Fruit basket in the room. Whatever extra comforts they need. I hold their hands.”
“When did you first meet the Ghents?” asked Rizzoli.
“The day after they arrived in town. I went to pick them up at the house. They couldn’t take a taxi because Alex’s cello case made it a tight squeeze. But I have an SUV with a backseat that folds down.”
“You drove them around town while they were here?”
“Only back and forth between the house and Symphony Hall.”
Rizzoli glanced in her notebook. “I understand the house on Beacon Hill belongs to a symphony board member. A Christopher Harm. Does he often invite musicians to stay there?”
“During the summer, when he’s in Europe. It’s so much nicer than a hotel room. Mr. Harm trusts classical musicians. He knows they’ll take good care of his home.”
“Have any guests at Mr. Harm’s house ever complained of problems there?”
“Problems?”
“Trespassers. Burglaries. Anything that’s made them uneasy.”
Evelyn shook her head. “It’s Beacon Hill, Detective. You couldn’t ask for a nicer neighborhood. I know Alex and Karenna loved it there.”
“When did you last see them?”
Evelyn swallowed. Said, softly: “Last night. When I found Alex …”
“I meant while he was still alive, Ms. Petrakas.”
“Oh.” Evelyn gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, that’s what you meant. I’m sorry; I’m not thinking. It’s just so hard to concentrate.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come in to work today. It just seemed like something I needed to do.”
“The last time you saw them?” Rizzoli prompted her.
This time Evelyn answered in a steadier voice. “It was the night before last. After their performance, I drove them back to Beacon Hill. It was around eleven or so.”
“Did you just drop them off? Or did you go inside with them?”
“I let them off right in front of their house.”
“Did you see them actually walk in?”
“Yes.”
“So they didn’t ask you inside.”
“I think they were pretty tired. And they were feeling a little depressed.”
“Why?”
“After all the anticipation about performing in Boston, it wasn’t as big an audience as they’d expected. And we’re supposed to be the city of music. If this was the best we could draw here, what could they hope for in Detroit or Memphis?” Evelyn stared unhappily toward the stage. “We’re dinosaurs, Detective. Karenna said that, in the car. Who appreciates classical music anymore? Most young people would rather watch music videos. People jiggling around with metal studs in their faces. It’s all about sex and glitter and stupid costumes. And why does that singer, what’s his name, have to stick his tongue out? What’s that got to do with music?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Frost agreed, warming at once to the topic. “You know, Ms. Petrakas, my wife and I had this very same conversation the other day. Alice, she loves classical music. Really loves it. Every year, we buy season tickets to the symphony.”
Evelyn gave him a sad smile. “Then I’m afraid you’re a dinosaur, too.”
As they rose to leave, Rizzoli spotted a glossy program lying on the seat in front of her. She reached across to pick it up. “Are the Ghents in here?” she asked.
“Turn to page five,” said Evelyn. “There. That’s their publicity photo.”
It was a picture of two people in love.
Karenna, slim and elegant in an off-the-shoulder black gown, gazed up into her husband’s smiling eyes. Her face was luminous, her hair as dark as a Spaniard’s. Alexander looked down at her with a boyish smile, an unruly forelock of pale hair dipping over his eye.
Evelyn said softly: “They were beautiful, weren’t they? It’s strange, you know. I never got the chance to sit down and really talk with them. But I did know their music. I’ve listened to their recordings. I’ve watched them perform, up on that stage. You can tell a lot about someone just by listening to their music. And the one thing I remember was how tenderly they played. I think that’s the word I’d use to describe them. They were such tender people.”
Rizzoli looked at the stage and imagined Alexander and Karenna on the night of their final performance. Her black hair lustrous under the stage lights, his cello gleaming. And their music, like the voices of two lovers singing to each other.
“The night they performed,” said Frost. “You said it was a disappointing turnout.”
“Yes.”
“How big was the audience?”
“I believe we sold around four hundred fifty tickets.”
Four hundred fifty pairs of eyes, thought Rizzoli, all of them focused on the stage, where a couple in love were wreathed in light. What emotions did the Ghents inspire in their audience? The pleasure of music, well played? The joy of watching two young people in love? Or had other, darker emotions stirred in the heart of someone seated in this very hall? Hunger. Envy. The bitterness of wanting what another man possesses.
She looked down again, at the photo of the Ghents.
Was it her beauty that caught your eye? Or was it the fact they were in love?
She drank black coffee and stared at the dead piling up on her desk. Richard and Gail Yeager. Rickets Lady. Alexander Ghent. And Airplane Man, who, although no longer considered a homicide victim, still weighed on her mind. The dead always did. A never-ending supply of corpses, each one demanding her attention, each one with his or her own tale of horror to tell, if Rizzoli would just dig deep enough to lay bare the bones of their stories. She’d been digging so long that all the dead she’d ever known were beginning to blend together like skeletons tangled in a mass grave.
When the DNA lab paged her at noon, she was relieved to escape, at least for the moment, that accusing stack of files. She left her desk and headed down the hall to the south wing.
The DNA lab was in S253, and the criminalist who’d paged her was Walter De Groot, a blond Dutchman with a pale man-in-the-moon face. Usually he winced when he saw her, since her visits were almost always for the purpose of prodding or cajoling him, anything to hurry along a DNA profile. Today, though, he gave her a broad grin.
“I’ve developed the autorad,” he said. “It’s hanging there now.”
An autorad, or autoradiogram, was an X-ray film that captured the pattern of DNA fragments. De Groot took down the film from the drying line and clipped it onto a light box. Parallel rows of dark blots tracked from top to bottom.
“What you see here is the VNTR profile,” he said. “That’s short for ‘variable numbers of tandem repeats.’ I’ve extracted the DNA from the different sources you’ve provided, and isolated the fragments with the particular loci we’re comparing.
These aren’t really genes, but sections of the DNA strand that repeat with no clear purpose. They make good identification markers.”
“So what are these various tracks? What do they correspond to?”
“The first two lanes, starting at the left, are the controls. Number one is a standard DNA ladder, to help us estimate the relative positions for the various samples. Lane two is a standard cell line, again used as a control. Lanes three, four, and five are evidentiary lines, taken from known origins.”
“Which origins?”
“Lane three is suspect Joey Valentine’s. Lane four is Dr. Yeager’s. Lane five is Mrs. Yeager’s.”
Rizzoli’s gaze lingered on lane five. She tried to wrap her mind around the concept that this was part of the blueprint that had created Gail Yeager. That a unique human being, from the precise shade of her blond hair to the sound of her laughter, could be distilled down to this chain of dark blots. She saw no humanity in this autorad, nothing of the woman who had loved a husband and mourned a mother. Is this all we are? A necklace of chemicals? Where, in the double helix, does the soul lie?
Her gaze shifted to the final two lanes. “And what are these last ones?” she asked.
“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.”
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 46
