Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “You must have had a few cases in court where your testimony pissed off someone,” said Rizzoli.

  “Only if they’re pissed off by the truth.”

  “You’ve made enemies in court. Perps you’ve helped convict.”

  “I’m sure you have too, Jane. Just by doing your job.”

  “Have you received any specific threats? Any letters or phone calls?”

  “My phone number’s unlisted. And Louise never gives out my address.”

  “What about letters sent to you at the medical examiner’s office?”

  “There’s been the occasional weird letter. We all get them.”

  “Weird?”

  “People writing about space aliens or conspiracies. Or accusing us of trying to cover up the truth about an autopsy. We just put those letters in the screwball file. Unless there’s an overt threat, in which case we refer it to the police.”

  Maura saw Frost scribble in his notebook, and she wondered what he had written. By now she was so angry, she wanted to reach across the coffee table and snatch the notebook out of his hands.

  “Doc,” said Rizzoli quietly, “do you have a sister?”

  The question, so out of the blue, startled Maura and she stared at Rizzoli, her irritation suddenly forgotten. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have a sister?”

  “Why are you asking that?”

  “I just need to know.”

  Maura released a sharp breath. “No, I don’t have a sister. And you know that I’m adopted. When the hell are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  Rizzoli and Frost looked at each other.

  Frost closed his notebook. “I guess it’s time to show her.”

  Rizzoli led the way to the front door. Maura stepped outside, into a warm summer night that was lit up like a garish carnival by the flashing lights from the cruisers. Her body was still functioning on Paris time, where it was now four A.M., and she saw everything through a haze of exhaustion, the night as surreal as a bad dream. The instant she emerged from her house, all faces turned to stare at her. She saw her neighbors gathered across the street, watching her across the crime scene tape. As medical examiner, she was accustomed to being in the public eye, her every move followed by both police and media, but tonight the attention was somehow different. More intrusive, even frightening. She was glad to have Rizzoli and Frost flanking her, as though to shield her from curious eyes as they moved down the sidewalk, toward the dark Ford Taurus parked at the curb in front of Mr. Telushkin’s house.

  Maura did not recognize the car, but she did recognize the bearded man standing beside it, his thick hands gloved in latex. It was Dr. Abe Bristol, her colleague from the M.E.’s office. Abe was a man of hearty appetites, and his girth reflected his love of rich foods, his belly spilling over his belt in flabby excess. He stared at Maura and said, “Christ, it’s uncanny. Could’ve fooled me.” He nodded toward the car. “I hope you’re ready for this, Maura.”

  Ready for what?

  She looked at the parked Taurus. Saw, backlit by the flashing lights, the silhouette of a figure slumped over the steering wheel. Black splatters obscured the windshield. Blood.

  Rizzoli shone her flashlight on the passenger door. At first, Maura did not understand what she was supposed to be looking at; her attention was still focused on the blood-spattered window, and the shadowy occupant in the driver’s seat. Then she saw what Rizzoli’s Maglite beam was shining on. Just below the door handle were three parallel scratches, carved deep into the car’s finish.

  “Like a claw mark,” said Rizzoli, curling her fingers as though to trace the scar.

  Maura stared at the marks. Not a claw, she thought as a chill ran up her back. A raptor’s talon.

  “Come around to the driver’s side,” said Rizzoli.

  Maura asked no questions as she followed Rizzoli around the rear of the Taurus.

  “Massachusetts license plate,” Rizzoli said, her flashlight beam sweeping across the rear bumper, but it was just a detail mentioned in passing; Rizzoli continued around to the driver’s side of the car. There she paused and looked at Maura.

  “This is what got us all so shook up,” she said. She aimed her flashlight into the car.

  The beam fell squarely on the woman’s face, which stared toward the window. Her right cheek rested against the steering wheel; her eyes were open.

  Maura could not speak. She gaped at the ivory skin, the black hair, the full lips, slightly parted, as though in surprise. She reeled backward, her limbs suddenly boneless, and she had the dizzying sense that she was floating away, her body no longer anchored to the earth. A hand grasped her arm, steadying her. It was Father Brophy, standing right behind her. She had not even noticed he was there.

  Now she understood why everyone had been so stunned by her arrival. She stared at the corpse in the car, at the face illuminated by Rizzoli’s flashlight beam.

  It’s me. That woman is me.

  TWO

  SHE SAT ON THE COUCH, sipping vodka and soda, the ice cubes clattering in her glass. To hell with plain water; this shock called for sterner medicine, and Father Brophy had been understanding enough to mix her a strong drink, handing it to her without comment. It’s not every day you see yourself dead. Not every day you walk onto a crime scene and encounter your lifeless doppelgänger.

  “It’s just a coincidence,” she whispered. “The woman looks like me, that’s all. A lot of women have black hair. And her face—how can you really see her face in that car?”

  “I don’t know, Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The resemblance is pretty scary.” She sank into the easy chair, groaning as the cushions swallowed up her heavily pregnant frame. Poor Rizzoli, thought Maura. Women who are eight months pregnant should not be dragging themselves through homicide investigations.

  “Her hairstyle is different,” said Maura.

  “A little longer, that’s all.”

  “I have bangs. She doesn’t.”

  “Don’t you think that’s sort of a superficial detail? Look at her face. She could be your sister.”

  “Wait till we see her with more light. Maybe she won’t look like me at all.”

  Father Brophy said, “The resemblance is there, Maura. We all saw it. She looks exactly like you.”

  “Plus, she’s sitting in a car in your neighborhood,” added Rizzoli. “Parked practically in front of your house. And she had this lying on the back seat.” Rizzoli held up an evidence bag. Through the transparent plastic, Maura could see it contained an article torn from The Boston Globe. The headline was large enough for her to read it even from across the coffee table.

  RAWLINS INFANT WAS BATTERED BABY, MEDICAL EXAMINER TESTIFIES.

  “It’s a photo of you, Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The caption says ‘Medical Examiner Dr. Maura Isles leaves the courtroom after testifying in Rawlins trial.’ ” She looked at Maura. “The victim had this in her car.”

  Maura shook her head. “Why?”

  “That’s what we’re wondering.”

  “The Rawlins trial—that was almost two weeks ago.”

  “Do you remember seeing that woman in the courtroom?”

  “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “But she’s obviously seen you. In the newspaper, anyway. And then she shows up here. Looking for you? Stalking you?”

  Maura stared at her drink. The vodka was making her head float. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she thought, I was walking the streets of Paris. Enjoying the sunshine, savoring the scents drifting from the street cafés. How did I manage to take a wrong turn into this nightmare?

  “Do you keep a firearm, Doc?” asked Rizzoli.

  Maura stiffened. “What kind of question is that?”

  “No, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wondered if you have a way to defend yourself.”

  “I don’t have a gun. I’ve seen the damage they can do to a human body, and I won’t have one in my house.”

  “Okay. Just asking.” />
  Maura took another sip of vodka, needing liquid courage before she asked the next question: “What do you know about the victim?”

  Frost pulled out his notebook, flipping through it like some fussy clerk. In so many ways, Barry Frost reminded Maura of a mild-mannered bureaucrat with his pen always at the ready. “According to the driver’s license in her purse, her name is Anna Jessop, age forty, with an address in Brighton. Vehicle registration matches the same name.”

  Maura’s head lifted. “That’s only a few miles from here.”

  “The residence is an apartment building. Her neighbors don’t seem to know much about her. We’re still trying to reach the landlady, to let us into the unit.”

  “Does the name Jessop ring any bells?” asked Rizzoli.

  She shook her heard. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Do you know anyone in Maine?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “There was a speeding ticket in her purse. Looks like she got pulled over two days ago, driving south on the Maine Turnpike.”

  “I don’t know anyone in Maine.” Maura took a deep breath. Asked: “Who found her?”

  “Your neighbor Mr. Telushkin made the call,” said Rizzoli. “He was out walking his dog when he noticed the Taurus parked at the curb.”

  “When was that?”

  “Around eight P.M.”

  Of course, thought Maura. Mr. Telushkin walked his dog at precisely the same time every night. Engineers were like that, precise and predictable. But tonight he had encountered the unpredictable.

  “He didn’t hear anything?” Maura asked.

  “He said he’d heard what he thought was a car backfiring, maybe ten minutes before that. But no one saw it happen. After he found the Taurus, he called nine-one-one. Reported that someone had just shot his neighbor, Dr. Isles. Brookline Police responded first, along with Detective Eckert here. Frost and I arrived around nine.”

  “Why?” Maura said, finally asking a question that had occurred to her when she’d first spotted Rizzoli standing on her front lawn. “Why are you in Brookline? This isn’t your beat.”

  Rizzoli glanced at Detective Eckert.

  He said, a little sheepishly, “You know, we only had one homicide last year in Brookline. We thought, under the circumstances, it made sense to call in Boston.”

  Yes, it did make sense, Maura realized. Brookline was little more than a bedroom community trapped within the city of Boston. Last year, Boston PD had investigated sixty homicides. Practice made perfect, with murder investigations as well as anything else.

  “We would have come in on this anyway,” said Rizzoli. “After we heard who the victim was. Who we thought it was.” She paused. “I have to admit, it never even occurred to me that it might not be you. I took one look at the victim and assumed …”

  “We all did,” said Frost.

  There was a silence.

  “We knew you were due to fly home this evening from Paris,” said Rizzoli. “ That’s what your secretary told us. The only thing that didn’t make sense to us was the car. Why you’d be sitting in a car registered to another woman.”

  Maura drained her glass and set it on the coffee table. One drink was all she could handle tonight. Already, her limbs were numb and she was having trouble focusing. The room had softened to a blur, the lamps casting everything in a warm glow. This is not real, she thought. I’m asleep in a jet somewhere over the Atlantic, and I’ll wake up to find the plane has landed. That none of this has happened.

  “We don’t know anything yet about Anna Jessop,” said Rizzoli. “All we do know—what we’ve all seen with our own eyes—is that whoever she is, she’s a dead ringer for you, Doc. Maybe her hair’s a little longer. Maybe there’s a few differences here and there. But the point is, we were fooled. All of us. And we know you.” She paused. “You can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?”

  Yes, Maura could, but she didn’t want to say it. She just sat staring at the glass on the coffee table. At the melting ice cubes.

  “If we were fooled, anyone else could have been as well,” said Rizzoli. “Including whoever fired that bullet into her head. It was just before eight P.M. when your neighbor heard the backfire. Already getting dark. And there she was, sitting in a parked car just a few yards from your driveway. Anyone seeing her in that car would assume it’s you.”

  “You think I was the target,” said Maura.

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Maura shook her head. “None of this makes sense.”

  “You have a very public job. You testify at homicide trials. You’re in the newspaper. You’re our Queen of the Dead.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “It’s what all the cops call you. What the press calls you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t mean I like that nickname. In fact, I can’t stand it.”

  “But it does mean you’re noticed. Not just because of what you do, but also because of the way you look. You know the guys notice you, don’t you? You’d have to be blind not to see it. Nice-looking woman always gets their attention. Right, Frost?”

  Frost gave a start, obviously not expecting to be put on the spot, and his cheeks reddened. Poor Frost, so easily caught in a blush. “It’s only human nature,” he admitted.

  Maura looked at Father Brophy, who did not return her gaze. She wondered if he, too, was subject to the same laws of attraction. She wanted to think so; she wanted to believe that Daniel was not immune to the same thoughts that went through her head.

  “Nice-looking woman in the public eye,” said Rizzoli. “Gets stalked, attacked in front of her own residence. It’s happened before. What was the name of that actress out in L.A.? The one who got murdered.”

  “Rebecca Schaefer,” said Frost.

  “Right. And then there’s the Lori Hwang case here. You remember her, Doc.”

  Yes, Maura remembered it, because she had performed the autopsy on the Channel Six newscaster. Lori Hwang had been on the air only a year when she was shot to death in front of the studio. She’d never realized she was being stalked. The perp had been watching her on TV and had written a few fan letters. And then one day he had waited outside the studio doors. As Lori had stepped out and walked toward her car, he had fired a bullet into her head.

  “That’s the hazard of living in the public eye,” said Rizzoli. “You never know who’s watching you on all those TV screens. You never know who’s in the car right behind yours when you drive home from work at night. It’s not something we even think about—that someone might be following us. Fantasizing about us.” Rizzoli paused. Said, quietly: “I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to be the focus of someone’s obsession. I’m not even that much to look at, but it happened to me.” She held out her hands, revealing the scars on her palms. The permanent souvenirs of her battle with the man who had twice almost taken her life. A man who still lived, though trapped in a quadriplegic’s body.

  “That’s why I asked whether you’d received any strange letters,” said Rizzoli. “I was thinking about her. Lori Hwang.”

  “Her killer was arrested,” said Father Brophy.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not implying it’s the same man.”

  “No, I’m just pointing out the parallels. A single gunshot wound to the head. Women in public jobs. It just makes you think.” Rizzoli struggled to her feet. It took some effort to push herself out of the easy chair. Frost was quick to offer her his hand, but she ignored it. Though heavily pregnant, Rizzoli was not one to reach for assistance. She hoisted her purse over her shoulder and gave Maura a searching look. “Do you want to stay somewhere else tonight?”

  “This is my house. Why would I go anywhere else?”

  “Just asking. I guess I don’t need to tell you to lock your doors.”

  “I always do.”

  Rizzoli looked at Eckert. “Can Brookline PD watch the house?”

  He nodded. “I’
ll make sure a patrol car comes by every so often.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Maura. “Thank you.”

  Maura accompanied the three detectives to the front door and watched them walk to their cars. It was now after midnight. Outside, the street had been transformed back into the quiet neighborhood she knew. The Brookline PD cruisers were gone; the Taurus had already been towed away to the crime lab. Even the yellow police tape had been removed. In the morning, she thought, I’ll wake up and think I imagined the whole thing.

  She turned and faced Father Brophy, who was still standing in her foyer. She had never felt more uneasy in his company than at this moment, the two of them alone in her house. The possibilities surely swirled in both their heads. Or just mine? Late at night, alone in your bed, do you ever think of me, Daniel? The way I think of you?

  “Are you sure you feel safe staying here alone?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine.” And what’s the alternative? That you spend the night with me? Is that what you’re offering?

  He turned toward the door.

  “Who called you here, Daniel?” she asked. “How did you know?”

  He looked back at her. “Detective Rizzoli did. She told me …” He paused. “You know, I get calls like this all the time from the police. A death in the family, someone needs a priest. I’m always willing to respond. But this time …” He paused. “Lock your doors, Maura,” he said. “I don’t ever want to go through another night like this one.”

  She watched him walk out of her house and climb into his car. He did not immediately start the engine; he was waiting to make sure that she was safely inside for the night.

  She closed the door and locked it.

  Through the living room window, she watched Daniel drive away. For a moment she stared at the empty curb, feeling suddenly abandoned. Wishing, at that moment, that she could call him back. And what would happen then? What did she want to happen between them? Some temptations, she thought, are best kept beyond our reach. She scanned the dark street one last time, then stepped away from the window, aware that she was framed by the light in her living room. She closed the curtains and went from room to room, checking the locks and the windows. On this warm June night, she would normally sleep with her bedroom window open. But tonight, she left the windows closed and turned on the air conditioner.