Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  The ultimate aphrodisiac. In the face of danger, there’s no one more desirable than the protector, thought Jane. It was why women fell in love with cops and bodyguards, why singers crooned about someone to watch over me. In the African bush, the most desirable man is the one who can keep you alive.

  “The others were talking about overpowering Johnny and taking control of the gun. I wouldn’t go along with it, because I thought they were paranoid. And Richard was egging them on, trying to play the hero, because he was jealous of Johnny. There we were, surrounded by animals that could eat us, but the real battle was inside our camp. It was Johnny and me, against everyone else. They stopped trusting me, stopped telling me their plans. I thought we could all just ride it out till we got rescued, and then they’d see how ridiculous they were. I thought we just needed to calm down and wait it out. And then …” She swallowed. “He tried to kill Elliot.”

  “The snake in the tent,” said Jane.

  Millie nodded. “That’s when I knew I had to make a choice. Even then, I couldn’t quite believe it was Johnny. I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Because he made you trust him,” said Zucker.

  Millie wiped her eyes, and her voice cracked. “That’s how he does it. He makes you trust him. He chooses the one person who wants to believe in him. Maybe he looks for the wallflower, the utterly ordinary woman. Or the woman whose boyfriend is leaving her. Oh, he knows which one she is. He smiles at her, and for the first time in her life she feels truly alive.” Again she wiped her eyes. “I was the weakest gazelle in the herd. He knew it.”

  “Hardly the weakest,” Tam said gently. “You’re the one who lived.”

  “And she’s the one who can identify him,” said Jane. “Whatever his real name is. We have his description. We know he’s about six foot two or three, muscular build. Blond hair, blue eyes. He may have changed his hair color, but he can’t disguise his height.”

  “Or his eyes,” said Millie. “The way he looks at you.”

  “Describe it.”

  “As if he’s looking straight at your soul. Reading your dreams, your fears. As if he can see exactly who you are.”

  Jane thought of another man’s eyes, eyes that she’d once stared into as she prepared to die, and gooseflesh rippled across her arms. We’ve both felt a killer’s gaze, she thought. But I knew it when I saw it. Millie didn’t, and her shame was apparent in the drooping shoulders, the bowed head.

  Jane’s cell phone rang, shrill and startling. She stood and left the room to answer it.

  It was criminalist Erin Volchko calling. “You know those animal hairs they found on Jodi Underwood’s blue robe?”

  “The cat hairs,” said Jane.

  “Yeah, two of them are definitely from a domestic cat. But there was that third hair I couldn’t ID. The one I sent off to the wildlife lab in Oregon. We just got back the result on the keratin.”

  “A snow leopard?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. It’s from the species Panthera tigris tigris.”

  “That sounds like a tiger.”

  “A Bengal tiger, to be specific. Which is a complete surprise to me. Maybe you can explain how a tiger hair got on a victim’s bathrobe.”

  Jane already had the answer. “Leon Gott’s house was a Noah’s Ark of mounted animals. I seem to remember a tiger head on his wall, but I have no idea if it was a Bengal tiger.”

  “Can you get me a few strands off that mounted head? If we can match those hairs to this tiger hair, it tells us there was transfer from Leon Gott’s house to Jodi Underwood’s robe.”

  “Two victims. The same killer.”

  “It’s certainly starting to look that way.”

  Twenty-Nine

  He is here, somewhere in this city. As we sit in afternoon traffic, I look out the car window and watch pedestrians trudge past, heads bowed against the wind that whips between buildings. I have lived so long on the farm that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a city. I don’t care for Boston. I don’t like how cold and gray it is here, and these tall buildings cut off any view of the sky, trapping me in eternal shadow. I don’t like the brusqueness of the people, who are so direct and hard-edged. Detective Rizzoli seems distracted as she drives, and she makes no effort at conversation, so we sit in silence. Outside is a cacophony of honking horns and distant sirens and people, so many people. Like the bush, this, too, is a wilderness, where the wrong move—a careless step off the curb, an exchange of words with an angry man—can prove fatal.

  Where, in this giant maze of a city, is Johnny hiding?

  Everywhere I look, I imagine I see him. I glimpse a towering blond head and a pair of broad shoulders, and my heart gives a lurch. Then he turns and I see it’s not him. Nor is the next tall, fair-haired man who catches my eye. Johnny is simultaneously everywhere, and nowhere.

  We halt at another stoplight, boxed in between two lanes of cars. Detective Rizzoli looks at me. “I need to make one quick stop before I take you to Maura’s. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine. Where are we going?”

  “A house. The Gott crime scene.”

  She says it so casually, but this is what she does for a living. She goes to places where they find bodies. She is like Clarence, our tracker in the Delta, who was always hunting for signs of game. The game that Detective Rizzoli hunts for are those who kill.

  At last we escape heavy city traffic and enter a much quieter neighborhood of single-family houses. There are trees here, although November has stripped them of their leaves, which tumble like brown confetti on the streets. The house where we pull up has all its shades closed, and a single strand of police tape flutters on a tree, the lone bright accent in the autumnal gloom.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she says. “You can wait in the car.”

  I glance around at the deserted street and spy a silhouette in a front window, where someone stands watching us. Of course people would be watching. A killer has visited their neighborhood, and they worry he’ll make a second appearance.

  “I’ll come in with you,” I say. “I don’t want to sit out here by myself.”

  As I follow her to the front porch, I’m nervous about what I’m going to find. I’ve never been inside a house where someone was murdered, and I imagine blood-spattered walls, a chalk figure drawn on the floor. But when we step inside I see no blood, no signs of violence—unless you count the ghastly display of animal heads. There are dozens of them mounted on the walls, with eyes so life-like they seem to be staring at me. An accusatory gallery of victims. The overwhelming smell of bleach makes my eyes water, my nose sting.

  She notices my grimace and says, “The cleaners must have doused the whole house in Clorox. But it’s a lot better than what it used to smell like.”

  “Did it happen … was it in this room?”

  “No, it was in the garage. I don’t need to go in there.”

  “What are we doing here, exactly?”

  “Hunting for a tiger.” She scans the trophy heads displayed on the walls. “And there he is. I knew I saw one in here.”

  As she drags over a chair to reach the tiger, I imagine the souls of these dead animals murmuring among themselves, passing judgment on us. The African lion looks so alive that I’m almost afraid to approach him, but he draws me like a magnet. I think of the real lions I saw in the Delta, remember their muscles rippling beneath tawny coats. I think of Johnny, golden-haired and just as powerful, and imagine his head staring down at me. The most dangerous creature on this wall.

  “Johnny said he’d kill a man before he’d ever shoot a big cat.”

  Rizzoli pauses in the midst of plucking hairs from the mounted tiger and looks at me. “Then this house would definitely piss him off. All these cats, killed for sport. Then Leon Gott went bragging about it in a magazine.” She points to the gallery of photos hanging on the opposite wall. “That’s Elliot’s dad.”

  In all the pictures, I see the same middle-aged man, posing with a rifle next
to his various kills. There is also a framed magazine article: “The Trophy Master: An Interview with Boston’s Master Taxidermist.”

  “I had no idea Elliot’s father was a hunter.”

  “Elliot never told you?”

  “Not a word. He didn’t talk about his father at all.”

  “Probably because he was ashamed of him. Elliot and his dad had a falling-out years before. Leon liked to blast away at animals. Elliot wanted to save the dolphins, the wolves, and the field mice.”

  “Well, I know he loved birds. On safari, he was always pointing them out to us, trying to identify them.” I look at the photos of Leon Gott with his dead-animal conquests and shake my head. “Poor Elliot. He was everyone’s punching bag.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Richard was always putting him down, making him the butt of jokes. Men and their testosterone, always trying to one-up each other. Richard had to be king, and Elliot had to bow. It was all about impressing the blondes.”

  “The two South African girls?”

  “Sylvia and Vivian. Elliot had such a crush on them, and Richard never lost a chance to show how much more of a man he was.”

  “You still sound bitter about it, Millie,” she observes quietly.

  I’m surprised that I am bitter. That even after six years, it still stings to remember those nights around the campfire, Richard’s attention all on the girls.

  “And during this battle for male dominance, where was Johnny in all this?” she asks.

  “It’s odd, but he didn’t really seem to care. He just stood back and watched the drama. All our petty battles and jealousies—none of it seemed to matter to him.”

  “Maybe because he had other things to think about. Like what he had planned for all of you.”

  Was he thinking about those plans as he sat beside me at the fire? Was he imagining how it would feel to spill my blood, watch life drain from my eyes? Feeling suddenly cold, I hug myself as I look at the photos of Leon Gott and his conquered animals.

  Rizzoli comes to stand beside me. “I hear he was an asshole,” she says, looking at Gott’s picture. “But even assholes deserve justice.”

  “No wonder Elliot never mentioned him.”

  “Did he ever talk about his girlfriend?”

  I look at her. “Girlfriend?”

  “Jodi Underwood. She and Elliot were together for two years.”

  This surprises me. “He was so busy mooning over the blondes, he never mentioned any girlfriend. Have you met her? What is she like?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. Something’s troubling her, something that makes her hesitate before responding.

  “Jodi Underwood is dead. She was killed the same night Leon was.”

  I stare at her. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s an active investigation so there are things I can’t tell you, Millie.”

  “You brought me all this way to help you, yet you keep things from me. Important things. You should have told me that.”

  “We don’t know that their deaths are connected. Jodi’s murder looks like a robbery, and the method of killing was entirely different from Leon’s. That’s why I came for these hair samples. We’re looking for a physical link between the attacks.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The connection is Elliot.” The realization hits me with such force that for a moment I can’t speak, can’t even breathe. I whisper: “The connection is me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you contact me? Why did you think I could help you?”

  “Because we followed the links. They led us to the Botswana murders. And you.”

  “Exactly. Those links led you to me. For six years I’ve been hiding in Touws River, living under a different name. I’ve stayed away from London because I was afraid Johnny would find me. You think he’s here, in Boston. And now, so am I.” I swallow hard. “Right where he wants me.”

  I see my alarm reflected in her eyes. She says quietly: “Let’s go. I’m taking you back to Maura’s.”

  As we step out of the house, I feel as vulnerable as a gazelle in open grass. I imagine eyes everywhere, watching me from the houses, from the passing cars. I wonder how many people know that I’m in Boston. I remember the crowded airport where we landed yesterday, and I think of all the people who might have seen me in the Boston PD lobby or in the cafeteria or waiting for the elevator. If Johnny was there, would I have spotted him?

  Or am I like the gazelle, blind to the lion until the moment he springs?

  Thirty

  “In her mind, he’s grown into a monster of mythical proportions,” said Maura. “For six years, she’s been obsessed with him. It’s only natural she thinks this hunt is all about her.”

  From the living room, Jane could hear the sound of the shower running in the guest bathroom. While Millie was out of earshot, this was their chance to talk about her in private, and Maura was quick to offer her opinion.

  “Think about how preposterous her idea is, Jane. She thinks superhuman Johnny killed Elliot’s father, killed Elliot’s girlfriend, and had the miraculous foresight to plant a silver cigarette lighter as a clue five years ago? All this, to lure her out of hiding?” Maura shook her head. “Even for a master chess player, it’s too elaborate.”

  “But it’s possible this is about her.”

  “Where’s your proof that Jodi Underwood and Leon Gott were killed by the same perp? He was strung up and gutted. She was strangled in a quick, efficient blitz attack. Unless there’s a DNA match with those cat hairs—”

  “The tiger hair’s pretty convincing.”

  “What tiger hair?”

  “The forensic lab called me just before we left to come here. You know that unidentified third strand on Jodi’s blue bathrobe? It came from a Bengal tiger.” Jane pulled the plastic evidence bag from her pocket. “Leon Gott just happens to have a tiger head mounted on his wall. What are the chances there are two different killers running around who’ve both been in contact with a tiger?”

  Maura frowned at the hairs in the evidence bag. “Well, that does make your case a lot more convincing. Outside of a zoo, you’re not going to find many …” She paused, looked at Jane. “The zoo has a Bengal tiger. What if that hair was from a live animal?”

  The zoo.

  A memory suddenly sprang into Jane’s head. The leopard cage. Debra Lopez, mauled and bleeding at her feet. And the veterinarian, Dr. Oberlin, crouched over Debra’s body, his hands pumping on her chest as he desperately tried to restart her heart. Tall, blond, blue eyes. Just like Johnny Posthumus.

  Jane pulled out her cell phone.

  Half an hour later, Dr. Alan Rhodes called back. “I’m not sure why you want this, but I was able to find you a photo of Greg Oberlin. It’s not a very good one. It was taken at our fund-raiser a few weeks ago. What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “You didn’t tell Dr. Oberlin about this, right?” said Jane.

  “You asked me not to. Frankly, I don’t feel comfortable going behind his back. Is this some sort of police matter?”

  “I can’t share the details, Dr. Rhodes. It needs to stay confidential. Can you email that photo?”

  “You mean, right now?”

  “Yes right now.” Jane called out: “Maura, I need to use your computer. He’s sending the photo.”

  “It’s in my study.”

  By the time Jane sat down at Maura’s desk and signed into her email account, the photo was already in her inbox. Rhodes had said it was taken during a zoo fund-raiser, and the event was clearly a black-tie affair. She saw half a dozen smiling guests posed in a ballroom, wineglasses in hand. Dr. Oberlin was at the edge of the image, partly turned away as he reached toward the canapé tray.

  “Okay, I’m looking at it now,” she said to Rhodes over the phone. “But it’s not the best shot of him. Do you have any others?”

  “I’d have to hunt around. Or I could just ask him for one.”

 
“No. Do not ask him.”

  “Can you please tell me what this is all about? You’re not investigating Greg, are you, because he’s as straight-arrow as they come.”

  “Do you know if he’s ever been to Africa?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Do you know if he’s visited Africa?”

  “I’m sure he has. His mother’s originally from Johannesburg. Look, you need to ask Greg yourself. This is making me uncomfortable.”

  Jane heard footsteps and swiveled around to see Millie standing behind her. “What do you think?” Jane asked her. “Is it him?”

  Millie didn’t answer. She stood with eyes rooted on the photo, hands clutching the back of Jane’s chair. Her silence stretched on so long that the computer screen went black, and Jane had to reawaken it.

  “Is it Johnny?” she asked.

  “It … it could be,” Millie whispered. “I’m not sure.”

  “Rhodes,” said Jane into the phone. “I need a better photo.”

  She heard him sigh. “I’ll ask Dr. Mikovitz. Or maybe his secretary has something in the PR office.”

  “No, that’s too many people in the loop.”

  “Look, I don’t know how else you’re going to get one. Unless you want to come here with your own camera.”

  Jane looked at Millie, whose eyes were still fixed on the screen image of Dr. Gregory Oberlin. And she said: “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Thirty-One

  She promises I’ll be safe. She says I’ll never have to face him directly because it will all be done with video, and multiple police officers will be on the premises. I sit with Detective Frost in the zoo parking lot, and from his car I watch families and children funneling through the entrance. They look happy and excited about a day at the zoo. It’s Saturday, at last the sun is shining, and everything looks different—clean and bright and crisp. I feel the difference in myself as well. Yes, I’m nervous, and more than a little scared, but for the first time in six years I think the sun is about to rise in my own life, and soon all the shadows will be washed away.