“What else did you hear?” asked Jane, sitting down at the table.
“That your perp’s an artist. Leaves cute little drawings behind. And he likes to”—Korsak paused and glanced at Angela, who was sliding cookies off the pan—“slice and dice. Am I warm?”
“A little too warm.”
Angela lifted off the last of the cookies and sealed them in a ziplock bag. With a flourish, she placed them in front of Korsak. This was not the Angela whom Jane had expected to come home to. Her mother was actually bustling around the kitchen now, gathering pans and bowls, splashing soapsuds as she washed up in the sink. She didn’t look miserable or abandoned or depressed; she looked ten years younger. Is this what happens when your husband walks out on you?
“Tell Jane more about your party,” said Angela, refilling Korsak’s coffee cup.
“Oh yeah.” He took a noisy slurp. “See, I signed my divorce papers last week. Almost a year of wrangling over money, and it’s finally over. I figured it was time to celebrate my new status as a free man. I got my apartment all decorated. Nice leather couch, big-screen TV. I’m gonna buy a few cases, get some friends together, and we’re all gonna par-tee!”
He’d turned into a fifty-five-year-old teenager with a potbelly and a comb-over. Could he get any more pathetic?
“So you’re coming, right?” he asked Jane. “Second Saturday in January.”
“Let me check the date with Gabriel.”
“If he can’t make it, you can always come stag. Just be sure to bring your older sister here.” He gave Angela a wink, and she giggled.
This was getting more painful by the minute. Jane was almost relieved to hear the muffled ringing of her cell phone. She went into the living room, where she’d left her purse, and dug out her phone.
“Rizzoli,” she said.
Lieutenant Marquette did not waste time with pleasantries. “You need to be more respectful of Anthony Sansone,” he said.
In the kitchen, she could hear Korsak laughing, and the sound suddenly irritated her. If you’re going to flirt with my mom, for God’s sake, take it somewhere else.
“I hear you’ve been giving him and his friends a hard time,” said Marquette.
“Maybe you could define what you mean by hard time?”
“You questioned him for nearly two hours. Grilled his butler, his dinner guests. Then you went back to see him again this afternoon. You’re making him feel as if he’s the one under investigation.”
“Well, gee, I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings. We’re just doing what we always do.”
“Rizzoli, try to keep in mind the man is not a suspect.”
“I haven’t reached that conclusion yet. O’Donnell was in his house. Eve Kassovitz was killed in his garden. And when his butler finds the body, what does Sansone do? He takes photos. Passes them around to his friends. You wanna know the truth? These people are not normal. Certainly Sansone isn’t.”
“He’s not a suspect.”
“I haven’t eliminated him.”
“You can trust me on this. Leave him alone.”
She paused. “You want to tell me more, Lieutenant?” she asked quietly. “What do I not know about Anthony Sansone?”
“He’s not a man we want to alienate.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not personally. I’m just conveying the word from above. We’ve been told to treat him with respect.”
She hung up. Moving to the window, she stared out at an afternoon sky that was no longer blue. More snow was probably on the way. She thought: One minute you think you can see forever, and then the clouds move in and obscure everything.
She reached for her cell phone again and began to dial.
SEVENTEEN
Maura watched through the viewing window as Yoshima, wearing a lead apron, positioned the collimator over the abdomen. Some people walk into work on Monday mornings dreading nothing worse awaiting them than a stack of fresh paperwork or message slips. On this Monday morning, what had awaited Maura was the woman who lay on that table, her body now stripped bare. Maura saw Yoshima reemerge from behind the lead shield to retrieve the film cassette for processing. He glanced up and gave a nod.
Maura pushed through the door, back into the autopsy lab.
The night she had crouched shivering in Anthony Sansone’s garden, she had seen this body only under the glow of flashlight beams. Today, Detective Eve Kassovitz lay fully bared to view, harsh lights washing out every shadow. The blood had been rinsed away, revealing raw, pink injuries. A scalp laceration. A stab wound on the chest, beneath the sternum. And the lidless eyes, the corneas now clouded from exposure. That was what Maura could not help staring at: those mutilated eyes.
The whish of the door announced Jane’s arrival. “You haven’t started yet?” Jane asked.
“No. Is anyone else joining us?”
“It’s just me today.” Jane paused in the midst of tying on her gown, her gaze suddenly fixed on the table. On the face of her dead colleague. “I should have stood up for her,” she said quietly. “When those jerks in the unit started in with the stupid jokes, I should have put a stop to it right there.”
“They’re the ones who should feel guilty, Jane. Not you.”
“But I’ve been there myself. I know how it feels.” Jane kept looking down at the exposed corneas. “They won’t be able to pretty up these eyes for the funeral.”
“It will have to be a closed coffin.”
“The eye of Horus,” Jane said softly.
“What?”
“That drawing on Sansone’s door. It’s an ancient symbol, dating back to the Egyptians. It’s called Udjat, the all-seeing eye.”
“Who told you about that?”
“One of Sansone’s dinner guests.” She looked at Maura. “These people—Sansone and his friends—they’re weird. The more I find out about them, the more they creep me out. Especially him.”
Yoshima came out of the processing room, carrying a sheaf of freshly developed films. They gave a musical twang as he clipped them to the light box.
Maura reached for the ruler and measured the scalp laceration, jotting its dimensions on a clipboard. “He called me that night, you know,” she said, without looking up. “To make sure I got home safely.”
“Sansone did?”
Maura glanced up. “Do you consider him a suspect?”
“Think about this: After they found the body, do you know what Sansone did? Before he even called the police? He got out his camera and snapped some photos. Had his butler deliver them to his friends the next morning. Tell me that isn’t weird.”
“But do you consider him a suspect?”
After a pause, Jane admitted, “No. And if I did, it would present problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gabriel tried to do a little digging for me. He called around to find out more about the guy. All he did was ask a few questions, and suddenly doors slammed shut. The FBI, Interpol, no one wanted to talk about Sansone. Obviously he has friends in high places who are ready to protect him.”
Maura thought of the house on Beacon Hill. The butler, the antiques. “His wealth could have something to do with it.”
“It’s all inherited. He sure didn’t make his fortune teaching medieval history at Boston College.”
“How wealthy are we talking about?”
“That house on Beacon Hill? It’s his equivalent of slumming. He’s also got homes in London and Paris, plus a family estate in Italy. The guy’s an eligible bachelor, he’s loaded, and he’s good-looking. But he never turns up on the society pages. No charity balls, no black-tie fund-raisers. He’s like a total recluse.”
“He didn’t strike me as the kind of man you’d find on the party circuit.”
“What else did you think about him?”
“We didn’t have that long a conversation.”
“But you did have one that night.”
“It was freezing outside, and he invited me in for coffe
e.”
“Didn’t that seem a little weird?”
“What?”
“That he made a special effort to invite you in?”
“I appreciated the gesture. And for the record, it was the butler who came out to get me.”
“You, specifically? He knew who you were?”
Maura hesitated. “Yes.”
“What did he want from you, Doc?”
Maura had moved on to the torso, and she now measured the stab wound on the chest and jotted the dimensions on her clipboard. The questions were getting too pointed, and she didn’t like the implications: that she’d let herself be used by Anthony Sansone. “I didn’t reveal anything vital about the case, Jane. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you did talk about it?”
“About a number of things. And yes, he wanted to know what I thought. It’s not surprising, since the body was found in his garden. Understandably, he’s curious. And maybe a little eccentric.” She met Jane’s gaze and found it uncomfortably probing. She dropped her attention back to the corpse, to wounds that did not disturb her nearly as much as Jane’s questions.
“Eccentric? That’s the only word you can think of?”
She thought of the way Sansone had studied her that night, how his eyes had reflected the firelight, and other words came to mind. Intelligent. Attractive. Intimidating.
“You don’t think he’s just a little bit creepy?” asked Jane. “Because I sure do.”
“Why?”
“You saw his house. It’s like stepping into a time warp. And you never saw the other rooms, with all those portraits staring from the walls. It’s like walking into Dracula’s castle.”
“He’s a history professor.”
“Was. He’s not teaching anymore.”
“Those are probably heirlooms, and priceless. Clearly he appreciates his family legacy.”
“Oh yeah, the family legacy. That’s where he got lucky. He’s a fourth-generation trust-funder.”
“Yet he pursued a successful academic career. You have to give him some credit for that. He didn’t just turn into an idle playboy.”
“Here’s the interesting twist. The family trust fund was established back in 1905, by his great-grandfather. Guess what the name of that trust fund is?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s called the Mephisto Foundation.”
Maura glanced up, startled. “Mephisto?” she murmured.
“You gotta wonder,” said Jane, “with a name like that, what kind of family legacy are we talking about?”
Yoshima asked, “What’s the significance of that name? Mephisto?”
“I looked it up,” said Jane. “It’s short for Mephistopheles. Doc here probably knows who he was.”
“The name comes from the legend of Dr. Faustus,” said Maura.
“Who?” asked Yoshima.
“Dr. Faustus was a magician,” said Maura. “He drew secret symbols to summon the Devil. An evil spirit named Mephistopheles appeared and offered him a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“In exchange for the full knowledge of magic, Dr. Faustus sold his soul to the Devil.”
“So Mephisto is …”
“A servant of Satan.”
A voice suddenly spoke over the intercom. “Dr. Isles,” said Maura’s secretary, Louise. “You have an outside call on line one. It’s a Mr. Sansone. Do you want to pick up, or shall I take a message?”
Speak of the Devil.
Maura met Jane’s gaze and saw Jane give a quick nod.
“I’ll take the call,” said Maura. Stripping off her gloves, she crossed to the wall phone and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Sansone?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” he said.
She looked at the body on the table. Eve Kassovitz won’t mind, she thought. There is no one as patient as the dead. “I have a minute to talk.”
“This Saturday, I’m hosting a supper here at my home. I’d love to have you join us.”
Maura paused, acutely aware that Jane was watching her. “I’ll need to think about it,” she said.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”
“Actually, I am.”
“I promise not to pick your brain about the investigation.”
“I can’t talk about it anyway. You do know that.”
“Understood. That’s not why I’m inviting you.”
“Then why?” A blunt, inelegant question, but she had to ask it.
“We share common interests. Common concerns.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Join us on Saturday, around seven. We can talk about it then.”
“Let me check my schedule first. I’ll let you know.” She hung up.
“What was that all about?” asked Jane.
“He just invited me to dinner.”
“He wants something from you.”
“Not a thing, he claims.” Maura crossed to the cabinet for a fresh pair of gloves. Although her hands were steady as she pulled them on, she could feel her face flushing, her pulse throbbing in her fingertips.
“You believe that?”
“Of course not. That’s why I’m not going.”
Jane said quietly, “Maybe you should.”
Maura turned to look at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’d like to know more about the Mephisto Foundation. Who they are, what they do at their secret little meetings. I may not be able to get the information any other way.”
“So you want me to do it for you?”
“All I’m saying is, I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea if you go. As long as you’re careful.”
Maura crossed to the table. Staring down at Eve Kassovitz, she thought: This woman was a cop and she was armed. Yet even she wasn’t careful enough. Maura picked up the knife and began to cut.
Her blade traced a Y on the torso, two incisions slicing from both shoulders to meet lower than usual beneath the sternum. To preserve the stab wound. Even before the ribs were cut, before the chest was opened, she knew what she would find inside the thorax. She could see it in the chest films now hanging on the light box: the globular outline of the heart, far larger than it should be in a healthy young woman. Lifting off the shield of breastbone and ribs, she peered into the chest and slid her hand beneath the swollen sac that contained the heart.
It felt like a bag filled with blood.
“Pericardial tamponade,” she said, and looked up at Jane. “She bled into the sac that surrounds her heart. Since it’s a confined space, the sac becomes so taut, the heart can’t pump. Or the stab itself may have caused a fatal arrhythmia. Either way, this was a quick and efficient kill. But he had to know where to aim the blade.”
“He knew what he was doing.”
“Or he got lucky.” She pointed to the wound. “You can see the blade pierced just below the xiphoid process. Anywhere above that, the heart’s pretty well protected by the sternum and ribs. But if you enter here, where this wound is located, and aim the blade at just the right angle …”
“You’ll hit the heart?”
“It’s not difficult. I did it as an intern, on my ER rotation. With a needle, of course.”
“On a dead person, I hope.”
“No, she was alive. But we couldn’t hear her heartbeat, her blood pressure was crashing, and the chest x-ray showed a globular heart. I had to do something.”
“So you stabbed her?”
“With a cardiac needle. Removed enough blood from the sac to keep her alive until she could make it to surgery.”
“It’s like that spy novel, Eye of the Needle,” said Yoshima. “The killer stabs his victims straight in the heart, and they die so fast, there’s hardly any blood. It makes a pretty clean kill.”
“Thank you for that useful tip,” said Jane.
“Actually, Yoshima raises a good point,” said Maura. “Our perp chose a quick method to kill E
ve Kassovitz. But with Lori-Ann Tucker, he took his time removing the hand, the arm, the head. And then he drew the symbols. With this victim, he didn’t waste a lot of time. Which makes me think Eve was killed for a more practical reason. Maybe she surprised him, and he simply had to get rid of her, on the spot. So he did it the fastest way he could. A blow to the head. And then a quick stab to the heart.”
“He took the time to draw those symbols on the door.”
“How do we know he didn’t draw them first? To go with the bundle he’d just delivered on the doorstep?”
“You mean the hand.”
Maura nodded. “His offering.”
Her blade was back at work, cutting, resecting. Out came lungs, which she dropped into a steel basin, where they formed a spongy mass. A glance at the pink surface, a few slices into each of the lobes, told her these had been the healthy lungs of a nonsmoker, designed to serve their owner well into old age. Maura moved on to the peritoneal cavity, gloved hands reaching into the abdomen to resect stomach and pancreas and liver. Eve Kassovitz’s belly had been enviably flat, the reward no doubt of many hours laboring at sit-ups and stomach crunches. How easily all that effort was reduced by a scalpel to incised muscle and gaping skin. The basin slowly filled with organs, loops of small intestine glistening like tangled eels, liver and spleen settling into a bloody mound. Everything healthy, so healthy. She sliced into the retroperitoneum, removed velvety smooth kidneys, sliced off tiny chunks, which she dropped into a specimen jar. They sank into formalin, trailing swirls of blood.
Straightening, she looked at Yoshima. “Can you put up the skull films now? Let’s see what we have.”
He pulled down the torso x-rays and began mounting a new set, which she had not yet examined. Films of the head now glowed on the viewing box. She focused on the table of bone just beneath the scalp laceration, searching the outline of the cranium for some telltale fracture line or depression that she’d been unable to palpate, but she saw none. Even without a fracture, the blow could still have been enough to stun the victim into submission, to bring her down long enough for the killer to yank open her jacket and lift her sweater.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 168
