“He took out the trash twice tonight?”
“There was a dinner party for five people inside the house. Lotta cooking, lotta garbage.”
“So we’re looking at a time of death between six and ten P.M.”
“That’s right.”
“And the last time Detective Kassovitz was seen alive by her boyfriend?”
“About three this afternoon. Just before he headed to his shift.”
“So he has an alibi.”
“Airtight. Partner was with him all evening.” Tripp paused. “You need to take a body temp or something? ’Cause we already got the ambient temperature if you need it. It’s twelve degrees.”
Maura eyed the corpse’s heavy clothes. “I’m not going to take a rectal temp here. I don’t want to undress her in the dark. Your witness has already narrowed down the time of death. Assuming he’s correct about the times.”
Tripp gave a grunt. “Probably down to the split second. You should meet this butler guy, Jeremy. I now know the meaning of anal retentive.”
A light slashed the darkness. She glanced up to see a silhouette approaching, flashlight beam sweeping the courtyard.
“Hey, Doc,” said Jane. “Didn’t know you were already here.”
“I just arrived.” Maura rose to her feet. In the gloom, she could not see Jane’s face, only the voluminous halo of her hair. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Crowe was the one who called me.”
“He called me, too.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s inside, interviewing the home owner.”
Tripp gave a snort. “Of course he is. It’s warm in there. I’m the one who has to freeze his butt out here.”
“Geez, Tripp,” said Jane. “Sounds like you love Crowe as much as I do.”
“Oh yeah, such a lovable guy. No wonder his old partner took early retirement.” He huffed out a breath, and the steam spiraled up into darkness. “I think we should rotate Crowe around the unit. Spread the pain a little. We can each take turns putting up with Pretty Boy.”
“Believe me, I’ve already put up with him more than I should have to,” said Jane. She focused on Eve Kassovitz, and her voice softened. “He was an asshole to her. That was Crowe’s idea, wasn’t it? The puke bucket on the desk?”
“Yeah,” Tripp admitted. “But we’re all responsible, in a way. Maybe she wouldn’t be here if…” He sighed. “You’re right. We were all assholes.”
“You said she came here working the case,” said Maura. “Was there a lead?”
“O’Donnell,” said Jane. “She was one of the dinner guests tonight.”
“Kassovitz was tailing her?”
“We briefly discussed surveillance. It was just a consideration. She never told me she was going to act on it.”
“O’Donnell was here, in this house?”
“She’s still inside, being interviewed.” Jane’s gaze was back on the body. “I’d say O’Donnell’s devoted fan has just left her another offering.”
“You think this is the same perp.”
“I know it is.”
“There’s mutilation of the eyes here, but no dismemberment. No ritualistic symbols like in East Boston.”
Jane glanced at Tripp. “You didn’t show her?”
“I was about to.”
“Show me what?” asked Maura.
Jane raised her flashlight and shone it on the back door of the residence. What Maura saw sent a chill coiling up her spine. On the door were three upside-down crosses. And drawn beneath it, in red chalk, was a single staring eye.
“I’d say that’s our boy’s work,” said Jane.
“It could be a copycat. A number of people saw those symbols in Lori-Ann Tucker’s bedroom. And cops talk.”
“If you still need convincing…” Jane aimed her flashlight at the bottom of the door. On the single granite step, leading into the house, was a small cloth-covered bundle. “We unwrapped it just enough to look inside,” said Jane. “I think we’ve found Lori-Ann Tucker’s left hand.”
A sudden gust of wind swept the courtyard, kicking up a mist of snow that stung Maura’s eyes, flash-froze her cheeks. Dead leaves rattled across the patio, and the gazebo creaked and shuddered above them.
“Have you considered the possibility,” said Maura softly, “that this murder tonight has nothing to do with Joyce O’Donnell?”
“Of course it does. Kassovitz tails O’Donnell here. The killer sees her, chooses her as his next victim. It still gets back to O’Donnell.”
“Or he could have seen Kassovitz on Christmas Eve. She was there at the crime scene. He could have been watching Lori-Ann Tucker’s house.”
“You mean, enjoying all the action?” said Tripp.
“Yes. Enjoying the fact that all the excitement, all the cops, were because of him. Because of what he’d just done. What a sense of power.”
“So he follows Kassovitz here,” said Tripp, “because she caught his eye that night? Man, that puts a different spin on this.”
Jane looked at Maura. “It means he could’ve been watching any one of us. He’d know all our faces now.”
Maura bent down and pulled the sheet back over the body. Her hands were numb and clumsy as she stripped off the latex gloves and pulled on her wool ones. “I’m freezing. I can’t do anything else out here. We should just move her to the morgue. And I need to defrost my hands.”
“Have you already called for pickup?”
“They’re on their way. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait for them in my car. I want to get out of this wind.”
“I think we should all get out of this wind,” said Tripp.
They walked back along the side yard and stepped through the iron gate into the liverish glow of the gas lamp. Across the street, silhouetted in strobe by cruiser rack lights, was a huddle of cops. Daniel stood among them, taller than the other men, hands buried in the pockets of his overcoat.
“You can come inside with us and wait,” said Jane.
“No,” said Maura, her gaze on Daniel. “I’ll just sit in my car.”
Jane was silent for a moment. She’d noticed Daniel, too, and she could probably guess why Maura was lingering outside.
“If you’re looking to get warm, Doc,” said Jane, “you’re not going to find it out here. But I guess that’s your choice.” She clapped Tripp on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go back inside. See how Pretty Boy’s doing.” They walked up the steps, into the house.
Maura paused on the sidewalk, her gaze on Daniel. He did not seem to notice that she was there. It was awkward with all those cops standing around him. But what was there to be embarrassed about, really? She was here to do her job, and so was he. It’s the most natural thing in the world for two acquaintances to greet each other.
She crossed the street, toward the circle of cops. Only then did Daniel see her. So did the other men, and they all fell silent as she approached. Though she dealt with police officers every day, saw them at every crime scene, she had never felt entirely comfortable with them, or they with her. That mutual discomfort was never more obvious than at this moment, when she felt their gazes on her. She could guess what they thought of her. The chilly Dr. Isles, never a barrel of laughs. Or maybe they were intimidated; maybe it was the MD behind her name that set her apart, made her unapproachable.
Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe they are afraid of me.
“The morgue van should be here any minute,” she said, opening the conversation on pure business. “If you could make room for it on the street.”
“Sure thing, Doc,” one of the cops said, and coughed.
Another silence followed, the cops looking off in other directions, everywhere but at her, their feet shuffling on cold pavement.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “I’ll be waiting in my car.” She didn’t cast a glance at Daniel, but simply turned and walked away.
“Maura?”
She glanced back at the sound of his voice, and saw that the cops were
still watching. There’s always an audience, she thought. Daniel and I are never alone.
“What do you know so far?” he asked.
She hesitated, aware of all the eyes. “Not much more than anyone else, at this point.”
“Can we talk about it? It might help me comfort Officer Lyall if I knew more about what happened.”
“It’s awkward. I’m not sure…”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t feel comfortable revealing.”
She hesitated. “Let’s sit in my car. It’s right down the street.”
They walked together, hands thrust in pockets, heads bent against icy gusts. She thought of Eve Kassovitz, lying alone in the courtyard, her corpse already chilled, her blood freezing in her veins. On this night, in this wind, no one wanted to keep company with the dead. They reached her car and slid inside. She turned on the engine to run the heater, but the air that puffed through the vents offered no warmth.
“Officer Lyall was her boyfriend?” she asked.
“He’s devastated. I don’t think I was able to offer much comfort.”
“I couldn’t do your job, Daniel. I’m not good at dealing with grief.”
“But you do deal with it. You have to.”
“Not on the level you do, when it’s still so raw, so fresh. I’m the one they expect all the answers from, not the one they call in to give comfort.” She looked at him. In the gloom of her car he was just a silhouette. “The last Boston PD chaplain lasted only two years. I’m sure the stress contributed to his stroke.”
“Father Roy was sixty-five, you know.”
“And he looked eighty the last time I saw him.”
“Well, taking night calls isn’t easy,” he admitted, his breath steaming the window. “It’s not easy for cops, either. Or doctors or firemen. But it’s not all bad,” he added with a soft laugh, “since going to death scenes is the only time I ever get to see you.”
Although she could not read his eyes, she felt his gaze on her face and was grateful for the darkness.
“You used to visit me,” he said. “Why did you stop?”
“I came for midnight Mass, didn’t I?”
He gave a weary laugh. “Everyone shows up at Christmas. Even the ones who don’t believe.”
“But I was there. I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“Have you been, Maura? Avoiding me?”
She said nothing. For a moment they regarded each other in the gloom of her car. The air blowing from the vent had barely warmed and her fingers were still numb, but she could feel heat rise to her cheeks.
“I know what’s going on,” he said quietly.
“You have no idea.”
“I’m just as human as you are, Maura.”
Suddenly she laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Well, this is a cliché. The priest and the woman parishioner.”
“Don’t reduce it to that.”
“But it is a cliché. It’s probably happened a thousand times before. Priests and bored housewives. Priests and lonely widows. Is it the first time for you, Daniel? Because it sure as hell is the first time for me.” Suddenly ashamed that she had turned her anger on him, she looked away. What had he done, really, except offer her his friendship, his attention? I am the architect of my own unhappiness.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said quietly, “you’re not the only one who’s miserable.”
She sat perfectly still as air hissed from the vents. She kept her gaze focused straight ahead, on the windshield now fogged with condensation, but all her other senses were painfully focused on him. Even if she were blind and deaf, she’d still know he was there, so attuned was she to every aspect of his presence. Attuned, as well, to her own pounding heart, to the sizzling of her nerves. She’d felt a perverse thrill from his declaration of unhappiness. At least she was not the only one suffering, not the only one who lay sleepless at night. In affairs of the heart, misery yearns for company.
There was a loud rapping on her window. Startled, she turned to see a ghostly silhouette peering in through the fogged glass. She lowered her window and stared into the face of a Boston PD cop.
“Dr. Isles? The morgue van just arrived.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right there.” Her window hummed shut again, leaving the glass streaked with watery lines. She shut off the car engine and looked at Daniel. “We have a choice,” she said. “We can both be miserable. Or we can move on with our lives. I’m choosing to move on.” She stepped out of the car and closed the door. She took one breath of air so cold it seemed to sear her throat. But it also swept any last indecision from her brain, leaving it clearer and focused with laser intensity on what she had to do next. She left her car and did not look back. Once again, she headed up the sidewalk, moving from pool to pool of light as she passed beneath streetlamps. Daniel was behind her now; ahead waited a dead woman. And all these cops, standing around. What were they waiting for? Answers that she might not be able to give them?
She pulled her coat tighter, as though to ward off their stares, thinking of Christmas Eve and another death scene. Of Eve Kassovitz, who’d lingered on the street that night, emptying her stomach into the snowbank. Had Kassovitz experienced even a flicker of a premonition that she would be the next object of Maura’s attention?
The cops all gathered in silence near the house as the morgue team wheeled Eve Kassovitz along the side yard. When the stretcher bearing the shrouded corpse emerged through the iron gate, they stood with heads bared in the frigid wind, a solemn blue line honoring one of their own. Even after the stretcher had disappeared into the vehicle and the doors had swung shut, they did not break ranks. Only when the taillights winked away into the darkness did the hats go back on, and they began to drift back to their cruisers.
Maura, too, was about to walk to her car when the front door of the residence opened. She looked up as warm light spilled out and saw the silhouette of a man standing there, looking at her.
“Excuse me. Are you Dr. Isles?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Sansone would like to invite you to step inside the house. It’s a great deal warmer in here, and I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
She hesitated at the foot of the steps, looking up at the warm glow that framed the manservant. He stood very straight, watching her with an eerie stillness that made her think of a life-size statue she’d once seen in a gag store, a papier-mâché butler holding a tray of fake drinks. She glanced down the street toward her car. Daniel had already left, and she had nothing to look forward to but a lonely drive home and an empty house.
“Thank you,” she said, and started up the steps. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
TWELVE
She stepped into the warmth of the front parlor. Her face was still numb from the bite of the wind. Only as she stood before the fireplace, waiting for the butler to notify Mr. Sansone, did sensation slowly creep back into her cheeks; she felt the pleasant sting of reawakened nerves, of flushing skin. She could hear the murmur of conversation in another room—Detective Crowe’s voice, pointed with questioning, answered by a softer response, barely audible. A woman’s. In the fireplace, sparks popped and smoke puffed up, and she realized these were real logs burning, that it was not the fake gas fireplace she’d assumed it was. The medieval oil painting that hung above the hearth might well be authentic as well. It was a portrait of a man wearing robes of wine-red velvet, with a gold crucifix around his neck. Though he was not young, and his dark hair was woven with silver, his eyes burned with a youthful fire. In that room’s flickering light, those eyes seemed piercingly alive.
She shivered and turned away, strangely intimidated by the stare of a man almost certainly long dead. The room had other curiosities, other treasures to examine. She saw chairs upholstered in striped silk, a Chinese vase that gleamed with the patina of centuries, a rosewood butler’s table that held a cigar box and a crystal decanter of brandy. The carpet she stood on bore a well-worn path down its cen
ter, evidence of its age and the countless shoes that had trod across it, but the relatively untouched perimeter revealed the unmistakable quality of thick wool and the craftsmanship of the weaver. She looked down at her feet, at a tapestry of intricate vines twining across burgundy to frame a unicorn reclining beneath a bower of trees. Suddenly she felt guilty that she was standing on such a masterpiece. She stepped off it, onto the wood floor, and closer to the hearth.
Once again, she was facing the portrait over the mantelpiece. Once again, her gaze lifted to the priest’s piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to stare straight back at her.
“It’s been in my family for generations. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how vivid the colors still are? Even after four centuries.”
Maura turned to face the man who had just stepped into the room. He had entered so quietly, it was as though he had simply materialized behind her, and she was too taken by surprise to know quite what to say. He was dressed in a dark turtleneck, which made his silver hair all the more striking. Yet his face looked no older than fifty. Had they merely passed each other on the street, she would have stared at him because his features were so arresting and so hauntingly familiar. She saw a high forehead, an aristocratic bearing. His dark eyes caught the flicker of firelight, so that they seemed lit from within. He had referred to the portrait as an heirloom, and she saw at once the familial resemblance between the portrait and the living man. The eyes were the same.
He held out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Isles. I’m Anthony Sansone.” His gaze was focused with such intensity on her face that she wondered if they had met before.
No. I certainly would have remembered a man this attractive.
“I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking her hand. “After everything I’ve heard about you.”
“From whom?”
“Dr. O’Donnell.”
Maura felt her hand go cold in his grasp, and she pulled away. “I can’t imagine why I’d be a subject of conversation.”
“She had only good things to say about you. Believe me.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t say the same thing about her,” she said.
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 163
