Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

“Weymouth Fire and Rescue brought her in.”

  He looked at the patient. “Well, she’s definitely alive now.”

  “Dr. Cutler, room two’s now empty,” a nurse called out. “We can move her in there.”

  Maura followed as they wheeled the stretcher down the hallway and into a treatment room. The woman’s struggles had weakened, her strength giving way to the effects of Haldol and Valium. The nurses drew blood, reconnected EKG wires. The cardiac rhythm ticked across the monitor.

  “Okay, Dr. Isles,” said the ER physician as he shone a penlight into the woman’s eyes. “Tell me more.”

  Maura opened the envelope containing the photocopied paperwork that had accompanied the body. “Let me just tell you what’s in the transfer papers,” she said. “At eight A.M., Weymouth Fire and Rescue responded to a call from the Sunrise Yacht Club, where boaters found the subject floating in Hingham Bay. When she was pulled from the water, she had no pulse or respirations. And no ID. A state police investigator was called to the scene, and he thought it was most likely accidental. She was transferred to our office at noon.”

  “And no one at the ME’s noticed that she was alive?”

  “She arrived while we were swamped with other cases. There was that accident on I-95. And we were still backlogged from last night.”

  “It’s now nearly nine. And no one checked this woman?”

  “The dead don’t have emergencies.”

  “So you just leave them in the refrigerator?”

  “Until we can get to them.”

  “What if you hadn’t heard her moving tonight?” He turned to look at her. “You mean she might have been left there until tomorrow morning?”

  Maura felt her cheeks flush. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Dr. Cutler, ICU has a bed available,” a nurse said. “Is that where you want her?”

  He nodded. “We have no idea what drugs she might have taken, so I want her on a monitor.” He looked down at the patient, whose eyes were now closed. Her lips continued to move, as though in silent prayer. “This poor woman’s already died once. Let’s not have it happen again.”

  Maura could hear the phone ringing inside her house as she fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock the door. By the time she made it into the living room, the ringing had stopped. Whoever had called had not left a message. She cycled through the most recent numbers on caller ID, but did not recognize the last caller’s name: ZOE FOSSEY. A wrong number?

  I refuse to worry about it, she thought, and started toward the kitchen.

  Now her cell phone was ringing. She dug it out of her purse, and saw from the digital display that the caller was her colleague, Dr. Abe Bristol.

  “Hello, Abe?”

  “Maura, you want to fill me in about what happened at the ER tonight?”

  “You know about it?”

  “I’ve gotten three calls already. The Globe, the Herald. And some local TV station.”

  “What are these reporters saying?”

  “They’re all asking about the corpse who woke up. Said she just got admitted to the medical center. I had no idea what they were talking about.”

  “Oh, Jesus. How did the press find out so soon?”

  “So it’s true?”

  “I was going to call you—” She stopped. The phone was ringing in the living room. “I’ve got another call coming in. Can I get back to you, Abe?”

  “As long as you promise to fill me in.”

  She ran into the living room and picked up the receiver. “Dr. Isles.”

  “This is Zoe Fossey, Channel Six News. Would you care to comment on—”

  “It’s almost ten o’clock,” cut in Maura. “This is my home telephone. If you want to talk to me, you’re going to have to call my office during business hours.”

  “We understand that a woman woke up in the morgue tonight.”

  “I’m not going to comment.”

  “Sources tell us that both a state police investigator and a fire crew in Weymouth pronounced her dead. Did someone in your office make the same determination?”

  “The ME’s office was not involved in that determination.”

  “But the woman was in your custody, right?”

  “No one in our office made any pronouncement of death.”

  “You’re saying this was the fault of the Weymouth Fire Department and the state police? How can anyone make this kind of mistake? Isn’t it pretty obvious when someone is still alive?”

  Maura hung up.

  Almost immediately the phone rang. A different number appeared on the caller ID screen.

  She picked up the receiver. “Dr. Isles.”

  “This is Dave Rosen, Associated Press. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re following up on a report about a young woman who was taken to the medical examiner’s office and woke up in a body bag. Is this true?”

  “How did you people find out about this? This is the second call I’ve gotten.”

  “I suspect you’re going to be getting a lot more calls.”

  “And what have you been told about it?”

  “That she was brought to the morgue this afternoon, by Weymouth Fire and Rescue. That you were the one who found her alive and called the ambulance. I’ve already spoken to the hospital, and they list her condition as serious but stable. All correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Was she actually in the body bag when you found her? Was she zipped in there?”

  “You’re making it far too sensationalistic.”

  “Does anyone in your office routinely check the bodies when they first come in? Just to be sure they’re dead?”

  “I’ll have a statement for you in the morning. Good night.” She hung up. Before the phone could ring again, she unplugged it. It was the only way she’d get any sleep tonight. Staring down at the now-silent phone, she wondered: How the hell did the news get out so fast?

  Then she thought of all the witnesses in the ER—the clerks, the nurses, the orderlies. The patients in the waiting room, watching through the glass partition. Any one of them could have picked up the phone. A single call, and the word would be out. Nothing spreads faster than macabre gossip. Tomorrow, she thought, is going to be an ordeal and I’d better be ready for it.

  She used her cell phone to call Abe. “We have a problem,” she said.

  “I figured.”

  “Don’t talk to the press. I’ll come up with a statement. I’ve unplugged my home phone for the night. If you need to reach me, I’m on cell.”

  “Are you prepared to deal with all this?”

  “Who else is going to do it? I’m the one who found her.”

  “You know this is going to be national news, Maura.”

  “AP’s already called me.”

  “Oh, Christ. Have you talked to the Office of Public Safety? They’ll be in charge of the investigation.”

  “I guess they’re next on my list to call.”

  “Do you need any help preparing the statement?”

  “I’ll need some time to work on it. I’ll be late coming in tomorrow. Just hold them off until I get into the office.”

  “There’s probably going to be a lawsuit.”

  “We’re blameless, Abe. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Get ready for it.”

  THREE

  “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give to the court in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” said Jane Rizzoli.

  “Thank you. You may be seated.”

  Jane felt all eyes in the courtroom watching her as she settled heavily into the witness-stand chair. They had stared at her from the moment she’d waddled into the courtroom, her ankles swollen, her belly bulging beneath the voluminous maternity dress. Now she shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable, trying to project some semblance of authority, but the room was warm, and she could already feel persp
iration beading on her forehead. A sweating, fidgeting, pregnant cop. Yes, quite an authority figure.

  Gary Spurlock, the assistant DA for Suffolk County, rose to conduct the direct exam. Jane knew him to be a calm and methodical prosecutor, and she had no anxiety about this first round of questions. She kept her gaze on Spurlock, avoiding even a glance at the defendant, Billy Wayne Rollo, who slouched beside his female attorney and stared at Jane. She knew Rollo was trying to intimidate her with the evil eye. Rattle the cop, throw her off balance. He was like too many other assholes she’d known, and his stare was nothing new. Just the last resort of a loser.

  “Could you tell the court your name and spell the last name, please?” Spurlock said.

  “Detective Jane Rizzoli. R-I-Z-Z-O-L-I.”

  “And your profession?”

  “I’m a detective with the homicide unit, Boston Police Department.”

  “Could you describe your education and background for us?”

  She shifted again, her back starting to ache in the hard chair. “I received my associate’s degree in criminal justice from Massachusetts Bay Community College. After my training at Boston PD Academy, I was a beat patrolman in both the Back Bay and Dorchester.” She flinched as her baby gave a hard kick. Settle down in there. Mama’s on the stand. Spurlock was still waiting for the rest of her answer. She continued. “I worked as a detective in vice and narcotics for two years. Then, two and a half years ago, I transferred to the homicide unit, which is where I am currently assigned.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Now I’d like to ask you about the events of February third of this year. In the course of your job, you visited a residence in Roxbury. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The address was 4280 Malcolm X Boulevard, correct?”

  “Yes. It’s an apartment building.”

  “Tell us about that visit.”

  “At approximately two thirty P.M., we—my partner, Detective Barry Frost, and I—arrived at that address to interview a tenant in apartment two-B.”

  “In regards to what?”

  “It was in regards to a homicide investigation. The subject in two-B was an acquaintance of the victim.”

  “So he—or she—was not a suspect in that particular case?”

  “No, sir. We did not consider her to be a suspect.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “We had just knocked on the door to two-B when we heard a woman screaming. It came from the apartment across the hall. In two-E.”

  “Could you describe the screams?”

  “I guess I would characterize them as screams of severe distress. Fear. And we heard several loud bangs, as though furniture was being overturned. Or someone was being slammed against the floor.”

  “Objection!” The defense attorney, a tall blond woman, rose to her feet. “Pure speculation. She wasn’t in the apartment to see that.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Detective Rizzoli, please refrain from guessing about events you couldn’t possibly see.”

  Even if it wasn’t just a frigging guess? Because that’s exactly what was happening. Billy Wayne Rollo was slamming his girlfriend’s head against the floor.

  Jane swallowed her irritation and amended her statement. “We heard a loud banging in the apartment.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “Detective Frost and I immediately knocked on the door to two-E.”

  “Did you identify yourselves as police officers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what happened—”

  “That’s a fucking lie,” said the defendant. “They never said they were cops!”

  Everyone looked at Billy Wayne Rollo; he was looking only at Jane.

  “You will remain silent, Mr. Rollo,” the judge ordered.

  “But she’s a liar.”

  “Counsel, either control your client or he will be ejected from this courtroom.”

  “Shhh, Billy,” the defense attorney murmured. “This is not helping.”

  “All right,” the judge said. “Mr. Spurlock, you may continue.”

  The assistant DA nodded and turned back to Jane. “What happened after you knocked on the door to two-E?”

  “There was no answer. But we could still hear the screaming. The banging. We made the joint decision that a life was in danger, and that we needed to enter the apartment with or without consent.”

  “And did you enter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They kicked my fucking door down!” said Rollo.

  “Silence, Mr. Rollo!” the judge snapped, and the defendant slouched back in his chair, his gaze burning on Jane.

  Stare at me all you want, jerk. You think you scare me?

  “Detective Rizzoli,” said Spurlock, “what did you see inside that apartment?”

  Jane turned her attention back to the assistant DA. “We saw a man and a woman. The woman was lying on her back. Her face was severely bruised, and her lip was bleeding. The man was crouched over her. He had both his hands around her neck.”

  “Is that man now sitting in this courtroom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please point him out.”

  She pointed to Billy Wayne Rollo.

  “What happened then?”

  “Detective Frost and I pulled Mr. Rollo off the woman. She was still conscious. Mr. Rollo resisted us, and in the scuffle, Detective Frost received a heavy blow to the abdomen. Mr. Rollo then fled the apartment. I gave chase and followed him into the stairwell. There I was able to apprehend him.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.” She paused. Added, without any attempt at humor: “After he fell down the stairs. He appeared to be quite intoxicated.”

  “She fucking pushed me!” said Rollo.

  The judge slammed down his gavel. “I have heard enough out of you! Bailiff, please remove the defendant.”

  “Your honor.” The defense attorney rose. “I will keep him under control.”

  “You haven’t done a very good job of it so far, Ms. Quinlan.”

  “He’ll be quiet now.” She looked at her client. “Won’t you?”

  Rollo gave a resentful grunt.

  Spurlock said: “No further questions, your honor,” and sat down.

  The judge looked at the defense attorney. “Ms. Quinlan?”

  Victoria Quinlan rose for the cross-examination. Jane had never before dealt with this particular attorney, and she was not sure what to expect. As Quinlan approached the witness stand, Jane thought: You’re young, blond, and gorgeous. What are you doing defending this creep? The woman moved like a fashion model on a catwalk, long legs emphasized by a short skirt and pointy high heels. It made Jane’s feet hurt just to look at those shoes. A woman like Quinlan had probably always been the center of attention, and she was milking it now as she strolled to the witness stand, clearly aware that every man sitting in that jury box was probably staring at her firm little ass.

  “Good morning, Detective,” said Quinlan. Sweetly. Too sweetly. Any second now this blonde was going to sprout fangs.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said Jane, utterly neutral.

  “You said that you are currently assigned to the homicide unit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what new cases are you actively investigating right now?”

  “At the moment, I have no new cases. But I continue to follow up on—”

  “Yet you are a Boston PD detective. And at this moment, are there no murder cases that require vigorous investigation?”

  “I’m on maternity leave.”

  “Oh. You’re on leave. So you’re not currently with the unit.”

  “I’m performing administrative duties.”

  “But let’s be clear on this. You’re not an active detective.” Quinlan smiled. “At the moment.”

  Jane felt her face flush. “As I said, I’m on maternity leave. Even cops have babies,” she added with a note of sarcasm, and immediate
ly regretted it. Don’t play her game. Keep your cool. That was easier said than done in this oven of a courtroom. What was wrong with the air-conditioning anyway? Why didn’t anyone else seem to be bothered by the heat?

  “When is your baby due, Detective?”

  Jane paused, wondering where this was going. “My baby was due last week,” she finally said. “It’s late.”

  “So back on February third, when you first encountered my client, Mr. Rollo, you were—what? About three months pregnant?”

  “Objection,” said Spurlock. “This is irrelevant.”

  “Counsel,” the judge said to Quinlan, “what is the point of your question?”

  “It has to do with her earlier testimony, your honor. That Detective Rizzoli was somehow able to subdue and arrest my clearly able-bodied client in the stairwell all by herself.”

  “And the state of her pregnancy has what, exactly, to do with this?”

  “A three-months-pregnant woman would have a difficult time—”

  “She’s a police officer, Ms. Quinlan. Arresting people is her job.”

  Way to go, Judge! You tell her.

  Victoria Quinlan flushed at the setback. “All right, your honor. I withdraw the question.” She turned, again, to Jane. Regarded her for a moment as she considered her next move. “You said that you and your partner, Detective Frost, were both at the scene. That you and he made a joint decision to enter apartment two-B?”

  “It wasn’t apartment two-B, ma’am. It was apartment two-E.”

  “Oh yes, of course. My mistake.”

  Yeah, right. As if you aren’t trying to trip me up.

  “You say you knocked at the door and announced that you were police officers,” said Quinlan.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And this interaction had nothing to do with why you were originally in that building.”

  “No, ma’am. It was just a coincidence that we happened to be there. But when we determine that a citizen is in danger, it’s our duty to intervene.”

  “And that’s why you knocked at apartment two-B.”

  “Two-E.”

  “And when no one answered, you burst through the door.”

  “We felt a woman’s life was in jeopardy, based on the screams we heard.”

  “How did you know they were screams of distress? Couldn’t they have been the sounds of, say, passionate lovemaking?”