Maura Isles 05 - Vanish

by Tess Gerritsen

  “They walk in and execute five women,” said Gabriel. “They spend maybe half an hour in the kitchen with that last one, crushing her hands with a hammer. And you have nothing on these killers? No trace evidence, no fingerprints?”

  “Oh, we found a zillion fingerprints all over that house. Unidentifieds in every room. But if our perps left any, they didn’t match anyone in AFIS.” Wardlaw reached for the remote and pressed STOP.

  “Wait,” said Gabriel, his gaze fixed on the monitor.

  “What?”

  “Rewind it.”

  “How far?”

  “About ten seconds.”

  Wardlaw frowned at him, clearly puzzled by what could have caught his eye. He handed Gabriel the remote. “Be my guest.”

  Gabriel pressed REWIND, then PLAY. The camera had backed up to the living room, and now repeated its sweep past the tired couch, the shag rug. Then it moved into the foyer and suddenly swung toward the front door. Outside, sunshine glinted off icy branches of trees. Two men stood in the yard, talking. One of them turned toward the house.

  Gabriel hit PAUSE, freezing the man where he stood, his face framed in the doorway. “It’s John Barsanti,” he said.

  “You know him?” Wardlaw asked.

  “He turned up in Boston, too,” said Gabriel.

  “Yeah, well, he seems to show up everywhere, doesn’t he? We got to the house barely an hour before Barsanti and his team arrived. They tried to step right into our show, and we ended up having a tug-of-war right there, on the front porch. Till we got a call from the Justice Department, asking us to cooperate.”

  “How did the FBI get wind of this case so quickly?” asked Jane.

  “We never got a good answer to that question.” Wardlaw crossed to the VCR, ejected the tape, then turned to face her. “So that’s what we were dealing with. Five dead women, none of them with fingerprints on file. No one’s reported them missing. They’re all Jane Does.”

  “Undocumented aliens,” said Gabriel.

  Wardlaw nodded. “My guess is, they were Eastern Europeans. There were a few Russian-language newspapers in the downstairs bedroom. Plus a shoe box with photos of Moscow. Considering what else we found in that house, we can make a pretty good guess as to their occupations. In the pantry, there were supplies of penicillin. Morning-after pills. And a carton full of condoms.” He picked up the file containing the autopsy reports and handed it to Gabriel. “Check out the DNA analysis.”

  Gabriel flipped directly to the lab results. “Multiple sexual partners,” he said.

  Wardlaw nodded. “Put it all together. A bevy of young, attractive women living together under the same roof. Entertaining a number of different men. Let’s just say that house was no convent.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The private road cut through stands of oak and pine and hickory. Chips of sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the road. Deep among the trees, little light shone through, and in green shadows thick with underbrush, saplings struggled to grow.

  “No wonder the neighbors didn’t hear anything that night,” Jane said, gazing at dense woods. “I don’t even see any neighbors.”

  “I think it’s just ahead, through those trees.”

  Another thirty yards, and the road suddenly widened, their car emerging into late afternoon sunshine. A two-story house loomed before them. Though now in disrepair, it still had good bones: a redbrick facade, a wide porch. But nothing about this house was welcoming. Certainly not the wrought-iron bars across the windows, or the NO TRESPASSING signs tacked to the posts. Knee-high weeds were already taking over the gravel driveway, the first wave of invaders, preparing the way for encroaching forest. Wardlaw had told them that an attempt at renovations was abruptly abandoned two months ago, when the contractor’s equipment had accidentally touched off a small fire, scorching an upstairs bedroom. The flames had left black claw marks on a window frame, and plywood still covered the broken glass. Maybe the fire was a warning, thought Jane. This house is not friendly.

  She and Gabriel stepped out of the rental car. They had been driving with the AC on, and the heat took her by surprise. She paused in the driveway, perspiration instantly blooming on her face, and breathed in the thick and sullen air. Though she could not see the mosquitoes, she could hear them circling, and she slapped her cheek, saw fresh blood on her hand. That was all she heard, just the hum of insects. No traffic, no birdsong; even the trees were still. Her neck prickled—not from the heat, but from the sudden, instinctive urge to leave this place. To climb back in the car and lock the doors and drive away. She did not want to go in there.

  “Well, let’s see if Wardlaw’s key still works,” said Gabriel, starting toward the porch.

  Reluctantly she followed him up creaking steps, where blades of grass grew through seams between the boards. On Wardlaw’s video, it had been wintertime, the driveway bare of vegetation. Now vines twisted up the railings and pollen dusted the porch like yellow snow.

  At the door, Gabriel paused, frowning at what remained of a padlock hinge that had once secured the front entrance. “This has been here a while,” he said, pointing to the rust.

  Bars on the windows. A padlock on the door. Not to guard against intruders, she thought; this lock was meant to keep people in.

  Gabriel jiggled the key in the lock and gave the door a push. With a squeal it gave way, and the smell of old smoke wafted out; the aftermath of the contractor’s fire. You can clean a house, repaint its walls, replace the drapes and the carpets and furniture, yet the stench of fire endures. He stepped inside.

  After a pause, so did she. She was surprised to find bare wood floors; on the video, there had been an ugly green carpet, since removed during the cleanup. The banister leading up the stairs was handsomely carved, and the living room had ten-foot ceilings with crown molding, details that she had not noticed while watching the crime scene video. Water stains marred the ceiling, like dark clouds.

  “Whoever built this place had money,” Gabriel noted.

  She crossed to a window and looked through the bars at the trees. The afternoon was slipping toward evening; they did not have more than an hour before the light would fade. “It must have been a beautiful house when it was built,” she said. But that was a long time ago. Before shag carpets and iron bars. Before bloodstains.

  They walked through a living room empty of furniture. Floral wallpaper showed the wear of passing years—smudges and peeling corners and the yellow tinge from decades of cigarette smoke. They moved through the dining room and came to a halt in the kitchen. The table and chairs were gone; all they saw was tired linoleum, the edges nicked and curling. Afternoon sun slanted in through the barred window. Here is where the older woman died, Jane thought. Sitting in the center of this room, her body tied to a chair, tender fingers exposed to the hammer’s blows. Though Jane was staring at an empty kitchen, her mind superimposed the image she had seen on the video. An image that seemed to linger in the sunlit swirl of dust motes.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” said Gabriel.

  They left the kitchen and paused at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up toward the second-floor landing, she thought: Here is where another one died, on these steps. The woman with the brown hair. Jane gripped the banister, her hand clasping carved oak, and felt her own pulse throbbing in her fingertips. She did not want to go upstairs. But that voice was once again whispering to her.

  Mila knows.

  There’s something I’m supposed to see up there, she thought. Something the voice is guiding me toward.

  Gabriel headed up the stairs. Jane followed more slowly, her gaze focused downward on the steps, her palm clammy against the railing. She came to a halt, staring at a patch of lighter wood. Crouching down to touch a recently sanded surface, she felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck. Darken the windows, spray these stairs with luminol, and the grain of this wood would surely light up a spectral green. The cleaners had tried to sand away the worst of it, but the evidence was stil
l there, where the victim’s blood had spilled. This was where she died, sprawled on these steps, this very spot Jane was touching.

  Gabriel was already on the second floor, walking through the rooms.

  She followed him to the upper landing. The smell of smoke was stronger here. The hallway had drab green wallpaper and a floor of dark oak. Doors hung ajar, spilling rectangles of light into the corridor. She turned into the first doorway on her right, and saw an empty room, walls marked by ghostly squares where pictures had once hung. It could be any vacant room in any vacant house, all traces of its occupants swept away. She crossed to the window, lifted the sash. The iron bars were welded in place. No escape in a fire, she thought. Even if you could climb out, it was a fifteen-foot drop onto bare gravel, with no shrubs to break the fall.

  “Jane,” she heard Gabriel call.

  She followed his voice, moving across the hall into another bedroom.

  Gabriel was gazing into an open closet. “Here,” he said quietly.

  She moved beside him and crouched down to touch sanded wood. She could not help mentally superimposing yet another image from the video. The two women, slender arms entwined like lovers. How long had they huddled here? The closet was not large, and the smell of fear must have soured the darkness.

  Abruptly she rose to her feet. The room felt too warm, too airless; she walked into the hall, her legs numb from crouching. This is a house of horrors, she thought. If I listen hard enough, I’ll hear the echoes of screams.

  At the end of the hall was one last room—the room where the contractor had touched off the fire. She hesitated on its threshold, repelled by the far stronger stench of smoke in this room. Both broken windows had been covered with plywood, blocking out the afternoon light. She took the Maglite from her purse and shone it around the dim interior. Flames had scorched walls and ceiling, devouring sections all the way down to charred timber. She swung the Maglite beam around the room, past a closet missing its door. As her beam swept past, an ellipse flashed on the closet’s back wall, then vanished. Frowning, she swung the Maglite back.

  There it was again, that bright ellipse, briefly flickering across the back wall.

  She crossed to the closet for a closer look. Saw an opening large enough to poke a finger through. Perfectly round and smooth. Someone had drilled a hole between the closet and the bedroom.

  Beams groaned overhead. Startled, she glanced up as footsteps creaked across the ceiling. Gabriel was in the attic.

  She went back into the hallway. Daylight was rapidly fading, dimming the house to shades of gray. “Hey!” she called. “Where’s the trap door to get up there?”

  “Look in the second bedroom.”

  She saw the ladder and scrambled up the rungs. Poking her head into the space above, she saw the beam of Gabriel’s Maglite slicing through the shadows.

  “Anything up here?” she asked.

  “A dead squirrel.”

  “I mean, anything interesting?”

  “Not a whole lot.”

  She climbed up into the attic and almost banged her head on a low rafter. Gabriel was forced to move at a crouch, long legs crab-walking as he inspected the perimeter, his beam slowly scanning the deepest pockets of shadow.

  “Stay away from this corner over here,” he warned. “The boards are charred. I don’t think the floor is safe.”

  She headed to the opposite end, where a lone window admitted the last gray light of day. This one had no bars; it did not need them. She lifted open the sash and stuck her head out to see a narrow ledge and a bone-shattering drop to the ground. An escape route only for the suicidal. She pushed the window shut, and fell still, her gaze fixed on the trees.

  In the woods, light briefly flickered, like a darting firefly.

  “Gabriel.”

  “Nice. Here’s another dead squirrel.”

  “There’s someone out there.”

  “What?”

  “In the woods.”

  He crossed to her side and stared out at the thickening dusk. “Where?”

  “I saw it just a minute ago.”

  “Maybe it was a passing car.” He turned from the window and muttered, “Damn. My battery’s going.” He gave his flashlight a few hard raps. The beam briefly brightened, then began to fade again.

  She was still staring out the window, at woods that seemed to be closing in on them. Trapping them in this house of ghosts. A chill whispered up her spine. She turned to her husband.

  “I want to leave.”

  “Should have changed batteries before we left home . . .”

  “Now. Please.”

  Suddenly he registered the anxiety in her voice. “What is it?”

  “I don’t think that was a passing car.”

  He turned to the window again and stood very still, his shoulders blotting out what dim light still remained. It was his silence that rattled her, a silence that only magnified the drumming of her heartbeat. “All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed down the ladder and retreated into the hall, past the bedroom where blood still lingered in the closet. Moved down the stairs, where sanded wood still whispered of horrors. Already, five women had died in this house, and no one had heard their screams.

  No one would hear ours, either.

  They pushed through the front door, onto the porch.

  And froze, as powerful lights suddenly blinded their eyes. Jane raised her arm against the glare. She heard footsteps crunch on gravel, and through squinting eyes, could just make out three dark figures closing in.

  Gabriel stepped in front of her, a move so swift that she was surprised to suddenly find his shoulders blocking the light.

  “Right where you are,” a voice commanded.

  “Can I see who I’m talking to?” said Gabriel.

  “Identify yourselves.”

  “If you could lower your flashlights first.”

  “Your IDs.”

  “Okay. Okay, I’m going to reach in my pocket,” Gabriel said, his voice calm. Reasonable. “I’m not armed, and neither is my wife.” Slowly he withdrew his wallet and held it out. It was snatched from his hand. “My name is Gabriel Dean. And this is my wife, Jane.”

  “Detective Jane Rizzoli,” she amended. “Boston PD.” She blinked as the flashlight suddenly shifted to her face. Though she could not see any of these men, she felt them scrutinizing her. Felt her temper rise as her fear ebbed away.

  “What’s Boston PD doing here?” the man asked.

  “What are you doing here?” she retorted.

  She didn’t expect an answer; she didn’t get one. The man handed back Gabriel’s wallet, then he waved his flashlight toward a dark sedan parked behind their rental car. “Get in. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “Why?” said Gabriel.

  “We need to confirm your IDs.”

  “We have a flight to catch, back to Boston,” said Jane.

  “Cancel it.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jane sat alone in the interview room, staring at her own reflection and thinking: It sucks to be on the wrong side of the one-way mirror. She had been here for an hour now, every so often rising to her feet to check the door, on the off chance that it had miraculously unlocked itself. Of course they had separated her from Gabriel; that’s the way it was done, the way she herself handled interrogations. But everything else about her situation was new and unfamiliar territory. The men had never identified themselves, had presented no badges, offered no names, ranks, or serial numbers. They could be the Men in Black for all she knew, protecting Earth from the scum of the universe. They had brought their prisoners into the building through an underground parking garage, so she did not even know which agency they worked for, only that this interrogation room was somewhere within the city limits of Reston.

  “Hey!” Jane went to the mirror and rapped on the glass. “You know, you never read me my rights. Plus you took my cell phone so I can’t call an attorney. Man, are you guys in trouble
.”

  She heard no answer.

  Her breasts were starting to ache again, the cow in desperate need of milking, but no way was she going to pull up her shirt in view of that one-way mirror. She rapped again, harder. Feeling fearless now, because she knew these were government guys who were just taking their sweet time, trying to intimidate her. She knew her rights; as a cop, she’d wasted too much effort ensuring the rights of perps; she was damn well going to demand her own.

  In the mirror, she confronted her own reflection. Her hair was a frizzy brown corona, her jaw a stubborn square. Take a good look, guys, she thought. Whoever you are behind that glass, you are now seeing one pissed-off cop who is getting less and less cooperative.

  “Hey!” she shouted and slapped the glass.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and she was surprised to see a woman step into the room. Though the woman’s face was still youthful, no older than fifty, her hair had already turned a sleek silver, a startling contrast to her dark eyes. Like her male colleagues, she too was wearing a conservative suit, the attire of choice for women who must function in a man’s profession.

  “Detective Rizzoli,” the woman said. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I got here as soon as I could. DC traffic, you know.” She held out her hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

  Jane ignored the offered handshake, her gaze fixed on the woman’s face. “Should I know you?”

  “Helen Glasser. Department of Justice. And yes, I agree, you have every right to be pissed off.” Again she held out her hand, a second attempt to call a truce.

  This time Jane shook it, and felt a grasp as firm as any man’s. “Where’s my husband?” she asked.

  “He’ll be joining us upstairs. I wanted a chance to make peace with you first, before we all get down to business. What happened this evening was just a misunderstanding.”

  “What happened was a violation of our rights.”

  Glasser gestured toward the doorway. “Please, let’s go upstairs, and we’ll talk about it.”