The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Who sent them?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You have the fingerprints on the man she shot. Who was he?”

  “We don’t know that, either. If he was ex-military, the Pentagon isn’t telling us.”

  “You’re with Justice. And you can’t get access to that information?”

  Glasser crossed toward Jane and sat down in a chair, looking at her. “Now you understand the hurdles we’re facing. Agent Barsanti and I have had to handle this quietly and discreetly. We’ve stayed under the radar, because they were looking for her, too. We were hoping to find her first. And we came so close. From Baltimore to Connecticut to Boston, Agent Barsanti has been just one step behind her.”

  “How were you able to track her?” asked Gabriel.

  “For a while it was easy. We just followed the trail left by Joseph Roke’s credit card. His ATM withdrawals.”

  Barsanti said, “I kept reaching out to him. Voice mails on his cell phone. I even left a message with an old aunt of his in Pennsylvania. Finally Roke called me back, and I tried to talk him into coming in. But he wouldn’t trust me. Then he shot that policeman in New Haven, and we lost track of them entirely. That’s when I think they split up.”

  “How did you know they were traveling together?”

  “The night of the Ashburn slayings,” said Glasser, “Joseph Roke bought gas at a nearby service station. He used his credit card, then asked the clerk if the station had a tow truck, because he’d picked up two women on the road who needed help with their car.”

  There was a silence. Gabriel and Jane looked at each other.

  “Two women?” said Jane.

  Glasser nodded. “The station’s security camera caught a view of Roke’s car while it was parked at the pump. Through the windshield, you can see there’s a woman sitting in the front seat. It’s Olena. That’s the night their lives intersected, the night Joseph Roke got involved. The minute he invited those women into his car, into his life, he was a marked man. Five hours after that stop at the service station, his house went up in flames. That’s when he surely realized he’d picked up a whole hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “And the second woman? You said he picked up two women on the road.”

  “We don’t know anything about her. Only that she was still traveling with them as far as New Haven. That was two months ago.”

  “You’re talking about the cruiser video. The shooting of that police officer.”

  “On the video, you can see a head pop up from Roke’s backseat. Just the back of the head—we’ve never seen her face. Which leaves us with almost no information on her at all. Just a few strands of red hair left on the seat. For all we know, she’s dead.”

  “But if she’s alive,” said Barsanti, “then she’s our last witness. The only one left who saw what happened in Ashburn.”

  Jane said, softly: “I can tell you her name.”

  Glasser frowned at her. “What?”

  “That’s the dream.” Jane looked at Gabriel. “That’s what Olena says to me.”

  “She’s been having a nightmare,” said Gabriel. “About the takedown.”

  “And what happens in the dream?” Glasser asked, her gaze riveted on Jane.

  Jane swallowed. “I hear men pounding on the door, breaking into the room. And she leans over me. To tell me something.”

  “Olena does?”

  “Yes. She says: ‘Mila knows.’ That’s all she tells me. ‘Mila knows.’ ”

  Glasser stared at her. “Mila knows? Present tense?” She looked at Barsanti. “Our witness is still alive.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “I’m surprised you’re here, Dr. Isles,” said Peter Lukas. “Since I haven’t been able to reach you on the phone.” He gave her a quick handshake, a greeting that was justifiably cool and businesslike; Maura had not been returning his calls. He led her through the Boston Tribune lobby to the security desk, where the guard handed Maura an orange visitor’s badge.

  “You’ll have to return that when you leave, ma’am,” the guard said.

  “And you’d better,” added Lukas, “or this man will hunt you down like a dog.”

  “Warning noted,” said Maura, clipping the badge to her blouse. “You have better security here than the Pentagon.”

  “You have any idea how many people a newspaper pisses off every day?” He pressed the elevator call button and glanced at her unsmiling face. “Uh-oh. I think you must be one of them. Is that why you haven’t called me back?”

  “A number of people were unhappy with that column you wrote about me.”

  “Unhappy with you or with me?”

  “With me.”

  “Did I misquote you? Misrepresent you?”

  She hesitated. Admitted, “No.”

  “Then why are you annoyed with me? Because you clearly are.”

  She looked at him. “I spoke too frankly with you. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I enjoyed interviewing a woman who speaks frankly,” he said. “It was a nice change.”

  “Do you know how many calls I got? About my theory of Christ’s resurrection?”

  “Oh. That.”

  “From as far away as Florida. People upset by my blasphemy.”

  “You only spoke your mind.”

  “When you have a public job like mine, it’s sometimes a dangerous thing to do.”

  “It goes with the territory, Dr. Isles. You’re a public figure, and if you say something interesting, it gets into print. At least you had something interesting to say, unlike most people I interview.”

  The elevator door opened, and they stepped in. Alone together, she was acutely aware that he was watching her. That he was standing uncomfortably close.

  “So why have you been calling me?” she asked. “Are you trying to get me into more trouble?”

  “I wanted to know about the autopsies on Joe and Olena. You never released a report.”

  “I never completed the postmortem. The bodies were transferred to the FBI labs.”

  “But your office did have temporary custody. I can’t believe you’d just let bodies sit in your cold room without performing some kind of examination. It wouldn’t be in your character.”

  “What, exactly, is my character?” She looked at him.

  “Curious. Exacting.” He smiled. “Tenacious.”

  “Like you?”

  “Tenacity is getting me absolutely nowhere with you. And here I thought we could be friends. Not that I was expecting any special favors.”

  “What do you expect from me?”

  “Dinner? Dancing? Cocktails, at the very least?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He answered her question with a sheepish shrug. “No harm in trying.”

  The elevator opened and they stepped out.

  “She died of gunshot wounds to the flank and the head,” said Maura. “I think that’s what you wanted to know.”

  “How many wounds? How many different shooters?”

  “You want all the gory details?”

  “I want to be accurate. That means going directly to the source, even if I have to make a nuisance of myself.”

  They walked into the newsroom, past reporters tapping at keyboards, to a desk where every horizontal square inch was covered with files and Post-it notes. Not a single photo of a kid or a woman or even a dog was displayed here. This space was purely for work, although she wondered how much work anyone could actually do, surrounded by such clutter.

  He commandeered an extra chair from his neighbor’s desk and rolled it over for Maura to sit in. It gave a noisy squeak as she settled into it.

  “So you won’t return my calls,” he said, sitting down as well. “But you do come by to see me at work. Does this qualify as a mixed message?”

  “This case has gotten complicated.”

  “And now you need something from me.”

  “We’re all trying to understand what happened that night. And why it happened.”


  “If you had any questions for me, all you had to do was pick up the phone.” He pinned her with a look. “I would have returned your calls, Dr. Isles.”

  They fell silent. At other desks, phones rang and keyboards clacked, but Maura and Lukas just looked at each other, the air between them spiked with both irritation and something else, something she didn’t want to acknowledge. A strong whiff of mutual attraction. Or am I just imagining it?

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I’m being a jerk. I mean, you are here. Even if it’s for your own purposes.”

  “You have to understand my position, too,” she said. “As a public official, I get calls all the time from reporters. Some of them—many of them—don’t care about victims’ privacy or grieving families or whether investigations are at risk. I’ve learned to be cautious and watch what I say. Because I’ve been burned too many times by reporters who swear that my comments will stay off the record.”

  “So that’s what kept you from calling? Professional discretion?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no other reason you didn’t call me back?”

  “What other reason would there be?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe you didn’t like me.” His gaze was so intent, she had trouble keeping eye contact. He made her that uncomfortable.

  “I don’t dislike you, Mr. Lukas.”

  “Ouch. Now I fully appreciate what it means to be damned with faint praise.”

  “I thought reporters had thicker skin.”

  “We all want to be liked, especially by people we admire.” He leaned closer. “And by the way, it’s not Mr. Lukas. It’s Peter.”

  Another silence, because she didn’t know if this was flirtation or manipulation. For this man, it might amount to the same thing.

  “That went over like a lead balloon,” he said.

  “It’s nice to be flattered, but I’d rather you just be straight-forward.”

  “I thought I was being straightforward.”

  “You want information from me. I want the same from you. I just didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

  He gave a nod of understanding. “Okay. So this is just a simple transaction.”

  “What I need to know is—”

  “We’re getting right to business? I can’t even offer you a cup of coffee first?” He rose from the chair and crossed toward the community coffeepot.

  Glancing at the carafe, she saw only tar-black dregs, and said quickly, “None for me, thank you.”

  He poured a cup for himself and sat back down. “So what’s with the reluctance to discuss this over the phone?”

  “Things have been … happening.”

  “Things? Are you telling me you don’t even trust your own telephone?”

  “As I told you, the case is complicated.”

  “Federal intervention. Confiscated ballistics evidence. FBI in a tug-of-war with the Pentagon. A hostage taker who still remains unidentified.” He laughed. “Yeah, I’d say it’s gotten very complicated.”

  “You know all this.”

  “That’s why they call us reporters.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to answer that question? Let’s just say I have friends in law enforcement. And I have theories.”

  “About what?”

  “Joseph Roke and Olena. And what that hostage taking was really all about.”

  “No one really knows that answer.”

  “But I know what law enforcement is thinking. I know what their theories are.” He set down his coffee cup. “John Barsanti spent about three hours with me, did you know that? Picking and probing, trying to find out why I was the only reporter Joseph Roke wanted to talk to. Funny thing about interrogations. The person being interrogated can glean a lot of information just by the questions they ask you. I know that two months ago, Olena and Joe were together in New Haven, where he killed a cop. Maybe they were lovers, maybe just fellow delusionals, but after an incident like that, they’d want to split up. At least, they would if they were smart, and I don’t think these were dumb people. But they must have had a way to stay in contact. A way to regroup if they needed to. And they chose Boston as the place to meet.”

  “Why Boston?”

  His gaze was so direct she could not avoid it. “You’re looking at the reason.”

  “You?”

  “I’m not being egotistical here. I’m just telling you what Barsanti seems to think. That Joe and Olena somehow identified me as their crusading hero. That they came to Boston to see me.”

  “And that leads to the question I came here to ask.” She leaned toward him. “Why you? They didn’t pick your name out of a hat. Joe may have been mentally unstable, but he was intelligent. An obsessive reader of newspapers and magazines. Something you wrote must have caught his eye.”

  “I know the answer to that one. Barsanti essentially spilled the beans when he asked about a column I wrote back in early June. About the Ballentree Company.”

  They both fell silent as another reporter walked past, on her way to the coffeepot. While they waited for her to pour her cup, their gazes remained locked on each other. Only when the woman was once again out of earshot did Maura say: “Show me the column.”

  “It’ll be on LexisNexis. Let me call it up.” He swiveled around to his computer and called up the LexisNexis news search engine, typed in his name, and hit search.

  The screen filled with entries.

  “Let me find the right date,” he said, scrolling down the page.

  “This is everything you’ve ever written?”

  “Yeah, probably going all the way back to my Bigfoot days.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I got out of journalism school, I had a ton of student loans to pay off. Took every writing gig I could get, including an assignment to cover a Bigfoot convention out in California.” He looked at her. “I admit it, I was a news whore. But I had bills to pay.”

  “And now you’re respectable?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far …” He paused, clicked on an entry. “Okay, here’s the column,” he said and rose to his feet, offering her his chair. “That’s what I wrote back in June, about Ballentree.”

  She settled into his just-vacated seat and focused on the text now glowing on the screen.

  War is Profit: Business Booming for Ballentree

  While the US economy sags, there’s one sector that’s still raking in big profits. Mega defense contractor Ballentree is reeling in new deals like fish from their private trout pond …

  “Needless to say,” said Lukas, “Ballentree was none too happy about that piece. But I’m not the only one who’s writing these things. The same criticism has been leveled by other reporters.”

  “Yet Joe chose you.”

  “Maybe it was the timing. Maybe he just happened to pick up a Tribune that day, and there was my column about big bad Ballentree.”

  “Can I look at what else you’ve written?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She returned to the list of his articles on the LexisNexis page. “You’re prolific.”

  “I’ve been writing for over twenty years, covering everything from gang warfare to gay marriage.”

  “And Bigfoot.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  She scrolled down the first and second pages of entries, then moved onto the third page. There she paused. “These articles were filed from Washington.”

  “I think I told you. I was the Tribune’s Washington correspondent. Only lasted for two years there.”

  “Why?”

  “I hated DC. And I admit, I’m a born Yankee. Call me a masochist, but I missed the winters up here, so I moved back to Boston in February.”

  “What was your beat in DC?”

  “Everything. Features. Politics, crime beat.” He paused. “A cynic might say there’s no difference between the last two. I’d as soon cover a good juicy murder than c
hase after some blow-dried senator all day.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever dealt with Senator Conway?”

  “Of course. He’s one of our senators. “ He paused. “Why do you ask about Conway?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned closer, his hands grasping the back of her chair. “Dr. Isles,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet, whispering into her hair. “You want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

  Her gaze was fixed on the screen. “I’m just trying to make some connections here.”

  “Are you getting the tingle?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I call it when I suddenly know I’m onto something interesting. Also known as ESP or Spidey sense. Tell me why Senator Conway makes you sit up and take notice.”

  “He’s on the intelligence committee.”

  “I interviewed him back in November or December. The article’s there somewhere.”

  She scanned down the headlines, about Congressional hearings and terrorism alerts and a Massachusetts congressman arrested for drunk driving, and found the article about Senator Conway. Then her gaze strayed to a different headline, dated January 15.

  Reston Man Found Dead Aboard Yacht. Businessman Missing Since January 2nd.

  It was the date that she focused on. January 2nd. She clicked on the entry and the page filled with text. Only a moment before, Lukas had talked about the tingle. She was feeling it now.

  She turned to look at him. “Tell me about Charles Desmond.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Everything.”

  THIRTY

  Who are you, Mila? Where are you?

  Somewhere, there had to be a trace of her. Jane poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table and surveyed all the files she had collected in the days since coming home from the hospital. Here were autopsy and Boston PD crime lab reports, Leesburg PD files on the Ashburn massacre, Moore’s files on Joseph Roke and Olena. She had already combed these files several times, searching for a trace of Mila, the woman whose face no one knew. The only physical evidence that Mila had ever existed had come from the interior of Joseph Roke’s car: several human head hairs, found on the backseat, which matched neither Roke’s nor Olena’s.