From the bedroom window, she looked down at the street, where yet another Danvers PD patrol car had just pulled up. This neighborhood was outside Boston PD’s jurisdiction, but in their rush to capture Rhodes she and Frost had not wasted time waiting for Danvers detectives to assist. Now there’d be bureaucratic hell to pay.
“There’s a trapdoor up here,” said Frost, standing in the closet.
She squeezed in beside him and looked up at the ceiling panel, where a pull rope dangled. It probably led to attic storage space, where families stash boxes they never open, filled with items they couldn’t bring themselves to throw out. Frost tugged on the rope and the panel swung open, revealing a drop-down ladder and a shadowy space overhead. They shot a tense glance at each other, then Frost climbed the ladder.
“All clear!” he called down. “Just a bunch of stuff.”
She followed him through the trapdoor and turned on her pocket flashlight. In the gloom she glimpsed a row of cardboard boxes. This could be anyone’s attic, a depository for clutter, for the reams of tax documents and financial papers you fear you might need someday when the IRS comes calling. She opened one box and saw bank statements and loan documents. Moved on to the next and the next. Found copies of Biodiversity and Conservation. Old sheets and towels. Books and more books. There was nothing here to tie Rhodes to any crimes at all, much less murder.
Have we made another mistake?
She climbed back down the ladder, into the bedroom with its bare walls and spotless bedspread. Her uneasiness grew as another car pulled up outside. Detective Crowe climbed out, and she felt her blood pressure shoot up as he strutted toward the house. Seconds later, someone pounded on the front door. She went downstairs and found Crowe grinning at her from the front porch.
“So, Rizzoli, I hear the city of Boston’s not big enough for you. You breaking down doors in the suburbs now?” He walked in and made a lazy stroll around the living room. “What’ve you got on this guy Rhodes?”
“We’re still looking.”
“Funny, ’cause he’s got a clean record. No arrests, no convictions. You sure you tagged the right guy?”
“He ran, Crowe. He released two large cats to cover his escape, and he hasn’t been seen since. It makes the death of Debra Lopez look less and less like an accident.”
“Murder by leopard?” Crowe shot her a skeptical look. “Why would he kill a zookeeper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he kill Gott? And Jodi Underwood?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lot of don’t knows.”
“There’s trace evidence linking him to Jodi Underwood. That tiger hair on her bathrobe. We also know he was a student at Curry College, the same year Natalie Toombs vanished, so there’s a link to her as well. Remember how Natalie was last seen leaving for a study date with someone named Ted? Rhodes’s middle name is Theodore. According to his bio at the zoo, before he started college, he spent a year in Tanzania. Maybe that’s where he learned about the leopard cult.”
“A lot of circumstantials.” Crowe waved his arm at the sterile-looking living room. “I gotta say, I don’t see anything here that screams Leopard Man.”
“Maybe that’s significant. There’s not a whole lot here, period. There are no photos, no pictures, not even a DVD or a CD to tell us about his personal tastes. The books and magazines are all related to his work. The only medicine in his bathroom is aspirin. And you know what’s missing?”
“What?”
“Mirrors. There’s only one small shaving mirror in the upstairs bathroom.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care how he looks. Or are you going to tell me he’s a vampire?”
She turned away at his laughter. “A giant blank, that’s what this house is. It’s like he tried to keep it a sterile zone, a place just for show.”
“Or this is exactly who he is. A totally dull guy with nothing to hide.”
“There’s got to be something here. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“And if you don’t?”
She refused to consider the possibility, because she knew she was right. She had to be right.
But as the afternoon slid into evening and a team of criminalists scoured the house for evidence, her stomach knotted tighter and tighter with uncertainty. She could not believe she’d made a mistake, but it was beginning to look like one. They’d invaded the home of a man with no known criminal past. They’d broken a window, pulled apart his house, and found nothing to tie him to the murders, not even a fragment of nylon cord. They’d also attracted the attention of keenly curious neighbors, and those neighbors had nothing bad to say about Alan Rhodes, although no one admitted to knowing him well. He was quiet and polite. Never seemed to have any girlfriends. Liked to garden, always hauling home bags of mulch.
That last remark sent Jane out to take another look at Rhodes’s backyard. She had already walked the entire property, which was nearly three-quarters of an acre and abutted a wooded conservation easement. In the darkness she scanned the ground by flashlight, her beam moving across shrubs and grass. She tramped to the far edge of the lot, where a fence marked the property line. Here a sharply sloping hillock had been planted with rosebushes, their canes now spindly and bare. She stood frowning at that odd landscaping feature, wondering about that hillock. In a yard that was otherwise level, it stood out like a volcano thrust up from a plain. She was so focused on that peculiar mound that she didn’t notice Maura crossing toward her until the flashlight beam flared in her eyes.
“Have you found anything?” said Maura.
“No dead bodies for you to look at, anyway.” She frowned at Maura. “So what brings you here?”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
“You have got to get yourself a better social life.”
“This is my social life.” Maura paused. “Which is pathetic.”
“Well, nothing’s happening here,” Jane said in disgust. “As Crowe keeps pointing out to me.”
“It’s got to be Rhodes, Jane. I know he’s the one.”
“Based on what? Are you talking gestalt again? Because I don’t have a damn thing to use in court.”
“He would have been only twenty when he killed Natalie Toombs. She may have been his only Boston victim until he killed Gott. The reason we had trouble seeing the pattern is because he’s too intelligent to hunt in the same place. Instead he expanded his territory, to Maine. To Nevada and Montana. It made his signature almost impossible to spot.”
“How do we explain Leon Gott and Jodi Underwood? Those were reckless killings, both in the same day. Within ten miles of each other.”
“Maybe he’s accelerating. Losing control.”
“I don’t see any sign of that in this house. Did you look around inside? Everything’s in perfect order. There’s no hint of the monster.”
“Then he has another place. A lair, where that monster lives.”
“This is the only property Rhodes owns, and we can’t even find a piece of rope here.” In frustration, Jane kicked at the mulch and frowned at the rosebush that she’d just knocked askew. She gave the bare bush a tug, and felt only minimal resistance from the roots. “This was planted recently.”
“It’s odd, this mound of dirt.” Maura swept her flashlight around the yard, across grass and shrubs and a gravel walkway. “There don’t seem to be any other recent plantings. Just here.”
Jane stared at the hillock and suddenly felt a chill when she realized what it represented. Dirt. Where did all this dirt come from? “It’s here, under our feet,” she said. “His lair.” She moved onto the lawn, searching for an opening, a seam, anything that might indicate a hatchway leading underground, but the yard was obscured by shadow. It could take them days to dig it all up, and what if they found nothing? She could imagine the ridicule from Crowe about that.
“Ground-penetrating radar,” said Maura. “If there’s a chamber under here, that would be the quickest way to locate it.”
It was from Gabriel, who was in DC and wouldn’t be home till tomorrow. CHECK YOUR EMAIL. INTERPOL REPORT.
She’d been so focused on searching Rhodes’s house, she hadn’t read her email all afternoon. Now she scrolled through an inbox stuffed with the trivial and annoying before she found the message. It had arrived three hours earlier, sent by Henk Andriessen.
She squinted at a screen filled with dense text. As she scanned the document, words leaped out at her. Skeletonized remains found, outskirts of Cape Town. White male, multiple skull fractures. DNA match.
She stared at the newly identified name of the deceased. This makes no sense, she thought. This cannot be true.
Her phone rang. Gabriel again.
“Did you read it?” he asked.
“I don’t understand this report. It’s got to be a mistake.”
“The man’s remains were found two years ago. They were fully skeletonized, so the bones could have been lying there much longer. It took them a while to finally run the DNA and make the ID, but now there’s no doubt about who he is. Elliot Gott didn’t die on safari, Jane. He was murdered. In Cape Town.”
THIRTY-FIVE
I AM NO LONGER OF INTEREST TO THE POLICE. THE KILLER THEY’RE HUNTING for isn’t Johnny, but a man named Alan Rhodes, who has always lived in Boston. This is what Dr. Isles told me just before she left the house this evening, to join Detective Rizzoli at a crime scene. What a different world these people inhabit, a twisted universe that we ordinary people aren’t aware of until we read about it in the newspapers, or see it on the TV news. While most of us go about our everyday lives, someone, somewhere, is committing an unspeakable act.
And that’s when Rizzoli and Isles go to work.
I’m relieved to be escaping their world. They needed something from me, but I couldn’t deliver, so tomorrow I go home. Back to my family and Touws River. Back to my nightmares.
I pack for the morning flight, tucking shoes into the corner of my suitcase, folding wool sweaters that I won’t need when I land in Cape Town. How I’ve missed the bright colors of home and the smell of flowers. My time here has felt like hibernation, bundled in sweaters and coats against the cold and the gloom. I lay a pair of pants on top of the sweaters and as I fold a second pair, the gray cat suddenly jumps into my suitcase. During my entire stay, this cat has completely ignored me. Now here he is, purring and rolling around on my clothes, as if he wants me to bring him home. I pick him up and drop him on the floor. He climbs right back into the suitcase and begins meowing.
“Are you hungry? Is that what you want?” Of course it is. Dr. Isles was in and out of the house so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to feed him.
I head into the kitchen and he’s right beside me, rubbing against my leg as I open a can of cat food and empty it into his bowl. As he slurps up chunks of chicken in a savory sauce, I realize I’m hungry as well. Dr. Isles gave me full run of her house, so I go into her pantry and search the shelves for something quick and satisfying. I find a package of spaghetti, and I remember seeing bacon and eggs and a block of Parmesan cheese in the refrigerator. I’ll make spaghetti carbonara, the perfect meal for a cold night.
I’ve just pulled the package of spaghetti off the shelf when the cat suddenly gives a loud hiss. Through the partly open pantry door, I see him staring at something that I can’t see. His back is arched, his fur electric. I don’t know what has alarmed him; I only know that every hair on the back of my neck is suddenly standing up.
Glass cracks and clatters like hail across the floor. One bright shard glistens like a tear right outside the doorway.
Instantly I flick off the pantry light and stand trembling in the darkness.
The cat yowls and darts out of view. I want to flee with him, but I hear the door bang open, and heavy footsteps are crunching across broken glass.
Someone is in the kitchen. And I’m trapped.
THIRTY-SIX
JANE FELT THE ROOM SUDDENLY SPIN AROUND HER. SHE HADN’T EATEN since noon, had been on her feet for hours, and this revelation was enough to make her sag against a wall for support. “This report can’t be right,” she insisted.
“DNA doesn’t lie,” said Gabriel. “The remains found near Cape Town were matched to DNA that was already in the Interpol database. DNA that Leon Gott submitted to them six years ago, after his son vanished. The bones are Elliot’s. Based on skeletal trauma, his death was classified a homicide.”
“And these were found two years ago?”
“In parkland on the city outskirts. They can’t be specific about date of death, so he could have been killed six years ago.”
“When we know he was alive. Millie was with him on safari in Botswana.”
“Are you absolutely certain about that?” Gabriel said quietly.
That made her go silent. Are we absolutely certain Millie told the truth? She pressed a hand to her temple as thoughts swirled like a windstorm in her head. Millie couldn’t be lying, because known facts supported her. A pilot did deliver seven tourists to a landing strip in the Delta, among them a passenger with Elliot Gott’s ID. Weeks later, Millie did stumble out of the wild, with a horrifying tale of massacre in the bush. Animal scavenging had scattered the remains of the dead, and the bones of four of the victims were never found. Not Richard’s. Not Sylvia’s. Not Keiko’s. Not Elliot’s.
Because the real Elliot Gott was already dead. Murdered in Cape Town before the safari even began.
“Jane?” said Gabriel.
“Millie wasn’t lying. She was wrong. She thought Johnny was the killer, but he was a victim, like the others. Killed by the man who used Elliot’s ID to book the safari. And after it was all over, after he’d enjoyed his ultimate bush hunt, he went home. Back to who he really was.”
“Alan Rhodes.”
“Since he traveled with Elliot’s ID, there’d be no record of him entering Botswana, nothing at all to connect him to the safari.” Jane focused on the living room where she was standing. On the blank walls, the impersonal collection of books. “He’s an empty shell, like his house,” she said softly. “He can’t afford to reveal the monster he really is, so he becomes other people. After he steals their identities.”
“And leaves no record of himself.”
“But in Botswana, he made a mistake. One of his victims escaped, and she can identify …” Jane suddenly turned to Maura, who had just stepped inside and was now watching her with questions in her eyes. “Millie’s all by herself,” Jane said to her.
“Yes. She’s packing to go home.”
“Oh God. We left her alone.”
“Why does that matter?” asked Maura. “Isn’t she now irrelevant to our case?”
“No, it turns out she’s the key to it. She’s the only one who can identify Alan Rhodes.”
Maura shook her head in bewilderment. “But she’s never met Rhodes.”
“Yes she has. In Africa.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE FOOTSTEPS MOVE CLOSER. I SHRINK BEHIND THE PANTRY DOOR, my heart banging as loud as drums. I can’t see who has just broken into the house; I can only hear him, and he’s lingering in the kitchen. I suddenly remember that I left my purse on the counter, and I hear him unzipping it now, hear coins clatter onto the floor. Oh God, please let him be just a thief. Let him take my wallet and then be on his way.
He must have found what he wanted, because I hear my purse thud onto the countertop. Please leave. Please leave.
But he doesn’t. He moves, instead, across the kitchen. He will have to pass the pantry to get to the rest of the house. I stand frozen in the shadows, not daring to breathe. As he walks past the doorway crack, I glimpse his back and see curly dark hair, thick shoulders, a squarish head. There is something shockingly familiar about him, but it isn’t possible. No, that
man is dead, his bones scattered somewhere in the Okavango Delta. Then he turns toward the cracked doorway and I see his face. Everything I believed these past six years, everything I thought I knew, flips on its axis.
Elliot is alive. Poor, awkward Elliot, who pined after the blondes, who stumbled around in the bush, who was always the butt of Richard’s jokes. Elliot, who claimed he found a viper in his tent, a viper that no one else saw. I think back to the last night my companions were alive. I remember darkness, panic, gunshots. And a woman’s last scream: Oh God, he has the gun!
Not Johnny. It was never Johnny.
He keeps walking past the pantry, and his footsteps fade away. Where is he? Is he standing still, just out of sight, waiting for me to show myself? If I step out of the pantry and try to slip out the kitchen door, will he spot me? Frantically I try to picture the backyard beyond that door. It’s fully fenced, but where is the gate? I can’t remember. I could get boxed in by that fence, trapped in a killing yard.
Or I could stay right here in the pantry and wait for him to find me.
I reach for a jar on the shelf. Raspberry jam. It feels solid and heavy in my hand; not much, but it’s the only weapon I have. I ease around from behind the pantry door and peer out.
No one there.
I creep out of the pantry, into the brightly lit kitchen, where I’m painfully exposed in the glare. The back door is maybe ten paces away, across a floor littered with broken glass.
The phone rings, loud as a shriek. I freeze in place and the answering machine picks up. I hear Detective Rizzoli’s voice on the line: Millie, please pick up. Millie, are you there? This is important …
Through the urgent sound of her voice, I listen desperately for other sounds in the house, but I can’t hear him.
Go. Go now.
Terrified of betraying my presence, I tiptoe around the broken glass. Nine paces to the door. Eight. I make it halfway across the kitchen when the cat shoots into the room, claws sliding across the slick tiles, loudly scattering shards.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 339
