The man looked down at the girl. Already an erection bulged in his gray trousers. “Get up,” he said.
The girl did not move.
Again: “Get up.” He gave her a nudge with his foot.
At last the girl raised her head. Slowly, as though exhausted just by the pull of gravity, she struggled to her feet, blond hair disheveled.
Against her will, Jane was drawn closer to the TV. She was too appalled to look away, even as her rage mounted. The girl was not yet even a teenager. She was wearing a pink cropped blouse and a short denim skirt that exposed painfully thin legs. Her cheek still bore the angry red imprint of the woman’s slap. Fading bruises on her bare arms told of other blows, other cruelties. Though the man towered over her, this frail girl now faced him with quiet defiance.
“Take off the blouse.”
The girl just looked at him.
“What, are you stupid? Don’t you understand English?”
The girl’s spine snapped straight, and her chin jutted up. Yes, she does understand. And she’s telling you to fuck off, asshole.
The man stepped toward her, grabbed her blouse with both hands, and ripped it open, releasing a hail of loose buttons. The girl sucked in a startled breath and slapped him, sending his glasses flying. They clattered onto the floor. For a few seconds the man just stared at her in surprise. Then a look of such fury contorted his face that Jane flinched away from the TV, knowing what would happen next.
The blow landed on the girl’s jaw, the impact so powerful that it seemed to lift her right off her feet. She slammed to the floor. He grabbed her around the waist, dragged her toward the bed, and threw her down on the mattress. With a few sharp tugs, he pulled off her skirt, then unbuckled his trousers.
Though the blow had temporarily stunned her, the girl was not finished fighting back. All at once she seemed to spring back to life, screaming, fists beating against him. He trapped her wrists and climbed on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. In his haste to maneuver himself between her thighs, he lost his grip on her right hand. She clawed at his face, and her nails scraped skin. He jerked back and touched his cheek where she had scratched him. Stared, disbelieving, at his fingers. At the blood she had drawn.
“You cunt. You little cunt.”
He slammed his fist into her temple. The thud made Jane flinch. Nausea soured her throat.
“I paid for you, goddammit!”
The girl shoved at his chest, but she was weaker now. Her left eye was swelling, and blood trickled from her lip, yet she continued to fight. Her struggles only seemed to excite him. Too feeble to resist, she could not stop the inevitable. As he thrust into her, she gave a scream.
“Shut up.”
She did not stop screaming.
“Shut up!” He hit her again. And again. Finally he clapped his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries as he repeatedly rammed into her. He did not seem to notice that she finally stopped screaming, or that she had fallen perfectly still. The only noise now was the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the animal grunts from his throat. He gave a final moan and his back arched in a spasm of release. Then, with a sigh, he collapsed onto the girl.
For a moment he lay breathing heavily, his body flaccid with exhaustion. Slowly, he seemed to register that something was not right. He looked down at her.
She was motionless.
He gave her a shake. “Hey.” He patted her cheek, and a note of worry slipped into his voice. “Wake up. Goddammit, you wake up.”
The girl did not move.
He rolled off the bed and stood staring down at her for a moment. He pressed his fingers to her neck to check her pulse. Every muscle in his body seemed to go taut. Backing away from the bed, his breathing accelerated in panic.
“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered.
He glanced around, as though the solution to his dilemma lay somewhere in the room. Frantic now, he snatched up his clothes and began to dress, hands shaking as he fumbled with buckles and buttons. He dropped to his knees to retrieve his glasses, which had slid under the bed, and slipped them on. One last time, he looked at the girl and confirmed his worst fears.
Shaking his head, he backed away, out of the camera’s range. A door squealed open, swung shut, and footsteps hurried away. An eternity passed, the camera still focused on the bed with its lifeless occupant.
Different footsteps approached, and there was a knock on the door, a voice calling out in Russian. Jane recognized the woman who stepped into the room. It was the house mother, who had died while tied to a kitchen chair.
I know what happens to you. What they will do to your hands. I know you will die screaming.
The woman moved to the bed and gave the girl a shake. Barked out a command. The girl did not respond. The woman stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. Then, abruptly, she turned and stared directly at the camera.
She knows it’s there. She knows it is filming.
At once she moved straight toward it, and there was the sound of the closet door swinging open. Then the screen went blank.
Mila turned off the VCR.
Jane could not speak. She sank onto the couch and sat in numb silence. Regina was silent as well, as though aware that this was not the time to fuss. That at this moment, her mother was too shaken to attend to her. Gabriel, she thought. I need you here. She glanced at the telephone and realized that he had left his cell phone on the table, and she had no way to reach him in his car.
“He is an important man,” Mila said.
Jane turned to look at her. “What?”
“Joe says the man must be high in your government.” Mila pointed to the TV.
“Joe saw this tape?”
Mila nodded. “He gave me a copy when I left. So we would all have one, in case …” She stopped. “In case we never see each other again,” she said softly.
“Where does it come from? Where did you get this video?”
“The Mother keeps it in her room. We didn’t know. We only wanted the money.”
This is the reason for the massacre, thought Jane; this is why the women in that house were killed. Because they knew what happened in that room. And this videotape is the proof.
“Who is he?” Mila asked.
Jane stared at the blank TV. “I don’t know. But I know someone who might.” She crossed to the telephone.
Mila stared at her in alarm. “No police!”
“I’m not calling the police. I’m going to ask a friend to come here. A reporter. He knows people in Washington. He’s lived there. He’ll know who that man is.” She flipped through the phone book until she found the listing for Peter Lukas. His address was in Milton, just south of Boston. As she dialed, she could feel Mila watching her, clearly not ready to trust her. If I make one false move, Jane thought, this girl will run. I have to be careful not to scare her.
“Hello?” said Peter Lukas.
“Could you come over right now?”
“Detective Rizzoli? What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“This sounds serious.”
“It could be your Pulitzer Prize, Lukas.” She stopped.
Someone was ringing her apartment buzzer.
Mila shot Jane a look of sheer panic. Snatching up her tote bag, she made a dash toward the windows.
“Wait. Mila, don’t—”
“Rizzoli?” said Lukas. “What’s happening over there?”
“Hold on. I’ll call you right back,” said Jane, and hung up.
Mila was darting from window to window, desperately searching for the fire escape.
“It’s okay!” said Jane. “Calm down.”
“They know I am here!”
“We don’t even know who’s at the door. Let’s just find out.” She pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“Detective Rizzoli, it’s John Barsanti. Can I come up?”
Mila’s reaction was instantaneous. She went sprinting toward the bedrooms, looking for an escape rou
te.
“Wait!” Jane called, following her up the hall. “You can trust this man!”
Already, the girl was lifting up the bedroom window.
“You can’t leave.”
Again, they heard the apartment buzzer. It sent Mila scrambling through the window, onto the fire escape. If she leaves, I’ll never see her again, thought Jane. The girl has survived this long on sheer instinct. Maybe I should listen to her.
She grabbed Mila’s wrist. “I’ll come with you, okay? We’ll go together. Just don’t leave without me!”
“Hurry,” Mila whispered.
Jane turned. “The baby.”
Mila followed her back into the living room and kept a nervous eye on the door as Jane ejected the videotape and threw it into the diaper bag. Then she unlocked the gun drawer, took out her weapon, and slipped it into the diaper bag as well. Just in case.
The buzzer sounded again.
Jane swept Regina into her arms. “Let’s go.”
Mila scrambled down the fire escape ladder, quick as a monkey. Once, Jane would have been just as quick, just as reckless. But now she was forced to take care with every step, because she was holding Regina. Poor baby, I have no choice now, she thought. I have to drag you along on this adventure. At last she dropped to the alley, and led the way to her parked Subaru. As she unlocked the car door, she could still hear, through the open apartment window, Barsanti’s persistent buzzing.
Driving west on Tremont Street, she kept her eye on the rearview mirror, but she saw no sign of pursuit, no headlights dogging them. Now to find a secure location where Mila won’t freak out, she thought. Where she won’t see police uniforms. Above all, some place I can keep Regina perfectly safe.
“Where do we go?” Mila asked.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She glanced down at her cell phone, but now she did not dare call her mother. She did not dare call anyone.
Abruptly she turned south, onto Columbus Avenue. “I know a safe place,” she said.
THIRTY-FIVE
Peter Lukas stared in silence as the brutal assault played out on his TV screen. When the tape at last ended, he did not move. Even after Jane turned off the VCR, Lukas sat frozen, his gaze fixed on the screen, as though he could still see the girl’s battered body, the bloodstained sheets. The room had gone silent. Regina dozed on the couch; Mila stood near the windows, glancing out at the road.
“Mila never learned the girl’s name,” said Jane. “There’s a good chance the body’s buried somewhere in the woods behind the house. It’s a lonely spot, with a lot of places to dispose of a corpse. God knows how many other girls might be buried back there.”
Lukas dropped his head. “I feel like throwing up.”
“You and me both.”
“Why would anyone videotape something like that?”
“This man clearly didn’t realize he was caught on film. The camera was mounted in a closet, where the clients couldn’t see it. Maybe it was just another source of revenue. Sell the girls for sex, videotape the acts, then offer the tapes on the pornography market. Every which way you turn, there’s money to be made. This brothel was just another one of their subsidiaries, after all.” She paused, and added drily: “Ballentree seems to believe in diversification.”
“But this is a snuff film! Ballentree could never get away with selling this.”
“No, this was too explosive. The house mother definitely knew it was. She hid it in the tote bag. Mila says they carried around that bag for months without knowing what was on the video. Then Joe finally played it on a motel room VCR.” Jane looked at the TV. “Now we know why those women in Ashburn were killed. Why Charles Desmond was killed. Because they knew this client; they could ID him. They all had to die.”
“So this is all about covering up a rape and murder.”
She nodded. “Suddenly Joe realizes he’s holding dynamite. What to do with the evidence? He didn’t know who to trust. And who would listen to a guy who’s already been labeled a paranoid kook? That must be what he sent you. A copy of this tape.”
“Only I never received it.”
“And by then they’d split up, to avoid capture. But each of them took a copy. Olena was caught before she could bring hers to the Tribune. Joe’s was probably swept up after the hospital takedown.” She pointed to the TV. “This is the last copy.”
Lukas turned to Mila, who’d been hanging back in a far corner of the room, like a skittish animal afraid to come any closer. “Have you yourself seen this man in the video, Mila? He came to the house?”
“The boat,” she said, and gave a visible shudder. “I saw him at a party, on the boat.”
Lukas looked at Jane. “You think she means Charles Desmond’s yacht?”
“I think this is how Ballentree did business,” said Jane. “Desmond’s world was a boys’ club. Defense contracts, Pentagon players. Whenever there are big boys playing with a lot of money, you can bet sex comes into it. A way to close the deal.” She ejected the videocassette and turned to face Lukas. “Do you know who this man is? The one on the video?”
Lukas swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time believing that tape is real.”
“The man’s got to be a major player. Look at everything he’s managed to do, the resources he’s been able to call up, to track down this videotape.” She stood before Lukas. “Who is he?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
“Should I?”
“Not unless you were watching last month’s confirmation hearings. He’s Carleton Wynne. Our new director of National Intelligence.”
She released a sharp breath and sank into a chair facing him. “Jesus. You’re talking about the guy in charge of every intelligence agency in the country.”
Lukas nodded. “The FBI. CIA. Military Intelligence. Fifteen agencies in all, including branches of Homeland Security and the Department of Justice. This is someone who can pull strings from the inside. The reason you don’t recognize Wynne is that he’s not a very public man. He’s one of those guys in the gray suits. He left the CIA two years ago, to head up the Pentagon’s new Strategic Support Branch. After the last intelligence director was forced to resign, the White House nominated Wynne to replace him. He’s just been confirmed.”
“Please,” interjected Mila. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“It’s down the hall,” murmured Lukas, not even glancing up as Mila slipped out of the living room. His gaze stayed on Jane. “This is not an easy man to bring down,” he said.
“With this videotape, you could bring down King Kong.”
“Director Wynne has a whole network of contacts in the Pentagon and the Company. This is the President’s hand-picked man.”
“Now he’s mine. And I’m taking him down.”
The doorbell rang. Jane looked up, startled.
“Relax,” said Lukas, rising to his feet. “It’s probably just my neighbor. I promised I’d feed his cat for the weekend.”
Despite that reassurance, Jane sat on the edge of her chair, listening, as Lukas answered the front door. His greeting was a casual: “Hey, come on in.”
“Everything under control?” the other man said.
“Yeah, we were just watching a video.”
That’s the moment she should have understood that something was not right, but Lukas’s relaxed tone of voice had disarmed her, had lulled her into feeling safe in this house, in his company. The visitor walked into the room. He had cropped blond hair and powerfully muscled arms. Even when Jane saw the gun he was holding, she did not fully accept what had just happened. Slowly she rose to her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. She turned to Lukas, and her shattered look of betrayal evoked in him merely a shrug. A look of sorry, but that’s how it goes.
The blond man took in the room at a glance, and his gaze focused on Regina, who slept soundly among the couch cushions. At once he turned his weapon on the baby, and Jane felt a stab of panic, sharp as a knife to the heart. “N
ot a word,” he said to Jane. He knew just how to control her, just how to find a mother’s most vulnerable spot. “Where’s the whore?” he asked Lukas.
“The bathroom. I’ll get her.”
It’s too late to warn Mila, thought Jane. Even if I screamed, she would have no chance to escape.
“So you’re the cop I heard about,” the blond man said.
The cop. The whore. Did he even know the names of the two women he was about to kill?
“My name is Jane Rizzoli,” she said.
“Wrong place, wrong time, Detective.” He did know her name. Of course; a professional would have to know. He also knew enough to keep a respectful distance from her, far enough away to react to any move she might make. Even without his gun, he was not a man she could easily tackle. His stance, the quietly efficient way he had taken control, told her that, unarmed, she did not have a chance against this man.
But armed …
She glanced at the floor. Where the hell had she left the diaper bag? Was it behind the couch? She didn’t see it.
“Mila?” Lukas was calling through the bathroom door. “Are you all right in there?”
Regina suddenly gave a start and let out a jittery cry, as though aware that something was wrong. That her mother was in trouble.
“Let me pick her up,” said Jane.
“She’s fine right where she is.”
“If you don’t let me pick her up, she’ll start screaming. And she knows how to scream.”
“Mila?” Lukas was rapping on the bathroom door now. “Unlock this, will you? Mila!”
Regina, as predicted, began to howl. Jane looked at the man, and he finally gave a nod. She gathered the baby into her arms, but her embrace seemed to hold no comfort for Regina. She can feel my heart pounding. She can feel my fear.
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