The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”

  Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”

  Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”

  “I didn’t have the time to bake one.”

  It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.

  “Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.

  Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”

  “Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.

  “Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about—”

  “Since you’re so busy, I guess I should get down on my knees and thank you for even making it to your only mother’s birthday.”

  Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her face stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.

  The phone rang. Everyone froze.

  At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.

  Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long? With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.

  “What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”

  Jane winced. Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the blame on me.

  In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.

  “Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”

  Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the kitchen when her mother called out:

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Who, me?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.

  Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.

  “I asked you for one fucking favor,” he said.

  “Are you talking about the gift?”

  “I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”

  “You could’ve expected that.”

  “I bet you’re thinking this is so cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”

  “You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”

  “And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”

  “Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”

  “My gift was already delivered.”

  “And I guess it was too much trouble just to pick up a little something for me?”

  “Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”

  “Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you. ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’ ”

  “Besides, you didn’t pay me for the last gift.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.” And it still pisses me off that Ma refers to it as “that nice lamp Frankie gave me.”

  “So it’s all about the money, is that it?” he said.

  Her beeper went off, rattling against her belt. She looked at the number. “I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the way you keep getting away with things. You don’t even try, but somehow you always get full credit.”

  “Is this the ‘poor shitty me’ act again?”

  “I’m hanging up, Frankie.”

  “Give me back to Ma.”

  “First I got to answer my page. You call back in a minute.”

  “What the hell? I’m not racking up another long-distance—”

  She disconnected. Paused for a moment to let her temper cool down, then punched in the number from her beeper readout.

  Darren Crowe answered.

  She was in no mood to deal with yet another disagreeable man, and she snapped back: “Rizzoli. You paged me.”

  “Jeez, try a little Midol, why don’t you?”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, we got a ten fifty-four. Beacon Hill. Sleeper and I got here ’bout half an hour ago.”

  She heard laughter in her mother’s living room and glanced toward the closed door. Thought of the scene that was sure to come if she made an exit during Angela’s birthday party.

  “You’ll want to see this one,” said Crowe.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll be obvious when you get here.”

  ten

  Standing on the front stoop, Rizzoli caught the scent of death through the open doorway and paused, reluctant to take that first step into the house. To view what she already knew waited inside. She would have preferred to delay an extra moment or two, to prepare herself for the ordeal, but Darren Crowe, who’d opened the door to admit her, now stood watching her, and she had no choice but to pull on gloves and shoe covers and get on with what needed to be done.

  “Is Frost here yet?” she asked as she snapped on gloves.

  “Got here about twenty minutes ago. He’s inside.”

  “I would’ve been here sooner, but I had to drive in from Revere.”

  “What’s in Revere?”

  “Mom’s birthday party.”

  He laughed. “Sounded like you were having a real good time there.”

  “Don’t ask.” She pulled on the last shoe cover and straightened, her face all business now. Men like Crowe respected only strength, and strength was all she allowed him to see. As they stepped inside, she knew his gaze was on her, that he would be watching for her reaction to whatever she was about to confront. Testing, always testing, waiting for the moment when she would come up short. Knowing that, sooner or later, it would happen.

  He closed the front door and suddenly she felt claustrophic, cut off from fresh air. The stench of death was stronger, her lungs filling with its poison. She let none of these emotions show as she took in the foyer, noting the twelve-foot ceilings, the antique grandfather clock—not ticking. She’d always considered the Beacon Hill section of Boston as her dream neighborhood, the place she’d move to if she ever won the lottery or, even more farfetched, ever married Mr. Right. And this would have qualified as her dream home. Already she was unnerved by the similarity to the Yeager crime scene. A fine home in a fine neighborhood. The scent of slaughter in the air.

  “Security system was off,” said Crowe.

  “Disabled?”

  “No. The vics just didn’t turn it on. Maybe they didn’t know how to work it, since it’s not their house.”

  “Whose house is it?”

  Crowe flipped open his notebook and read, “Owner is Christopher Harm, age sixty-two. Retired stock trader. Serves on the board of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Spending the summer in France. He offered the use of his home to the Ghents while they’re on tour in Boston.”

  “What do you mean, on tour?”

  “They’re both musicians. Flew in a week ago from Chicago. Karenna Ghent is a pianist. Her husband Alexander was a cellist. Tonight was supposed to be their final performance at Symphony Hall.”

  It did not escape her notice that Crowe had referred to the man in the past tense but not the woman.

  Their paper shoe covers whished across the wood floor as they walked up the hall, drawn toward the sound of voices. Stepping into the living room, Rizzoli did not se
e the body at first, because it was blocked from her view by Sleeper and Frost, who stood with their backs turned to her. What she did see was the by-now familiar horror story written on the walls: multiple arcs of arterial splatter. She must have drawn in a sharp breath, because both Frost and Sleeper simultaneously turned to look at her. They stepped aside, to reveal Dr. Isles, crouched beside the victim.

  Alexander Ghent sat propped up against the wall like a sad marionette, his head tilted backward, revealing the gaping wound that had been his throat. So young, was her first shocked reaction as she stared at the disconcertingly unworried face, the open blue eye. He is so very young.

  “An official from the Symphony Hall—name’s Evelyn Petrakas—came to pick them up around six o’clock for their evening performance,” said Crowe. “They didn’t answer the door. She found it was unlocked, so she walked in to check on them.”

  “He’s wearing a pajama bottom,” said Rizzoli.

  “He’s in rigor mortis,” said Dr. Isles as she rose to her feet. “And there’s been significant cooling. I’ll be more specific when I get the vitreous potassium results. But right now, I’d estimate time of death between sixteen and twenty hours ago. Which would make it …” She glanced at her watch. “Sometime between one and five A.M.”

  “The bed’s unmade,” said Sleeper. “The last time anyone saw the couple was yesterday night. They left Symphony Hall around eleven, and Ms. Petrakas dropped them off here.”

  The victims were asleep, thought Rizzoli, staring at Alexander Ghent’s pajama bottom. Asleep and unaware that someone was in their house. Walking toward their bedroom.

  “There’s an open kitchen window that leads to a little courtyard in back,” said Sleeper. “We found several footprints in the flower bed, but they’re not all the same size. Some of them may belong to a gardener. Or even the victims.”

  Rizzoli stared down at the duct tape binding Alex Ghent’s ankles. “And Mrs. Ghent?” she asked. Already knowing the answer.

  “Missing,” said Sleeper.

  Her gaze moved in an ever larger circle around the corpse, but she saw no broken teacup, no fragments of chinaware. Something is wrong, she thought.

  “Detective Rizzoli?”

  She turned and saw a crime scene tech standing in the hallway.

  “Patrolman says there’s some guy outside, claims to know you. He’s raising a holy stink, demanding access. You want to check him out?”

  “I know who it is,” she said. “I’ll go walk him in.”

  Korsak was smoking a cigarette as he paced the sidewalk, so furious about the indignity of being reduced to the status of civilian bystander that smoke seemed to be rising from his ears as well. He saw her and immediately threw down the butt and squashed it as though it were a disgusting bug.

  “You shutting me out or what?” he said.

  “Look, I’m sorry. The patrolman didn’t get the word.”

  “Goddamn rookie. Didn’t show any respect.”

  “He didn’t know, okay? It was my fault.” She lifted the crime scene tape and he ducked under it. “I want you to see this.”

  At the front door, she waited while he pulled on shoe covers and latex gloves. He stumbled as he tried to balance on one foot. Catching him, she was shocked to smell alcohol on his breath. She had called him from her car, had reached him at home on a night when he was off duty. Now she regretted having alerted him at all. He was already angry and belligerent, but she could not refuse him entry without precipitating a noisy and very public scene. She only hoped he was sober enough not to embarrass them both.

  “Okay,” he huffed. “Show me what we got.”

  In the living room he stared without comment at the corpse of Alexander Ghent, slumped in a pool of blood. Korsak’s shirt had come untucked, and he breathed with his usual adenoidal snuffle. She saw Crowe and Sleeper glance their way, saw Crowe roll his eyes, and suddenly she was furious at Korsak for showing up in this condition. She had called him because he’d been the first detective to walk the Yeager death scene, and she’d wanted his impression on this one as well. What she got instead was a drunk cop whose very presence was starting to humiliate her.

  “It could be our boy,” said Korsak.

  Crowe snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Korsak turned his bloodshot gaze on Crowe. “You’re one of those boy geniuses, huh? Know it all.”

  “Not like it takes a genius to see what we’ve got.”

  “What do you think we’ve got?”

  “A replay. Nocturnal home invasion. Couple surprised in bed. Wife abducted, husband gets the coup de grâce. It’s all here.”

  “So where’s the teacup?” Impaired though he was, Korsak had managed to zero in on precisely the detail that had bothered Rizzoli.

  “There isn’t one,” said Crowe.

  Korsak stared at the victim’s empty lap. “He’s got the vic posed. Got him sitting up against the wall to watch the show, like the last time. But he left out the warning system. The teacup. If he assaults the wife, how does he keep track of the husband?”

  “Ghent’s a skinny guy. Not much of a threat. Besides, he’s all trussed up. How’s he gonna get up and defend his wife?”

  “It’s a change; that’s all I’m saying.”

  Crowe shrugged and turned away. “So he rewrote the script.”

  “Pretty boy just knows it all, doesn’t he?”

  The room fell silent. Even Dr. Isles, who was often ready with an ironic comment, said nothing, but just watched with a vaguely amused expression.

  Crowe turned, his gaze like laser beams on Korsak. But his words were addressed to Rizzoli: “Detective, is there a reason this man is trespassing on our crime scene?”

  Rizzoli grasped Korsak’s arm. It was doughy and moist, and she could smell his sour sweat. “We haven’t seen the bedroom yet. Come on.”

  “Yeah,” Crowe laughed. “Don’t wanna miss the bedroom.” Korsak yanked away from her and took an unsteady step toward Crowe. “I been working this perp way before you, asshole.”

  “Come on, Korsak,” said Rizzoli.

  “… chasing down every fucking lead there is. I’m the one shoulda been called here first, ’cause I know him now. I can smell him.”

  “Oh. Is that what I’m smelling?” said Crowe.

  “Come on,” said Rizzoli, about to lose it. Afraid of all the rage that might come roaring out if she did. Rage against both Korsak and Crowe for their stupid head butting.

  It was Barry Frost who gracefully stepped in to defuse the tension. Rizzoli’s instinct was usually to leap into any argument with both feet first, but Frost’s was to play peacemaker. It’s the curse of growing up the middle child, he’d once told her, the kid who knows his face will otherwise catch the fists of all parties involved. He did not even try to calm down Korsak but instead said to Rizzoli, “You’ve got to see what we found in the bedroom. It ties these two cases together.” He walked across the living room and headed into another hallway, his matter-of-fact stride announcing: If you want to go where the action is, follow me.

  After a moment, Korsak did.

  In the bedroom, Frost, Korsak, and Rizzoli gazed at the rumpled sheets, the thrown-back covers. And at the twin swaths carved in the carpet.

  “Dragged from their beds,” Frost said. “Like the Yeagers.”

  But Alexander Ghent had been smaller and far less muscular than Dr. Yeager, and the unsub would have had an easier time moving him into the hallway and posing him against the wall. An easier time grasping his hair and baring his throat.

  “It’s on the dresser,” said Frost.

  It was a powder-blue teddy, size 4, neatly folded and speckled with blood. Something a young woman would wear to attract a lover, excite a husband. Surely Karenna Ghent had never imagined the violent theater in which this garment would serve as both costume and prop. Beside it were a pair of Delta Airline ticket envelopes. Rizzoli glanced inside them and saw the itinerary, which had been arranged through the Ghents’
talent agency.

  “They were due to fly out tomorrow,” she said. “Next stop was Memphis.”

  “Too bad,” said Korsak. “They never got to see Graceland.”

  Outside, she and Korsak sat in his car with the windows open while he smoked a cigarette. He drew in deeply, then released a sigh of satisfaction as the smoke worked its poisonous magic in his lungs. He seemed calmer, more focused than when he’d arrived three hours ago. The blast of nicotine had sharpened his mind. Or perhaps the alcohol had finally worn off.

  “You have any doubt this is our boy?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  “Crimescope didn’t pick up any semen.”

  “Maybe he was neater this time.”

  “Or he didn’t rape her,” said Korsak. “And that’s why he didn’t need the teacup.”

  Annoyed by his smoke, she turned her face to the open window and waved her hand to clear the air. “Murder doesn’t follow a set script,” she said. “Every victim reacts differently. It’s a two-character play, Korsak. The killer and the victim. Either one can affect the outcome. Dr. Yeager was a much bigger man than Alex Ghent. Maybe our unsub felt less confident about controlling Yeager, so he used the chinaware as a warning signal. Something he didn’t feel he needed to do with Ghent.”

  “I don’t know.” Korsak flicked an ash out the window. “It’s such a weird-ass thing to do, that teacup. Part of his signature. Something he wouldn’t leave out.”

  “Everything else was identical,” she pointed out. “Well-to-do couple. The man bound and posed. The woman missing.”

  They fell silent as the same grim thought surely occurred to them both: The woman. What has he done to Karenna Ghent?

  Rizzoli already knew the answer. Though Karenna’s image would soon appear on TV screens across the city and a plea would go out for the public’s help, though Boston P.D. would scramble to follow up every phone tip, every sighting of a dark-haired woman, Rizzoli knew what the outcome would be. She could feel it, like a cold stone in her stomach. Karenna Ghent was dead.

  “Gail Yeager’s body was dumped about two days after her abduction,” said Korsak. “It’s now been—what? Around twenty hours since this couple was attacked.”