“He tried to send me letters from rehab,” Jane said. “He dictates them to his visitors, and they mail them to me. I toss them right out.”
“You’ve never read them?”
“Why would I? It’s his way of trying to stay in my life. To let me know he’s still thinking about me.”
“The woman who got away.”
“I didn’t just get away. I’m the one who took him down.” Jane gave a hard laugh and picked up her sandwich. “He’s obsessed with me, but I won’t waste one millisecond thinking about him.”
“You really don’t think about him at all?”
The question, asked so softly, hung unanswered for a moment. Jane focused on her sandwich, trying to convince herself that what she’d said was true. But how could it be? Trapped though he was in his paralyzed body, Warren Hoyt still wielded power over her because of their shared history. He’d seen her helpless and terrified; he was a witness to the moment she’d been conquered.
“I won’t give him that power,” Jane said. “I refuse to think about him. And that’s what you should do.”
“Even though she’s my mother?”
“That word doesn’t apply to her. She’s a DNA donor, that’s it.”
“That’s a powerful it. She’s part of every cell in my body.”
“I thought you’d decided this, Maura. You walked away from her, and swore you were never going to look back. Why are you changing your mind?”
Maura looked down at her untouched salad. “Because I read her letter.”
“And I’m guessing she pressed all the right buttons. I’m your only blood relative. We have unbreakable bonds. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Maura admitted.
“She’s a sociopath and you don’t owe her a thing. Tear up the letter and forget about it.”
“She’s dying, Jane.”
“What?”
Maura looked at her, torment in her eyes. “She has six months, a year at the most.”
“Bullshit. She’s playing you.”
“I called the prison nurse last night, right after I read the letter. Amalthea had already signed the release form, so they shared her medical information with me.”
“She doesn’t miss a trick, does she? She knew exactly how you’d respond and she laid the trap.”
“The nurse confirmed it. Amalthea has pancreatic cancer.”
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving candidate.”
“My only blood relative and she’s dying. She wants my forgiveness. She’s begging me for it.”
“And she expects you to give it to her?” Jane wiped mayonnaise from her fingers with swift, angry strokes of her napkin. “What about all the people she slaughtered? Who’s gonna forgive her for that? Not you. You don’t have the right.”
“But I can forgive her for abandoning me.”
“Abandoning you was the only good thing she ever did. Instead of being raised by a psycho mom, you got a chance at a normal life. Trust me, she didn’t do it because it was right.”
“Yet here I am, Jane. Healthy and whole. I grew up with every advantage, raised by parents who loved me, so I have nothing to be bitter about. Why shouldn’t I give some comfort to a dying woman?”
“So write a letter. Tell her she’s forgiven, and then forget about her.”
“She only has six months. She wants to see me.”
Jane tossed down her napkin. “Let’s not forget who she really is. You once told me you felt a chill when you looked into her eyes, because you didn’t see a human being looking back at you. You said you saw a void, a creature without a soul. You’re the one who called her a monster.”
Maura sighed. “Yes, I did.”
“Don’t walk into the monster’s cage.”
Maura’s eyes suddenly shimmered with tears. “And in six months, when she’s dead, how do I deal with the guilt? The fact I turned down her last wish? It will be too late to change my mind. That’s what I worry about most. That for the rest of my life, I’ll feel guilty. And I’ll never get the chance to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why I am the way I am.”
Jane looked into her friend’s troubled face. “Meaning what? Brilliant? Logical? Too honest for your own damn good?”
“Haunted,” said Maura softly. “By the dark side.”
Jane’s cell phone rang. As she dug it out of her purse, she said: “It’s because of the job we do and the things we see. We both chose this work because we’re not sunshine-and-ponies kind of gals.” She hit the TALK button on her phone. “Detective Rizzoli.”
“The carrier finally released Leon Gott’s phone log,” said Frost.
“Anything interesting?”
“Really interesting. On the day of his death he made several phone calls. One was to Jerry O’Brien, which we already knew about.”
“About picking up Kovo’s carcass.”
“Yeah. He also made a phone call to Interpol in Johannesburg, South Africa.”
“Interpol? What was he calling them about?”
“About his son’s disappearance in Botswana. The investigator wasn’t in the office, so Gott left a message saying he’d call again later. He never did.”
“His son went missing six years ago. Why’s Gott asking about it now?”
“I have no idea. But here’s the really interesting item in his phone log. At two thirty P.M., he called a cell phone registered to Jodi Underwood, in Brookline. It lasted six minutes. That same night, at nine forty-six P.M., Jodi Underwood called Gott back. That call was only seventeen seconds long, so she might have just left a message on his answering machine.”
“There was no message on his answering machine from that night.”
“Right. And at nine forty-six, there’s a good chance Gott was already dead. Since the next-door neighbor said she saw his lights get turned off between nine and ten-thirty.”
“So who deleted this phone message? Frost, this is weird.”
“It gets a lot weirder. I called Jodi Underwood’s cell phone twice and it went straight to voice mail. Then it suddenly hit me that her name sounded familiar. You remember?”
“Hint, please.”
“Last week’s news. Brookline.”
Jane’s pulse suddenly kicked into a gallop. “There was a homicide …”
“Jodi Underwood was murdered in her home Sunday night. The same night as Leon Gott.”
FIFTEEN
“I WENT ON HER FACEBOOK PAGE,” SAID FROST AS THEY DROVE TO BROOKLINE. “Check out her profile.”
For once he was the one driving as Jane played catch-up on Frost’s iPad, tapping through webpages that he had already visited. She pulled up the Facebook page and saw a photo of a pretty redhead. According to her profile she was thirty-seven years old, single, and a high school librarian. She had a sister named Sarah and she was a vegetarian whose likes included PETA, animal rights, and holistic health.
“She’s not exactly Leon Gott’s type,” said Jane. “Why would a woman who probably despised everything he stood for be talking to him on the phone?”
“I don’t know. I went back four weeks on his phone log and there are no other calls between them. Just those two, on Sunday. He called her at two thirty, she called him back at nine forty-six. When he was probably dead.”
Jane replayed the scenario as it must have unfolded that night. The killer still in Gott’s house, the dead body already hanging in the garage, perhaps in the process of being gutted. The phone rings, the answering machine picks up, and Jodi Underwood leaves her message. What’s on that message that compels the killer to delete it, leaving the bloody smear on the answering machine? What would make him drive to Brookline and commit a second murder that same night?
She looked at Frost. “We never did find a personal address book in his house.”
“No. Searched all over, too, ’cause we wanted his contacts. No address book turned up.”
She thought about the killer standing over that phone, seein
g Jodi’s number on display, a number that Gott had called earlier that day. A number that Gott must have stored in his personal directory, along with Jodi’s mailing address.
Jane scrolled down through Jodi’s Facebook page, reading the entries. The woman had posted fairly regularly, at least every few days. The last entry was on Saturday, the day before she died.
Check out this recipe for veggie pad Thai. I cooked it for my sister and her husband last night, and they didn’t even miss the meat. It’s healthy, tasty, and good for the planet!
Dining on rice noodles and tofu that night, did Jodi have any inkling it would be one of her last meals? That all her efforts to eat healthy would soon be irrelevant?
Jane scrolled back through Jodi’s earlier entries, about books she’d read and movies she’d enjoyed, about friends’ weddings and birthdays, about a gloomy day in October when she’d wondered about the point of life. Back another few weeks to September, more cheerful, the start of a new school year.
How nice to see familiar faces back in the library.
Then, in early September, she posted a photo of a smiling young man with dark hair, along with a melancholy entry.
Six years ago, I lost the love of my life. I will never stop missing you, Elliot.
Elliot. “His son,” Jane said softly.
“What?”
“Jodi’s Facebook entry is about a man named Elliot. She writes: Six years ago, I lost the love of my life.”
“Six years ago?” Frost looked at her with startled eyes. “That’s when Elliot Gott vanished.”
IN THE MONTH OF November, after clocks switch to standard time, the sun sets early in New England, and at four thirty on that gloomy afternoon it already felt like dusk. The sky had been threatening to rain all day, and a fine drizzle misted the windshield by the time Jane and Frost arrived at Jodi Underwood’s residence. A gray Ford Fusion was parked in front of it, and on the driver’s side they could see the silhouette of a woman’s head. Even before Jane had her seat belt unbuckled, the Ford’s door swung open and the driver stepped out. She was statuesque, her hair stylishly streaked with gray, and dressed in smart but practical attire: gray pants and suit jacket, a tan raincoat, and sturdy, comfortable flats. It was an outfit that could have come from Jane’s closet, which wasn’t surprising, since this woman, too, was a cop.
“Detective Andrea Pearson,” the woman said. “Brookline PD.”
“Jane Rizzoli, Barry Frost,” said Jane. “Thanks for meeting us.”
They shook hands but wasted no time lingering in the thickening drizzle, and Pearson immediately led them up the steps to the front door of the house. It was a modest residence, with a small front yard dominated by paired forsythia bushes, their branches stripped of leaves by autumn. A scrap of police tape still clung to the porch railing, a bright warning flag that announced: Tragedy ahead.
“I have to say, I was startled to get your call,” Detective Pearson said as she pulled out the house key. “We haven’t been able to pry Jodi Underwood’s phone logs from her carrier yet, and her cell phone’s missing. So we had no idea that she and Mr. Gott traded phone calls.”
“You said her phone’s missing,” said Jane. “Was it stolen?”
“Along with other things.” Detective Pearson unlocked the door. “Robbery was the motive here. At least, that’s what we assumed.”
They stepped into the house, and Detective Pearson switched on the lights. Jane saw wood floors, a living room furnished with sleek Swedish minimalism, but no bloodstains. The only evidence that a crime had been committed here were the smudges of fingerprint powder.
“Her body was lying right here, near the front door,” said Detective Pearson. “After Jodi didn’t show up for work Monday morning, the school called her sister Sarah, who drove straight over. She was found around ten A.M. The body was dressed in pajamas and a robe. The cause of death was pretty obvious. There were ligature marks around her neck, and the ME agreed it was strangulation. The victim also had a bruise on her right temple, maybe from an initial blow to stun her. There was no evidence of sexual assault. It was a blitz attack, a rapid takedown that probably happened right after she opened the door.”
“You said she was wearing pajamas and a robe?” said Frost.
Pearson nodded. “The ME estimated time of death between eight P.M. and two A.M. If she made that phone call to Gott at nine forty-six P.M., that narrows down the time of death for us.”
“Assuming the call actually came from her and not someone else using her phone.”
Pearson paused. “That is a possibility, since her cell phone’s missing. Every call made to her on Monday morning went straight to voice mail, so whoever has it seems to have turned it off.”
“You said you thought that robbery was the motive. What else was taken?” asked Jane.
“According to her sister Sarah, the missing items include Jodi’s MacBook Air laptop, a camera, cell phone, and her purse. There have been other break-ins in this neighborhood, but those happened while the occupants were away. The same sorts of valuables were taken, mostly electronics.”
“Do you think this was the same perp?”
Detective Pearson didn’t answer right away, but stared down at the floor, as if she could still see Jodi Underwood’s body lying at her feet. A silvery curl of hair slid across her cheek, and she brushed it back. Looked at Jane. “I’m not sure. With the other burglaries, there were fingerprints left behind, obviously an amateur at work. But this crime scene, there was no evidence left behind. No fingerprints, no tool marks, no footwear evidence. It’s so clean, so efficient, it almost seems …”
“Professional.”
Detective Pearson nodded. “That’s why I’m intrigued by her phone calls with Leon Gott. Did that crime scene look like a targeted killing?”
“I don’t know about targeted,” said Jane. “But it was definitely not clean and efficient, like this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll send you the crime scene photos. I’m sure you’ll agree Leon Gott’s murder was quite a bit messier. And more grotesque.”
“So maybe there is no connection between these two cases,” said Detective Pearson. “But do you know why they exchanged phone calls? How did they know each other?”
“I have a hunch, but I’ll need to confirm it with Jodi’s sister. You said her name is Sarah?”
“She lives about a mile from here. I’ll give her a call and tell her we’re coming. Why don’t you follow me in your car?”
“MY SISTER HATED EVERYTHING that Leon Gott stood for. His big-game hunting, his politics, but most of all the way he treated his son,” said Sarah. “I have no idea why he’d call Jodi. Or why she’d call him.”
They sat in Sarah’s tidy living room where the furniture was all blond wood and glass. It was apparent the two sisters shared similar tastes, right down to the Swedish-chic sensibilities. They resembled each other, too, both of them with curly red hair and swan necks. But unlike Jodi’s smiling Facebook photo, Sarah’s face was a snapshot of exhaustion. She’d brought out a tray of tea and cookies for her three visitors, but her own cup sat cooling and untouched. Though she was thirty-eight, in the gray light of the window she looked older, as if grief had exerted its own form of gravity on her face, drooping down the corners of her mouth, her eyes.
Detective Pearson and Sarah already knew each other and had bonded over Jodi’s death, so Jane and Frost deferred to Pearson for the first few questions.
“These phone calls may have nothing to do with Jodi’s murder, Sarah,” said Pearson. “But the coincidence is certainly striking. Did Jodi mention Leon Gott at all in the past few weeks?”
“No. Not in the past months or years, either. After she lost Elliot, there was no reason to talk about his father.”
“What did she say about Leon Gott?”
“She said he was the world’s most despicable dad. Jodi and Elliot lived together for about two years, so she heard a lot about Leon. How he love
d his guns more than his own family. How he took Elliot hunting one day, when Elliot was only thirteen. Told him to gut the deer, and when Elliot refused, Leon called him a faggot.”
“How awful.”
“Leon’s wife left him right after that, taking Elliot with her. Best thing she could have done as a mother. Too bad she didn’t do it earlier.”
“And did Elliot have much contact with his father?”
“Sporadically. Jodi told me that the last call Leon made to Elliot was on his birthday, but it was a short conversation. Elliot tried to keep it civil, but he had to hang up when his dad started bad-mouthing his dead mother. A month later, Elliot left for Africa. It was his dream trip, something he’d planned for years. Thank God Jodi couldn’t get vacation time to go with him, or she might be …” Sarah’s head drooped and she looked down at her untouched cup of tea.
“After Elliot vanished,” said Detective Pearson, “did Jodi have any contact with Leon?”
Sarah nodded. “A few times. It took losing his son for him to realize what an ass he’d been as a father. My sister was such a good soul and she tried to offer him some sort of comfort. They’d never gotten along, but after Elliot’s memorial service, she wrote Leon a card. Even printed and framed the very last photo of Elliot, taken while he was in Africa. She gave that photo to Leon, and was surprised when she got a thank-you note from him. But after that, they fell out of touch. As far as I know, they hadn’t spoken in years.”
Up till now Jane had sat silent as Detective Pearson led the interview. Now she couldn’t help but interject.
“Did your sister have other photos of Elliot in Africa?”
Sarah gave her a puzzled look. “A few. He sent them all from his cell phone while he was traveling. His camera was never found, so those cell phone shots are the only ones there are from his trip.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 324
