“Including satanic ceremonies?”
“It’s the color of blood. Whatever your religion, that color has symbolic power.” Erin paused. “This killer makes quite unusual choices.”
“I think we already know that,” said Jane.
“What I mean is, he’s in touch with history. He doesn’t use common chalk for his ritual drawings. Instead he uses the same primitive pigment that was used in the Paleolithic era. And he didn’t just dig it up in his own backyard.”
“But you said that red ocher is found in common clay,” said Frost. “So maybe he did dig it up.”
“Not if his backyard is anywhere around here.” Erin nodded at the file folder Jane was holding. “Check out the chemical analysis. What we found on gas chromatography and Raman spectroscopy.”
Jane flipped to the next page and saw a computer printout. A graph with multiple spikes. “You want to interpret this for us?”
“Sure. First, the Raman spectroscopy.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s an archaeologist’s technique for analysis of historic artifacts. It uses the light spectrum of a substance to determine its properties. The big advantage for archaeologists is that it doesn’t destroy the artifact itself. You can analyze the pigments on everything from mummy wrappings to the Shroud of Turin and not damage the article in any way. I asked Dr. Ian MacAvoy, from the Harvard archaeology department, to analyze the Raman spectra results, and he confirmed that the sample contains iron oxide plus clay plus silica.”
“That’s red ocher?”
“Yes. Red ocher.”
“But you already knew that.”
“Still, it was nice to have him confirm it. Then Dr. MacAvoy offered to help me track down its source. Where in the world this particular red ocher came from.”
“You can actually do that?”
“The technique’s still in its research stages. It probably wouldn’t hold up in court as evidence. But he was curious enough to run a comparison against a library of ocher profiles he’s compiled from around the world. He determines the concentrations of eleven other elements in the samples, such as magnesium, titanium, and thorium. The theory is, a particular geographic source will have a distinctive trace element profile. It’s like looking at soil samples from a car tire and knowing that it has the lead-zinc profile of a mining district in Missouri. In this case, with this ocher, we’re checking the sample against eleven separate variables.”
“Those other trace elements.”
“Right. And archaeologists have compiled a library of ocher sources.”
“Why?”
“Because it helps determine the provenance of an artifact. For instance, where did the pigment on the Shroud of Turin come from? Was it France or Israel? The answer may establish the shroud’s origins. Or an ancient cave painting—where did the artist get his ocher? If it came from a thousand miles away, it tells you that either he’s traveled that distance himself, or that there was some form of prehistoric trade. That’s why the ocher source library is so valuable. It gives us a window into the lives of the ancients.”
“What do we know about our pigment sample?” asked Frost.
“Well.” Erin smiled. “First, it has rather a large proportion of manganese dioxide—fifteen percent, giving it a deeper, richer tone. It’s the same proportion found in red ochers that were used in medieval Italy.”
“It’s Italian?”
“No. The Venetians imported it from elsewhere. When Dr. MacAvoy compared the entire elemental profile, he found that it matched one location in particular, a place where they’re still mining red ocher even today. The island of Cyprus.”
Jane said, “I need to see a world map.”
Erin pointed to the file. “It just so happens that I pulled one off the Internet.”
Jane flipped to the page. “Okay, I see. It’s in the Mediterranean, just south of Turkey.”
“It seems to me that red chalk would’ve been a lot easier to use,” said Frost.
“And far cheaper. Your killer chose an unusual pigment, from an obscure source. Maybe he has ties to Cyprus.”
“Or he could just be playing games with us,” said Frost. “Drawing weird symbols. Using weird pigments. It’s like he wants to screw around with our heads.”
Jane was still studying the map. She thought of the symbol drawn on the door in Anthony Sansone’s garden. Udjat, the all-seeing eye. She looked at Frost. “Egypt is directly south of Cyprus.”
“You’re thinking of the eye of Horus?”
“What’s that?” Erin asked.
“That symbol left at the Beacon Hill crime scene,” said Jane. “Horus is the Egyptian sun god.”
“Is that a satanic symbol?”
“We don’t know what it means to this perp,” said Frost. “Everyone’s got a theory. He’s a Satanist. He’s a history buff. Or it could just be plain old-fashioned insanity.”
Erin nodded. “Like Son of Sam. I remember the police wasted a lot of time wondering who the mysterious Sam was. It turned out to be nothing more than the killer’s auditory hallucination. A talking dog.”
Jane closed the folder. “You know, I kind of hope our perp is crazy, too.”
“Why?” asked Erin.
“Because I’m a lot more scared of the alternative. That this killer is perfectly sane.”
Jane and Frost sat in the car as the engine warmed and the defroster melted the fog from the windshield. If only it was so easy to clear the mist cloaking the killer. She couldn’t form a picture of him; she couldn’t begin to imagine what he looked like. A mystic? An artist? An historian? All I do know is that he’s a butcher.
Frost shifted into gear, and they pulled into traffic, which was moving far more slowly than usual, on roads slick with ice. Under clear skies, the temperature was dropping, and tonight the cold would be the bitterest so far this winter. It was a night to stay home and eat a hearty stew, a night, she hoped, when evil would stay off the streets.
Frost drove east on Columbus Avenue, then headed toward Beacon Hill, where they planned to take another look at the crime scene. The car at last had warmed, and she dreaded stepping out again, into that wind, into Sansone’s courtyard, still stained with frozen blood.
She noticed they were approaching Massachusetts Avenue and she said, suddenly, “Could you turn right?”
“Aren’t we going to Sansone’s place?”
“Just turn here.”
“If you say so.” He made a right.
“Keep going. Toward Albany Street.”
“We going to the M.E.’s?”
“No.”
“So where we headed?”
“It’s right down here. Another few blocks.” She watched the addresses go by, and said, “Stop. Right here.” She stared across the street.
Frost pulled over to the curb and frowned at her. “Kinko’s?”
“My dad works there.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s just about noon.”
“What are we doing?”
“Waiting.”
“Aw geez, Rizzoli. This isn’t about your mom, is it?”
“It’s screwing up my whole life right now.”
“Your parents are having a tiff. It happens.”
“Wait till your mother moves in with you. See how Alice likes it.”
“I’m sure this’ll blow over and your mom’ll go home.”
“Not if there’s another woman involved.” She sat up straight. “There he is.”
Frank Rizzoli stepped out the front door of Kinko’s and zipped up his jacket. He glanced at the sky, gave a visible shiver, and exhaled a breath that swirled white in the cold.
“Looks like he’s going on his lunch break,” said Frost. “What’s the big deal?”
“That,” said Jane softly. “That’s the big deal.”
A woman had just stepped out the door as well, a big-haired blond wearing a black leather jacket over skin-tight blue jeans. Frank grinned and slipped his arm around her w
aist. They began to walk down the street, away from Jane and Frost, arms wrapped around each other.
“What the fuck,” said Jane. “It’s true.”
“You know, I think we should probably just move on.”
“Look at them. Look at them!”
Frost started the engine. “I could really use some lunch. How about we go to—”
Jane shoved open the door and stepped out.
“Aw, Rizzoli! Come on.”
She darted across the street and stalked up the sidewalk, right behind her father. “Hey,” she yelled. “Hey!”
Frank halted, his arm dropping from around the woman’s waist. He turned to stare, slack-jawed, as his daughter approached. The blond had not yet released her grip and she continued to cling to Frank, even as he made futile attempts to extricate himself. From a distance, the woman had looked like a real eye-catcher, but as Jane drew closer she saw, fanning out from the woman’s eyes, deep creases that even thick makeup couldn’t conceal, and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. This was the piece of ass Frank had traded up to, a bimbo with big hair? This human equivalent of a golden retriever?
“Janie,” said Frank. “This isn’t the time to—”
“When is the time?”
“I’ll call you, okay? We’ll talk about it tonight.”
“Frankie honey, what’s going on?” the blond asked.
Don’t you call him Frankie! Jane glared at the woman. “And what’s your name?”
The woman’s chin jutted up. “Who wants to know?”
“Just answer the fucking question.”
“Yeah, make me!” The blond looked at Frank. “Who the hell is this?”
Frank lifted a hand to his head and gave a moan, as though in pain. “Oh, man.”
“Boston PD,” said Jane. She pulled out her ID and thrust it in the woman’s face. “Now tell me your name.”
The blond didn’t even look at the ID; her startled gaze was on Jane. “Sandie,” she murmured.
“Sandie what?”
“Huffington.”
“ID,” ordered Jane.
“Janie,” said her dad. “That’s enough.”
Sandie obediently pulled out her wallet to show her driver’s license. “What did we do wrong?” She shot a suspicious look at Frank. “What’d you do?”
“This is all bullshit,” he said.
“And when’s the bullshit going to end, huh?” Jane shot back at him. “When are you going to grow up?”
“This is none of your beeswax.”
“Oh no? She’s sitting in my apartment right now, probably crying her eyes out. All because you can’t keep your goddamn pants zipped.”
“She?” said Sandie. “Who’re we talking about?”
“Thirty-seven years of marriage, and you dump her for boom-boom here?”
“You don’t understand,” said Frank.
“Oh, I understand just fine.”
“You have no idea what it’s like. Just a damn worker bee, that’s all I am. Some drone to put food on the table. I’m sixty-one years old, and what do I got to show for it? You don’t think I deserve a little fun, for once in my life?”
“You think Mom’s having any fun?”
“That’s her problem.”
“It’s mine, too.”
“Well, I take no responsibility for that.”
“Hey,” said Sandie. “This is your daughter?” She looked at Jane. “You said you were a cop.”
Frank sighed. “She is a cop.”
“You’re breaking her heart, you know that?” said Jane. “Do you even care?”
“What about my heart?” Sandie cut in.
Jane ignored the bimbo and kept her gaze on Frank. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Dad. I used to respect you. Now look at you! Pathetic, just pathetic. This blondie shakes her ass and you’re like some idiot dog, sniffing at it. Oh yeah, Dad, hump away.”
Frank shoved a finger at her. “That’s enough outta you!”
“You think boom-boom here is gonna take care of you when you’re sick, huh? You think she’ll stand by you? Hell, does she even know how to cook?”
“How dare you,” said Sandie. “You used your badge to scare me.”
“Mom’ll take you back, Dad. I know she will. Go talk to her.”
“There’s a law against what you did,” said Sandie. “There’s gotta be! It’s police harassment!”
“I’ll show you what police harassment is,” Jane shot back. “You just keep pushing me.”
“What’re you gonna do, arrest me?” Sandie leaned into her, eyes narrowed to slits of mascara. “Go ahead.” The woman shoved her finger against Jane’s chest and gave a hard shove. “I dare you.”
What happened next was purely reflexive. Jane didn’t even stop to think, but simply reacted. With one sweep of her hand, she grasped Sandie’s wrist, twisted her around. Through the rushing of her own blood, she heard Sandie screaming obscenities. Heard her dad yell, “Stop it! For God’s sake, stop!” But she was operating on automatic now, all nerves firing on full thrust as she shoved Sandie to her knees, the way she’d handle any perp. But this time there was rage fueling her, making her twist harder than she had to, making her want to hurt this woman. Humiliate her.
“Rizzoli! Jesus, Rizzoli, that’s enough!”
The sound of Frost’s voice finally penetrated the pounding of her own pulse. Abruptly she released Sandie and stepped back, breathing hard. She stared down at the woman who knelt whimpering on the sidewalk. Frank dropped to his knees beside Sandie and helped her to her feet.
“What the hell’re you gonna do now?” Frank looked up at his daughter. “Arrest her?”
“You saw it. She shoved me.”
“She was upset.”
“She made the first contact.”
“Rizzoli,” Frost said quietly. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“I could arrest her,” said Jane. “Damn it, I could.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Frost. “You could. But do you really want to?”
She heaved out a breath. “I got better things to do,” she muttered. Then she turned and walked back to the car. By the time she climbed in, her dad and the blond had already vanished around the corner.
Frost slid in beside her and pulled his door shut. “That,” he said, “was not a cool thing to do.”
“Just drive.”
“You went in looking for a fight.”
“Did you see her? My dad’s going out with a friggin’ bimbo!”
“All the more reason why you need to stay a hundred miles away from her. You two were gonna kill each other.”
Jane sighed and dropped her head in her hand. “What do I tell my mom?”
“Nothing.” Frost started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Their marriage is not your business.”
“I’m gonna have to go home and look at her face. See all the hurt there. That makes it my business.”
“Then be a good daughter. Give her a shoulder to cry on,” he said. “Because she’s gonna need one.”
What do I tell my mom?
Jane pulled into a parking space outside her apartment and sat for a moment, dreading what came next. Maybe she shouldn’t tell her what happened today. Angela already knew about Dad and Miss Golden Retriever. Why rub her face in it? Why humiliate her even more?
Because if I were Mom, I’d want to be told. I wouldn’t want my daughter keeping secrets from me, no matter how painful they were.
Jane stepped out of the car, debating what to say, knowing that, no matter what she decided, this was going to be a miserable evening, and that little she could do or say would ease her mother’s pain. Be a good daughter, Frost had said; give her a shoulder to cry on. Okay, that much she could manage.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, her feet feeling heavier with every step as she silently cursed Miss Sandie Huffington, who had screwed up all their lives. Oh, I’ve got my eye on you. You so much as jaywalk, Bimbo, and I’m gonna be
right there. Outstanding parking tickets? Bad news for you. Mom can’t hit back, but I sure as hell can. She thrust her key into her apartment door and paused, frowning at the sound of her mother’s voice inside. The sound of her laughter.
Mom?
Pushing open the door, she inhaled the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Heard a different laugh now, startlingly familiar. A man’s. She walked into the kitchen and stared at retired detective Vince Korsak, who sat at the table with a cup of coffee. In front of him was a huge plate of sugar cookies.
“Hey,” he said, lifting his coffee cup in greeting. Baby Regina, sitting right beside him in her infant carrier, lifted her tiny hand, too, as though in imitation.
“Um … what are you doing here?”
“Janie!” scolded Angela, setting a pan of freshly baked cookies on the stovetop to cool. “What a thing to say to Vince.”
Vince? She’s calling him Vince?
“He called to invite you and Gabriel to a party,” said Angela.
“And you, too, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Korsak said, winking at Angela. “The more chicks that come, the better!”
Angela flushed, and it wasn’t from the oven’s heat.
“And I bet he smelled the cookies over the phone,” said Jane.
“I just happened to be here baking. I told him that if he came right over, I’d whip up an extra batch for him.”
“No way I’d pass up an offer like that,” laughed Korsak. “Hey, pretty nice having your mom here, huh?”
Jane eyed the crumbs all over his wrinkled shirt. “I see you’re off your diet.”
“And I see you’re in a good mood.” He took a sloppy gulp of coffee and swiped a fat hand across his mouth. “I hear you caught yourself a freakin’ weird one.” He paused, glanced at Angela. “Pardon my French, Mrs. Rizzoli.”
“Oh, say whatever you want,” said Angela. “I want you to feel right at home.”
Please don’t encourage him.
“Some kinda satanic cult,” he said.
“You heard that?”
“Retirement didn’t make me deaf.”
Or dumb. As much as he might irritate her with his crude jokes and appalling hygiene, Korsak was one of the sharpest investigators she knew. Although retired since his heart attack last year, he had never really left the badge behind. On a weekend night, she could still find him hanging out at JP Doyle’s, a favorite Boston PD watering hole, catching up on the latest war stories. Retired or not, Vince Korsak would die a cop.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 10-Book Bundle Page 167