Where is he? Where did he go?
Weapon drawn, heart hammering, she scanned the shadows. Saw trash cans, heard broken glass clatter away.
The bullet slammed into her back, right between her shoulder blades. The impact sent her flying and she sprawled on her belly, her palms scraping across pavement. Her weapon flew out of her hands. The Kevlar vest had saved her, but the force of the bullet stole the breath from her lungs and she lay stunned, her gun somewhere out of reach.
Footsteps slowly approached, and she struggled to her knees, fumbled around for her weapon.
The footsteps came to a halt right behind her.
She twisted around to see the man’s silhouette towering above her. Shadows hid his face, but enough light spilled into the alley from a distant streetlamp that she saw him raise his arm. Saw the faint gleam of the gun he was pointing at her head. It would be a quick and efficient end, without killer and victim ever glimpsing each other’s eyes. Gabriel, she thought. Regina. I never got the chance to tell you how much I love you both.
She heard Death whisper in the night, felt it hiss like the wind past her ear. Something splashed her face and she blinked. When she opened her eyes again, the silhouette looming over her was already toppling forward. It landed across her legs like a felled tree. Trapped under the man’s weight, she felt liquid warmth soaking into her clothes. Recognized all too well that coppery smell.
Something breathed in the darkness, something that now loomed where the gunman had stood only seconds before. She saw no face, just a black oval and a halo of silvery hair. It said not a word but as it turned away, something flashed in its hand, a bright arc of reflected light that was there and gone again. She heard what she thought was the wind as shadow swooped across shadow. Then she was alone, still pinned against the hard pavement by a man who spilled his last blood onto her clothes.
“Rizzoli? Rizzoli!”
She struggled to free herself from the deadweight trapping her legs. “I’m here! Frost!”
The beam of a flashlight flickered in the distance. Moved closer, sweeping back and froth across the alley.
With a grunt of effort, Jane finally managed to shove the body away. Shuddering at the touch of dead flesh, she scrabbled backward. “Frost,” she said.
The light landed squarely in her eyes, and she raised a hand against its glare.
“Jesus,” Frost cried. “Are you—”
“I’m okay. I’m fine!” She took a deep breath and felt the lingering ache of the bullet’s impact in her Kevlar vest. “At least, I think so.”
“All this blood …”
“Not mine. It’s his.”
Frost aimed his flashlight at the body, and she sucked in a shocked breath that made her ribs hurt. The body was lying chest-down, and the decapitated head had rolled a few feet away. The eyes stared up at them, the mouth open as though in a last gasp of surprise. Jane gaped at the cleanly severed neck and was suddenly aware of her soaked trousers, the fabric clinging to her legs. The night began to spin and she stumbled away and sagged against a building where she dropped her head, desperately fighting the need to throw up.
“What happened?” said Frost.
“I saw it,” she whispered. “The thing. Your creature on the roof.” Her legs seemed to melt away beneath her and she slid all the way down to sit crumpled against the wall. “It just saved my life.”
A long silence passed. Wind swept the alley, scattering grit that stung her eyes and pelted her face. I should be dead, she thought. I should be lying here with a bullet in my brain. Instead I’m going to go home tonight. I’m going to hug my husband and kiss my baby. And I owe this miracle to whatever it was that swooped out of the night.
She lifted her head and looked at Frost. “You must have seen it. Just now.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“It would have run right past you when you came into the alley.”
He shook his head. “It’s like what happened on the roof. I was the only one who saw it, and you didn’t believe me.”
She focused again on the body. On the gun that was still clutched in the headless corpse’s hand. “I believe you now.”
From her parked car, Maura saw three police officers standing by the barrier of crime scene tape. They all glanced her way and almost certainly recognized her black Lexus, so they knew the medical examiner had just arrived. But as she climbed out of her car and walked toward them, they turned their backs and continued chatting among themselves. Only when she formally announced herself did they finally deign to meet her gaze.
“Is Detective Rizzoli in the residence?” she asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” one of the patrolmen answered. “Why don’t you check inside?”
Was he being intentionally unhelpful? It was impossible to tell from his coolly neutral expression. As she ducked under the tape and walked toward the front door, she heard them laugh and wondered if that was directed at her. Wondered if this was what she’d face at every future death scene. The looks, the whispers, the thinly disguised hostility. She stopped at the front door to pull booties over her shoes, careful not to lose her balance and give them one more thing to snicker about. As she straightened, the front door opened and Detective Tam stood looking at her.
“Dr. Isles. Sorry to drag you out this time of night.”
“Are both victims in the house?”
“One of them’s in the kitchen. The second victim’s a few blocks away, in an alley.”
“How did number two end up so far away from number one?”
“He was trying to get away from Rizzoli. I guess she’s a hard gal to shake.”
Tam led her from the foyer and down the hall. Booties rustling over the floor, she followed him into the kitchen and was surprised to see the commander of Boston PD’s homicide unit standing next to Barry Frost. It was rare to encounter Lieutenant Marquette at a crime scene, and his appearance here told her that something was very different about this homicide.
The victim lay on his side on the tiled floor, his face resting in a congealing pool of blood. He was a heavyset white man in his seventies, dressed in tan trousers, a knit shirt, and dark socks. One slipper was still on his foot. The bullet wound in his left temple left little doubt about the cause of death. Maura did not immediately move toward the body but remained where she stood for a moment, scanning the floor for a weapon. She saw no gun anywhere near the body. Not a suicide.
“He was a cop,” said Jane quietly.
Maura had not heard her approach. She turned and stared at Jane’s blood-splattered blouse. Instead of her usual dark trouser suit, Jane was wearing baggy sweatpants, obviously an emergency change of clothes.
“My God, Jane.”
“Things got a little rough out there.”
“Are you all right?”
Jane nodded and looked down at the dead man. “I can’t say the same for him.”
“Who is he?”
Lieutenant Marquette answered. “Detective Lou Ingersoll. He retired from the homicide unit sixteen years ago. He was one of ours, Dr. Isles. He deserves our very best effort.”
Was he implying that she would give this victim any less than her best? That an ME who’d betray the thin blue line would betray this cop as well? Cheeks burning, she crouched down by the body. It took her a few seconds to register the name. Lou Ingersoll.
She glanced up at Tam. “This was the man who worked the Red Phoenix massacre.”
“You already know about him?” asked Jane.
“Detective Tam and I discussed it when he brought me the autopsy reports.”
Jane turned to Tam: “I didn’t know you consulted her.”
Tam shrugged. “I just wanted Dr. Isles’s opinion. Whether something might have been missed nineteen years ago.”
“Detective Rizzoli?” One of the criminalists stood in the kitchen doorway, a set of headphones looped around his neck. “We swept the room with a radio frequency scanner, and you’re right. There’s de
finitely a signal coming from his landline phone.”
“A signal?” Marquette looked at Jane.
“Ingersoll thought someone was monitoring his phone calls,” said Jane. “To be honest, I’m kind of surprised we actually found anything.”
“Why would anyone bug his phone?”
“It wouldn’t be for the usual reason. He’s been widowed for eighteen years, so there’s no divorce war. He’s got one daughter, and she has no idea what’s going on.” Jane stared down at the dead man. “This just gets weirder and weirder. He complained about a van watching his house. He said someone broke in here while he was away. To me, it sounded like crazy talk.”
“Not so crazy after all.” Marquette looked at the criminalist. “You checked his cell phone yet?”
“We didn’t detect any signal on that one. The battery’s dead. Once we charge it up, we’ll take a look at his call log.”
“Let’s get all his phone records, cell and landline. See who he’s been talking to lately.”
Maura rose to her feet. “I understand there’s a second victim.”
“The shooter,” said Jane. “At least, the man we assume is the shooter. I chased him a few blocks away.”
“You brought him down yourself?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Jane drew in a deep breath, as though steeling herself for what came next. “It’s not easy to explain. I’ll have to show you.”
They walked outside, where a crowd was gathering, mesmerized by the invasion of law enforcement into their neighborhood. Jane forged a path through the gawkers and led Maura around the corner to a quiet side street. Although Jane walked at her usual brisk pace, the swagger was gone, and her shoulders were slumped as though the night had beaten her down and stolen her confidence.
“Are you really all right?” Maura asked.
“Aside from having my good pantsuit trashed? Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay. Jane, talk to me.”
Jane’s pace slowed, stopped. She stared down the street as if afraid to look at Maura, afraid to reveal how vulnerable she felt at that moment. “I shouldn’t be standing here right now,” she murmured. “I should be dead, like Ingersoll. Lying in the alley with a bullet in my head.” She frowned at her hands, as if they belonged to someone else. “Look at this. I’ve got the goddamn shakes.”
“You said you chased down the perp.”
“Chased him, yeah. But I got cocky. Followed him into an alley. I’m the one who went down.” She hugged herself, as though suddenly chilled. “Saved by my birthday present. Remember how Gabriel bought me a Kevlar vest? How you and I laughed about it? So romantic, what every gal wants. When I didn’t wear it, he got royally pissed off at me, so just to keep the peace at home I put it on this morning. Now I’ll never hear the end of it. That he was right.”
“Does he know what happened to you?”
“I haven’t called him yet.” Jane swiped a sleeve across her face. “I haven’t had the chance.”
“You need to go home. Right now.”
“In the middle of this?”
“Jane, you’re barely holding it together. Your team can process the scene.”
“Right, with Marquette here? Seeing that I can’t handle a little thing like being shot in the back? Fuck that.” Jane turned and walked away, as though in a hurry to get this business over with. To prove she was up to the task.
Oh Jane, thought Maura. You’ve proved yourself time and again, but it will never be enough for you. You’ll always be that rookie fighting to be acknowledged. Afraid to show weakness.
They came to another barrier of crime scene tape, where a patrolman guarded the entrance to an alley. Once again, Maura was greeted with cold indifference. As she pulled on fresh shoe covers and ducked under the tape, she felt the patrolman watching her, and it was a relief to escape his stare and follow Jane into the gloom of the alley.
“And here’s bachelor number two,” announced Jane, aiming her flashlight at the pavement. The jarringly flippant remark left Maura unprepared for the horror lying at their feet.
The decapitation was complete. The head, wearing a dark knit cap, had come to rest a few feet away from the torso—a white male, perhaps forty. The body, garbed entirely in black, lay chest-down as though in mid-breaststroke through an ocean of its own spilled blood. Frozen in cadaveric spasm, the hand still clutched a gun. Swinging her flashlight, Maura saw stuttering arcs splashed across the walls, saw congealed pools, like puddles of black pudding on the pavement.
“Meet the asshole who ruined my favorite suit,” said Jane.
Maura frowned at the headless torso. At the weapon in the man’s hand. “This is the man you chased from the residence?”
“Yeah. Followed him from Ingersoll’s backyard. He got off one round and hit me in the back. Still hurts like hell.”
“Then how did he end up …”
“A third party stepped in. If you have any questions about the manner of death, just ask me, because I was here. I was here on the ground, and this guy was about to pump a bullet in my head. I thought I was dead. I thought …” She swallowed. “Then I heard a sound, this whoosh in the air. He just collapsed on top of me.” Staring down, Jane said softly: “And I’m still alive.”
“Did you see who did this?”
“Just a shadow. Silver hair.”
“That’s all?”
Jane hesitated. “A sword. I think he had a sword.”
Maura looked down at the body and felt a puff of wind sweep down the alley. Wondered if the fatal blow had sounded like that same whisper of wind. She remembered the amputated wrist of Jane Doe, joints and tendons so cleanly divided. Her gaze sharpened on the gun in the dead man’s grasp. “This gun has a suppressor.”
“Yeah. He’s dressed in black and carrying a hit man’s special. Just like Jane Doe, the woman on the rooftop.”
“This is not any run-of-the-mill burglar.” Maura looked up. “Why was Ingersoll’s phone bugged?”
“He never got the chance to tell me, but it was obvious he was worried and wanted to talk. Something about girls. What happened to those girls, he said.”
“Which girls?”
“I think it’s connected to the Red Phoenix. Did you know that two of the victims had their daughters go missing?”
Maura heard voices and the slam of vehicle doors. She looked up the alley and saw the approaching flashlights of the CSU team. “Now I’m definitely going to read those files that Tam brought me.”
“Why did he? I was surprised to hear he’d dropped that on you.”
“He wanted an unbiased opinion. I don’t think he believes that the cook was a suicide.”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve been too busy to look at the files. Rat’s visiting this week, so I’m spending time with him.” Maura turned to leave. “I’ll do the autopsies first thing in the morning. If you want to be there.”
“You’re going to do both of them?”
That struck Maura as an odd question and she looked back. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Ingersoll was a cop. I’m just thinking it’s kind of a delicate time right now. With you and the Graff trial.”
Maura heard the discomfort in Jane’s voice and knew the reason for it. “Am I no longer allowed to autopsy cops?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Trust me, you don’t have to. I’m fully aware of what’s being said. I’m aware of it every time a cop looks at me, or refuses to look at me. They consider me the enemy.”
“It’ll pass, Maura. It just takes time.”
Until I testify against the next cop. “I wouldn’t want to be politically incorrect,” said Maura. “I’ll ask Dr. Bristol to do the postmortem on Ingersoll.” She ducked under the crime scene tape and walked away, past the CSU team. Felt the knot in her neck gradually ease only after she’d left the alley a block behind her. It’ll pass, Maura, Jane had said, but would it? Cops had long memori
es. They recalled the details of cases that were decades old, and they held grudges, never forgetting who was with them or against them. I am always going to be placed in the second category, she thought. Twenty years from now, they’re still going to remember that I helped send a cop to jail.
By the time she was back at Ingersoll’s residence, more official vehicles had arrived. She paused, dazzled by the flashing lights and the carnival atmosphere of confusion. Suddenly a woman’s sobs pierced the chatter of police radios.
“Let me see him! I need to see my father!”
“Ma’am, please. You can’t go in there,” a patrolman said, holding her back. “Someone will be out to talk to you as soon as they can.”
“But he’s my dad. I have a right to know what happened to him!”
“Father Brophy,” the cop called out. “Can you help this lady, please?”
A tall man wearing a priest’s collar quietly made his way through the crowd. As the clergyman for Boston PD, Daniel Brophy was frequently called to scenes of tragedy, so Maura was not surprised to see him here, but the sight of him stunned her nonetheless. She watched with hungry eyes as Daniel led Ingersoll’s daughter away from the crime scene tape. Did he look thinner? Was his face haunted, his hair more gray? Do you miss me the way I miss you?
He guided the sobbing woman toward a patrol car, then suddenly he saw Maura and their gazes locked. For a moment the world dropped away and she saw only Daniel. Felt the drumming of her own heart, as frantic as the wings of a dying bird.
She was still staring as he walked away, cradling the sobbing woman against his shoulder.
Jane stood before the morgue’s light box, studying the dead man’s X-rays. His bony structures appeared normal in every way, except for one glaring detail: His cranium had been separated from his body, severed cleanly between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Although Tam and Frost were already standing at the autopsy table, waiting for the postmortem to begin, Jane stayed rooted where she was, not yet ready to face what was lying beneath the drape. X-rays were abstract things, cartoon anatomy in black and white. They did not look or smell like flesh; they did not have a face. And so she lingered longer than she needed to, focused on the shadow of lungs and heart, the same heart that had sent blood spurting across her clothes last night. If not for my nameless savior, my X-rays would be hanging here, she thought. My body would be lying on the table.
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