The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Before Tam could speak, Crowe said with a laugh: “I don’t think the homeowners expected to find that in their new swimming pool.”

  Maura looked down at a soil-stained skull and rib cage lying in a partially folded blue plastic tarp. One glance at the skull told her the bones were human.

  She donned gloves. “What’s the story here?”

  “Supposed to be a new swimming pool. Owners bought the house three years ago, hired Lorenzo Construction to do the excavation. Two feet down, they scooped that up. Backhoe driver opened the tarp, freaked out, and called nine one one. Luckily it doesn’t look like he caused much damage with his equipment.”

  Maura saw no clothing, no items of jewelry, but she needed neither to determine the sex of the deceased. Crouching down, she studied the skull’s delicate supraorbital ridges. She peeled back the folded tarp, exposing a pelvis with widely flaring ilia. One glance at the femur told her the deceased was not tall, perhaps five foot three at the most.

  “She’s been here awhile,” said Tam. He had not needed Maura’s help to recognize that the remains were female. “How long, do you think?”

  “Fully skeletonized. Spine no longer articulated,” Maura observed. “These ligament attachments have already decayed.”

  “Meaning months? Years?” said Crowe.

  “Yes.”

  Crowe gave a grunt of impatience. “That’s as specific as you’re gonna get?”

  “I once saw full skeletonization in a shallow grave after only three months, so I can’t give you a more specific answer. My best estimate for postmortem interval is a minimum of six months. The fact she’s nude and the grave is pretty shallow would accelerate decay, but it was deep enough to protect her from scavenging carnivores.”

  As if in response, there was a loud caw overhead. She glanced up to see three crows perched on branches, watching them. She’d seen the damage that corvids could cause to a human body, how those beaks could shred ligaments and pluck eyes from sockets. In unison the birds rose in a flurry of spiky wings.

  “Creepy birds. Like little vultures,” said Tam, watching them flap away.

  “And incredibly intelligent. If only they could talk to us.” She looked at him. “What’s the history of this property?”

  “Belonged to some elderly lady for about forty years. She died fifteen years ago, it ended up in probate, and the house fell into disrepair. There were renters off and on, but it sat vacant for most of the time. Until this couple bought it around three years ago.”

  Maura looked around the perimeter. “No fences. And it backs up to woods.”

  “Yeah, it abuts Stony Brook Reservation. Easy access to anyone looking for a place to bury a body.”

  “And the current owners?”

  “Nice young couple. They’ve been slowly fixing up the house, renovated the bathroom and kitchen. This was the year they decided to add an in-ground pool. Before they started digging for the pool, they said this part of the yard was pretty thick with weeds.”

  “So this burial probably predates their purchase of the house.”

  “What about our girl here?” Crowe cut in. “You see a cause of death?”

  “Have a little patience, Detective. I haven’t even finished unwrapping her.” Maura peeled away the last of the blue tarp, exposing tibias and fibulae, metatarsals and … She froze, staring at orange nylon cord, still looped around the anklebones. An image instantly snapped into her head. Another crime scene. Orange nylon cord. A body hanging from its ankles, eviscerated.

  Without a word, she moved back to the rib cage. Knelt closer and stared at the xiphoid process, where the ribs came together to join at the breastbone. Even on that overcast day, in the gloom of the woods, she could see the distinct nick in the bone. She pictured the body, suspended upside down by its ankles. Pictured a blade slicing downward through the belly, from pubis to sternum. That nick was right where the blade would land.

  Her hands suddenly felt chilled inside the gloves.

  “Dr. Isles?” Tam said.

  She ignored him and looked at the skull. There on the frontal bone, where the forehead sloped down to the brow, were three parallel scratches.

  She rocked back on her knees, stunned. “We need to call Rizzoli.”

  FIREWORKS AHEAD, THOUGHT JANE as she ducked under the bright strand of police tape. This was not her crime scene, not her turf, and she fully expected Darren Crowe to make that clear from the start. She thought of Leon Gott yelling Get off my lawn at the neighbor’s kid. Imagined Crowe thirty years from now, an equally cranky old man, yelling Get off my crime scene!

  But it was Johnny Tam who greeted her in the side yard. “Rizzoli,” he said.

  “How’s his mood?”

  “The usual. All sunshine and brightness.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “He’s not too happy with Dr. Isles at the moment.”

  “I’m not too happy, either.”

  “She insisted on bringing you in. And when she talks, I listen.”

  Jane eyed Tam, but as usual she couldn’t read his face; she’d never been able to. Though he was new to the homicide unit, he’d already built a reputation as a man who went about his work with quiet and unassuming doggedness. Unlike Crowe, Tam was no glory hound.

  “You agree with her that there’s a link between these cases?” she asked.

  “I know Dr. Isles isn’t one to rely on hunches. Which is why it kind of surprised me, that she called you about this. Considering the predictable blowback.”

  They didn’t need to say the name to know they were both talking about Crowe.

  “So how bad is it, working with him?” she asked as they moved down the flagstone path toward the backyard.

  “Aside from the fact I’ve already ripped through three punching bags in the gym?”

  “Trust me, it won’t get better. Working with him is like Chinese water tor—” She stopped. “You know what I mean.”

  Tam laughed. “We Chinese may have invented it, but Crowe perfected it.”

  They emerged into the backyard and she saw the object of their scorn standing with Maura. Everything about Crowe’s body language screamed pissed off, from his rigid neck to his agitated gestures.

  “Before you turn this into a three-ring circus,” he said to Maura, “how about giving us a more specific time of death?”

  “That’s as specific as I can be,” said Maura. “The rest is up to you. That is your job.”

  Crowe noticed Jane approaching and said, “I’m sure the all-powerful Rizzoli has the answers.”

  “I’m here at Dr. Isles’s request,” said Jane. “I’ll just take a look and get out of your way.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Maura said, quietly, “She’s over here, Jane.”

  Jane followed her across the yard, to where a backhoe was parked. The remains were lying on a blue tarp at the edge of a freshly dug pit.

  “Adult female,” said Maura. “About five foot three. No arthritic changes in the spine, epiphyses are closed. I estimate her age as somewhere between twenty and mid-thirties …”

  “What the hell did you get me into?” Jane muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m already on his shit list.”

  “So am I, but it doesn’t stop me from doing my job.” Maura paused. “Assuming I keep my job”—something that had been in doubt after Maura’s testimony in court had sent a well-liked cop to prison. Maura’s aloofness—some would call it strangeness—had never made her popular among Boston PD’s rank and file, and now cops considered her a traitor to their brotherhood.

  “I gotta be honest,” said Jane. “What you told me over the phone didn’t give me much of a tingle.” She looked at the remains, stripped down by decay to nothing more than bones. “To start off with, this is a woman.”

  “Her ankles were bound with orange nylon cord. The same cord that was around Gott’s ankles.”

  “That type of cord’s common enough. Unlike Gott, this one�
�s female and someone went to the trouble of burying her.”

  “There’s a cut mark at the bottom of her sternum, just like Gott. I think she was quite possibly eviscerated.”

  “Possibly?”

  “Without any remaining soft tissues and organs, I can’t prove it. But that sternal cut is from a blade. The kind of nick you’d make when you slice open the abdomen. And there’s one more thing.” Maura knelt down to point at the skull. “Look at this.”

  “Those three little scratches?”

  “Remember Gott’s skull film, where I pointed out the three linear scratches? Like claw marks on the bone.”

  “These aren’t linear. They’re just tiny little nicks.”

  “They’re spaced precisely apart. They might have been made by the same tool.”

  “Or by animals. Or that backhoe.” Jane turned at the sound of voices. The crime scene unit had arrived, and Crowe was leading a trio of criminalists toward the remains.

  “So what do you think, Rizzoli?” said Crowe. “You gonna call dibs on this?”

  “I’m not fighting you for turf. I’m just checking out some similarities.”

  “Your vic was, what? A sixty-four-year-old guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this is a young female. Does that sound similar to you?”

  “No,” Jane admitted, feeling Maura’s gaze on her.

  “Your male victim—what did you find on autopsy? The cause of death?”

  “There was a skull fracture, as well as crush injuries of the thyroid cartilage,” said Maura.

  “There’s no obvious fractures on my gal’s skull,” said Crowe. My gal. As if she belonged to him, this nameless victim. As if he’d already claimed ownership.

  “This woman was small and easier to control than a man,” Maura said. “There’d be no need to stun her first with a blow to the head.”

  “But it is another difference,” said Crowe. “Another detail that doesn’t line up with the other case.”

  “Detective Crowe, I’m looking at the gestalt of these two cases. The overall picture.”

  “Which only you seem to be seeing. One vic is an older male, the other a younger female. One has a skull fracture, the other doesn’t. One was killed and displayed in his own garage, the other was buried in a backyard.”

  “Both were nude, their ankles bound with cord, and they were very likely eviscerated. The way a hunter—”

  “Maura,” cut in Jane. “How ’bout we walk the property?”

  “I’ve already walked it.”

  “Well, I haven’t. Come on.”

  Reluctantly, Maura followed her away from the pit and they moved to the edge of the yard. There were overhanging trees here, which deepened the gloom of an already depressingly gray afternoon.

  “You think Crowe’s right, don’t you?” said Maura, her voice tinged with bitterness.

  “You know I always respect your opinion, Maura.”

  “But in this case, you don’t agree with it.”

  “You have to admit, there are differences between these two victims.”

  “The cut marks. The nylon cord. Even the knots are similar, and—”

  “A double square knot isn’t unique. If I were a perp, it’s probably what I’d use to tie up a victim.”

  “The gutting? How many recent cases have you seen of that?”

  “You found a single nick in the sternum. It’s not conclusive. These victims couldn’t be more different. Age, sex, location.”

  “Until I ID this female, you can’t say there’s no connection with Gott.”

  “Okay,” Jane conceded with a sigh. “True.”

  “Why are we arguing? You’re always welcome to prove me wrong. Just do your job.”

  Jane stiffened. “When haven’t I?”

  That reply, so tight with tension, made Maura go still. Her dark hair, usually so smooth and sleek, was transformed by the chilly dampness into a wiry net that had trapped stray twigs. In the gloom of these trees, with her dirt-streaked pant cuffs and wrinkled blouse, she looked like a feral version of Maura, a stranger whose eyes glowed too brightly. Feverishly.

  “What’s really going on here?” Jane asked quietly.

  Maura looked away, a sudden avoidance of gaze as if the answer was too painful to share. Over the years they had been privy to each other’s miseries and missteps. They knew the worst of each other. Why now did Maura suddenly shrink from answering a simple question?

  “Maura?” Jane prodded. “What’s happened?”

  Maura sighed. “I got a letter.”

  FOURTEEN

  THEY SAT IN A BOOTH AT J. P. DOYLE’S, A FAVORITE BOSTON PD WATERING hole where, come five P.M., there would almost certainly be at least half a dozen cops at the bar, trading war stories. But three P.M. was a restaurant’s witching hour, and that afternoon only two other booths were occupied. Although Jane had eaten countless lunches at Doyle’s, this was Maura’s first meal here, yet another reminder that despite their years together as colleagues and friends, a gulf remained between them. Cop versus doc, community college versus Stanford University, Adams Ale versus Sauvignon Blanc. As the waitress stood waiting, Maura scanned the menu with an expression of What’s the least disgusting thing I can order?

  “The fish-and-chips are good,” suggested Jane.

  “I’ll take the Caesar salad,” said Maura. “Dressing on the side.”

  The waitress left, and they sat for a moment in uneasy silence. In the booth across from them sat a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Older man, younger woman. Sex in the afternoon, thought Jane, and no doubt illicit as hell. It made her think of her own father, Frank, and his blond chickie, the affair that had fractured his marriage and sent heartbroken Angela into Vince Korsak’s arms. Jane wanted to yell: Hey, mister, go back to your wife now, before you fuck up everyone’s lives.

  As if men drunk on testosterone ever listened to reason.

  Maura glanced at the passionately entwined couple. “Nice place. Do they rent rooms by the hour?”

  “When you’re on a cop’s salary, this is the place for decent food and lots of it. Sorry it doesn’t meet your standards.”

  Maura winced. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m just not good company today.”

  “You said you got a letter. Who sent it?”

  “Amalthea Lank.”

  The name was like a wintry breath, chilling Jane’s skin, lifting the hairs on her neck. Maura’s mother. The mother who’d abandoned her soon after birth. The mother who now resided in the women’s prison in Framingham, where she was serving a life term for multiple homicides.

  No, not a mother. A monster.

  “Why the hell are you getting letters from her?” said Jane. “I thought you cut off all contact.”

  “I did. I asked the prison to stop forwarding her letters. I refused her phone calls.”

  “So how did you get this letter?”

  “I don’t know how she managed to slip it through. Maybe she bribed one of the guards. Or it was sent out in another inmate’s letter. But I found it in my mail when I got home last night.”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve handled the whole thing. One visit to Framingham, and I’d make damn sure she’ll never bother you again.”

  “I couldn’t call you. I needed time to think.”

  “What’s to think about?” Jane leaned forward. “She’s screwing around with your head again. It’s the kind of thing she loves to do. Gives her a thrill to play mind games with you.”

  “I know. I know that.”

  “Open the door one tiny crack and she’ll shove her way into your life. Thank God she didn’t raise you. It means you don’t owe her a thing. Not one word, not one thought.”

  “I carry her DNA, Jane. When I looked at her, I saw myself in her face.”

  “Genes are overrated.”

  “Genes determine who we are.”

  “Does that mean you’re gonna pick up a scalpel and start slicing
up people, like she did?”

  “Of course not. But lately …” Maura paused and looked down at her hands. “Everywhere I look, I seem to see shadows. I see the dark side.”

  Jane snorted. “Of course you do. Look at where you work.”

  “When I walk into a crowded room, I’ll automatically wonder whom I should be afraid of. Who needs to be watched.”

  “It’s called situational awareness. It’s smart.”

  “It’s more than that. It’s as if I can feel the darkness. I don’t know if it comes from the world around me, or if it’s already inside me.” She was still staring at her hands, as if the answers were written there. “I find myself obsessed with looking for ominous patterns. Things that connect. When I saw that skeleton today, and I remembered Leon Gott’s body, I saw a pattern. A killer’s signature.”

  “It doesn’t mean you’re sliding into the dark side. It just means you’re doing your medical examiner thing. Always looking for the gestalt, as you put it.”

  “You didn’t see a signature. Why do I?”

  “Because you’re smarter than me?”

  “That’s a flippant answer, Jane. And it’s not true.”

  “Okay, so using my amazing cop brain, let me make an observation. You’ve had a really rough year. You broke up with Daniel, and you probably still miss him. Am I right?”

  “Of course I miss him.” She added, softly: “And I’m sure he misses me.”

  “Then there was your testimony against Wayne Graff. You sent a cop to jail, and Boston PD gave you a rough time because of it. I’ve read about stress factors and how they make people sick. A broken love affair, conflict at work—hell, your stress score’s so high, you should have cancer by now.”

  “Thank you for giving me one more thing to worry about.”

  “And now this letter. This goddamn letter from her.”

  They fell silent as the waitress returned with their food. A club sandwich for Jane, the Caesar salad—dressing on the side—for Maura. Only after their server walked away did Maura ask, quietly:

  “Do you ever get letters from him?”

  She didn’t have to say his name; they both knew whom she was talking about. Reflexively Jane clenched fingers over her scarred palms, where Warren Hoyt had plunged his scalpels. She had not laid eyes on him in four years, yet she could remember every detail of his face, a face so unremarkable that it could blend into any crowd. Incarceration and illness had no doubt aged him, but she had no interest in seeing the changes. She drew enough satisfaction knowing that she’d delivered justice with a single bullet to his spine, and his punishment would last a lifetime.