The Sinner

by Tess Gerritsen

  He said nothing, but focused instead on stacking the empty boxes. When he finally answered, he did not look at her. “I haven’t felt much like celebrating, either.”

  The TV was still on, the sound now muted, but distracting images flashed on the screen. Victor reached for the remote and pressed OFF. Then he sat on the couch, a comfortable distance away, not touching her, yet close enough to leave open all possibilities.

  He looked at the martini glass she’d brought him. “It’s pink,” he said, with a note of surprise.

  “A Cosmopolitan. I warned you it was a girly drink.”

  He took a sip. “Tastes like the girls are having all the fun.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, sipping their drinks, the Christmas lights twinkling on and off. A homey and comfortable scene, but Maura was feeling anything but relaxed. She didn’t know what to expect of this evening, and didn’t know what he expected either. Everything about him was disconcertingly familiar. His scent, the way his hair caught the lamplight. And the little details, which she always found endearing because they reflected his lack of pretension: the well-worn shirt, the faded jeans. The same old Timex that he’d been wearing ever since she’d met him. I can’t walk into a third world country and say I’m here to help you when there’s a Rolex on my wrist, he’d said. Victor as Man of La Mancha, tilting at the windmill of poverty. She may have grown weary of that fight long ago, but he was still in the thick of it.

  And for that, she couldn’t help but admire him.

  He put down the martini glass. “I saw more about the nuns today. On the news.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “The police were dragging a pond behind the convent. What’s that all about?”

  She leaned back, the alcohol starting to melt the tension from her shoulders. “They found a baby in the pond.”

  “The nun’s?”

  “We’re waiting for the DNA to confirm it.”

  “But you have no doubt it’s her baby?”

  “It has to be. Or this case gets unbelievably complicated.”

  “So you’ll be able to identify the father. If you have DNA.”

  “We need a name, first. And even if we do establish paternity, there’s always the question of whether the sex was consensual, or whether it was rape. How do you prove it, one way or another, without Camille’s testimony?”

  “Still, it sounds like a possible motive for murder.”

  “Absolutely.” She drained the last of her drink and set down the glass. It had been a mistake to drink before dinner. The alcohol and lack of sleep were conspiring to fog her thinking. She rubbed her temples, trying to force her brain to stay sharp.

  “I should feed you, Maura. You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

  She forced a laugh. “You know that movie, where the little boy says, ‘I see dead people’?”

  “The Sixth Sense.”

  “Well, I see them all the time, and I’m getting tired of it. That’s what’s ruined my mood. Here it is, almost Christmas, and I didn’t even think about putting up a tree, because I’m still seeing the autopsy lab in my head. I’m still smelling it on my hands. I come home on a day like this, after two postmortems, and I can’t think about cooking dinner. I can’t even look at a piece of meat without thinking of muscle fibers. All I can deal with is a cocktail. And then I pour the drink and smell the alcohol, and suddenly there I am, back in the lab. Alcohol, formalin, they both have that same sharp smell.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk this way about your work.”

  “I’ve never felt so overwhelmed by it.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the invincible Dr. Isles.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “You’re pretty good at playing the part. Smart and bulletproof. Do you realize how much you intimidated your students at U.C.? They were all afraid of you.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Queen of the Dead.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the cops here call me. Not to my face. But I’ve heard it through the grapevine.”

  “I kind of like that. Queen of the Dead.”

  “Well, I hate it.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cushions. “It makes me sound like a vampire. Like something grotesque.”

  She didn’t hear him rise from the couch and move behind her. So she was startled when she suddenly felt his hands on her shoulders. She went still, every nerve ending alive and exquisitely sensitive to his touch.

  “Relax,” he murmured, his fingers kneading her muscles. “That’s one thing you never learned to do.”

  “Don’t, Victor.”

  “You never drop your guard. You never want anyone to see you as less than perfect.”

  His fingers were sinking deeply into her shoulders and neck. Probing, invading. She responded by tensing even more, her muscles snapping taut in defense.

  “No wonder you’re tired,” he said. “Your shields are always up. You can’t just sit back and enjoy it when someone touches you.”

  “Don’t.” She pulled away and rose to her feet. Turning to face him, she could still feel her skin tingling from his touch. “What’s going on here, Victor?”

  “I was trying to help you relax.”

  “I’m relaxed enough, thank you.”

  “You’re wound up so tight your muscles feel like they’re ready to snap.”

  “Well, what do you expect? I don’t know what you’re doing here. I don’t know what you want.”

  “How about just to be friends again?

  “Can we be?”

  “Why not?”

  Even as she met his gaze, she could feel herself reddening. “Because there’s too much history between us. Too much . . .” Attraction was what she thought, but she cut off the word. She said, instead: “I’m not sure men and women can be just friends, anyway.”

  “That’s a sad thing to believe.”

  “It’s realistic. I work with men every day. I know they’re intimidated, and I want them to be. I want them to see me as an authority figure. A brain and a white coat. Because once they start thinking of me as a woman, sex always gets in the picture.”

  He snorted. “And that would contaminate everything.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of authority you wave over their heads. Men will look at you, and every one of them will see an attractive woman. Unless you put a bag over your head, that’s how it is. Sex is always in the room. You can’t lock it out.”

  “That’s why we can’t be just friends.” She picked up the empty glasses and walked back to the kitchen.

  He didn’t follow her.

  She stood by the sink, staring down at the glasses, the taste of lime and vodka still tart in her mouth, his scent still a fresh memory. Yes, sex was in the room all right, performing its mischief, dangling images that she tried to shut out, but couldn’t. She thought about the night they had come home late from the movies, and had started pulling off each other’s clothes the instant they’d stepped into the house. How they had made frantic, almost brutal love right there on the hardwood floor, his thrusts driving so deep she’d felt taken, like a whore. And had enjoyed it.

  She grasped the sink and heard her own breathing deepen, felt her body making its own decision, rebelling against whatever logic had kept her celibate all these months.

  Sex is always in the room.

  The front door thudded shut.

  She turned, startled. Hurried into the living room to see only the twinkling tree, but no Victor. Glancing out the window, she saw him climb into his car, and heard the roar of the engine starting.

  She dashed out the front door, her shoes sliding on the icy walkway as she hurried toward his car.

  “Victor!”

  The engine suddenly shut off, and the headlights went dark. He stepped out and looked at her, his head only a shadowy silhouette above the car roof. The wind blew, and she blinked against stinging needles of snow.


  “Why are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Go inside, Maura. It’s freezing.”

  “But why are you leaving?”

  Even through the shadows, she saw the frosty cloud of his breath, exhaled in frustration. “It’s clear you don’t want me here.”

  “Come back. I do want you to stay.” She walked around the car and stood facing him. The wind pierced her thin blouse.

  “We’d just tear into each other again. The way we always do.” He started to climb back into the car.

  She reached for his jacket and tugged him toward her. In that instant, as he turned to look at her, she knew what would come next. Reckless or not, at that moment, she wanted it to happen.

  He didn’t have to pull her into his arms. She was already there, burrowing into his warmth, her mouth seeking his. Familiar tastes, familiar smells. Their bodies fitting together, as they always had. She was shaking now, both from cold and excitement. He folded his arms around her, and his body shielded her from the wind as they kissed their way back to the front door. They brought a dusting of snow into the house, bits of glitter that slid to the floor as he shrugged off his jacket.

  They never made it to the bedroom.

  Right there, in the entryway, she fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, tugging it free from his trousers. The skin beneath felt searing to her cold-numbed fingers. She peeled away the fabric, craving his warmth, desperate to feel it against her own skin. By the time they made it into the living room, her own blouse was unbuttoned, her slacks unzipped. She welcomed him back into her body. Into her life.

  The lights of the tree twinkled like multicolored stars as she lay on the floor beneath him. She closed her eyes, yet even then, she still could see those lights winking above her in a firmament of colors. Their bodies rocked together in a knowing dance, without clumsiness, without the uncertainty of first-time lovers. She knew his touch, his moves, and when pleasure overtook her and she cried out, she felt no embarrassment. Three years of separation were swept away in this one act, and after it was done, and they lay together among the tangle of discarded clothes, his embrace felt as familiar as a well-worn blanket.

  When she opened her eyes again, she found Victor gazing down at her.

  “You’re the best thing I’ve ever unwrapped under a Christmas tree,” he said.

  She stared up at a glittering strand of tinsel hanging from a branch above. “That’s how I feel,” she murmured. “Unwrapped. Exposed.”

  “You make it sound like it’s not a good thing.”

  “It depends on what happens next.”

  “What does happen next?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  “I don’t want to be hurt again.”

  “You’re afraid that’s what I’ll do.”

  She looked at him. “It’s what you did before.”

  “We hurt each other, Maura. In a lot of different ways. People who love each other always do, without meaning to.”

  “You had the affair. What did I do?”

  “This doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “I want to know,” she said. “How did I hurt you?”

  He rolled away to lie beside her, not touching her, his gaze focused somewhere on the ceiling. “Do you remember the day I had to leave for Abidjan?”

  “I remember,” she said. Still tasting the bitterness.

  “I admit, it was a terrible time to leave you, but I had to go. I was the only one who could handle the negotiations. I had to be there.”

  “The day after my dad’s funeral?” She looked at him. “I needed you. I needed you home with me.”

  “One Earth needed me too. We could have lost that whole container of medical supplies. It couldn’t wait.”

  “Well, I accepted it, didn’t I?”

  “That’s exactly the word. Accepted it. But I knew you were pissed off.”

  “Because it kept happening. Anniversaries, funerals—nothing kept you at home. I always came in second.”

  “And that’s what it came down to, didn’t it? I had to choose between you and One Earth. I didn’t want to choose. I didn’t think I should have to. Not with so much at stake.”

  “You can’t save the world all by yourself.”

  “I can do a hell of a lot of good. You used to believe that, too.”

  “But everyone burns out eventually. You spend years obsessing about people dying in other countries. And then one day you wake up, and you just want to focus on your own life for a change. On having your own children. But you never had time for that, either.” She took a deep breath and felt tears catch in her throat, thinking of the babies she’d wanted but would probably never have. Thinking, too, of Jane Rizzoli, whose pregnancy brought Maura’s own childlessness into painful focus. “I was tired of being married to a saint. I wanted a husband.”

  A moment passed, the Christmas lights above her blurring into smears of color.

  He reached for her hand. “I guess I’m the one who failed,” he said.

  She swallowed, and the colors sharpened once again to lights twinkling on a wire. “We both did.”

  He did not release her hand, but held it firmly in his, as though afraid that if he let go, there would be no second chance at contact.

  “We can talk all we want,” she said, “But I don’t see that anything’s changed between us.”

  “We know what went wrong.”

  “It doesn’t mean we can make it different this time.”

  He said quietly, “We don’t have to do anything, Maura. We can just be together. Isn’t that enough for the moment?”

  Just be together. It sounded simple. Lying beside him, with only their hands touching, she thought: Yes, I can do this. I can be detached enough to sleep with you and not let you hurt me. Sex without love—men enjoyed it without a second thought. Why couldn’t she?

  And maybe this time, a cruel little voice whispered, he’ll be the one who gets his heart broken.

  TWELVE

  THE DRIVE TO HYANNISPORT should have taken them only two hours, south on Route 3, and then along Route 6 into Cape Cod, but Rizzoli needed two restroom breaks along the way, so they didn’t reach the Sagamore Bridge until three in the afternoon. Once across that bridge, they were suddenly in the land of seaside vacations, the road leading through a series of small towns, like a necklace of pretty beads strung along the Cape. Rizzoli’s previous trips to Hyannisport had always been during the summertime, when the roads were clogged with cars, and lines of people in T-shirts and shorts snaked out of ice cream shops. She had never been here on a cold winter’s day like this one, when half the restaurants were shuttered, and only a few brave souls were out on the sidewalks, coats buttoned up against the wind.

  Frost turned onto Ocean Street and murmured in wonder: “Man. Will you look at the size of these homes.”

  “Wanna move in?” said Rizzoli.

  “Maybe when I earn my first ten million.”

  “Tell Alice she’d better get cracking on that first million, ’cause you sure aren’t gonna make it on your salary.”

  Their written directions took them past a pair of granite pillars, and down a broad driveway to a handsome house near the water’s edge. Rizzoli stepped out of the car and paused, shivering in the wind, to admire the salt-silvered shingles, the three turrets facing the sea.

  “Can you believe she left all this to become a nun?” she said.

  “When God calls you, I guess you gotta go.”

  She shook her head. “Me? I would’ve let him keep ringing.”

  They walked up the porch steps and Frost pressed the doorbell.

  It was answered by a small dark-haired woman who opened the door just a crack to look at them.

  “We’re from Boston PD,” said Rizzoli. “We called earlier. Here to see Mrs. Maginnes.”

  The woman nodded and stepped aside to let them in. “She’s in the Sea Room. Let me show you the way.”

  They walked
across polished teak floors, past walls hung with paintings of ships and stormy seas. Rizzoli imagined young Camille growing up in this house, running across this gleaming floor. Or did she run? Was she allowed only to walk, quietly and sedately, as she wandered among the antiques?

  The woman led them into a vast room where floor-to-ceiling windows faced the sea. The view of gray, windswept water was so dramatic that it instantly captured Rizzoli’s gaze and she did not, at first, focus on anything else. But even as she stared at the water, she was aware of the sour odor that hung in the room. The smell of urine.

  She turned to look at the source of that smell: a man lying in a hospital bed near the windows, as though displayed like a piece of living art. Seated in a chair beside him was an auburn-haired woman, who now rose to greet her visitors. Rizzoli saw nothing of Camille in this woman’s face. Camille’s beauty had been delicate, almost ethereal. This woman was all gloss and polish, her hair cut in a perfect helmet, her eyebrows plucked into arching gull’s wings.

  “I’m Lauren Maginnes, Camille’s stepmother,” the woman said, and reached out to shake Frost’s hand. Some women ignore their own sex and focus only on the men in the room, and she was one of them, turning her full attention to Barry Frost.

  Rizzoli said, “Hi, I spoke to you on the phone. I’m Detective Rizzoli. And this is Detective Frost. We’re both very sorry about your loss.”

  Only then did Lauren finally deign to focus on Rizzoli. “Thank you” was all she said. She glanced at the dark-haired woman who’d shown them in. “Maria, could you tell the boys to come down and join us? The police are here.” She turned back to her guests and gestured toward a couch. “Please sit down.”

  Rizzoli found herself seated closest to the hospital bed. She looked at the man’s hand, contracted into a claw, and his face, one side drooping into an immobile puddle, and she remembered the last months of her own grandfather’s life. How he had lain in his nursing-home bed, his eyes fully aware and angry, imprisoned in a body that would no longer obey his commands. She saw such awareness in this man’s eyes. He was staring straight at her, at this visitor he did not know, and she saw despair and humiliation in that gaze. The helplessness of a man whose dignity has been stolen. He could not be much older than fifty, yet already his body had betrayed him. A line of drool glistened on his chin and dribbled onto the pillow. On a nearby table were all the paraphernalia needed to keep him comfortable: cans of Ensure. Rubber gloves and Handi Wipes. A box of adult diapers. Your whole life reduced to a tabletop’s worth of hygiene products.