The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “If you don’t want to do this,” said Frost, “I can talk to her.”

  “You think I can’t handle this?”

  “I think this has gotta be hard for you.”

  “What’ll be hard is keeping my hands off her throat.”

  “You see? That’s what I mean. Your attitude’s going to get in the way. You two have a history, and that colors everything. You can’t be neutral.”

  “No one could be neutral, knowing who she is. What she does.”

  “Rizzoli, she just does what she’s paid to do.”

  “So do whores.” Except whores don’t hurt anyone, thought Jane, staring at Joyce O’Donnell’s house. A house paid for with the blood of murder victims. Whores don’t waltz into courtrooms in sleek St. John suits and take the witness stand in defense of butchers.

  “All I’m saying is, try to keep your cool, okay?” said Frost. “We don’t have to like her. But we can’t afford to piss her off.”

  “You think that’s my plan?”

  “Look at you. Your claws are already out.”

  “Purely in self-defense.” Jane shoved open the car door. “Because I know this bitch is going to try to sink hers in me.” She stepped out, sinking calf-deep into snow, but she scarcely felt the cold seeping through her socks; her deepest chill was not physical. Her focus was on the house, on the encounter to come, with a woman who knew Jane’s secret fears only too well. Who also knew how to exploit those fears.

  Frost swung open the gate, and they walked up the shoveled path. The flagstones were icy, and Jane was trying so hard not to slip that by the time she reached the porch steps, she already felt off balance and unsure of her footing. Not the best way to face Joyce O’Donnell. Nor did it help that when the front door opened, O’Donnell was looking her usual elegant self, blond hair cut in a sleek bob, her pink button-down shirt and khaki slacks perfectly tailored to her athletic frame. Jane, in her tired black pantsuit, with her trouser cuffs damp from melted snow, felt like the supplicant at the manor house door. Exactly how she wants me to feel.

  O’Donnell gave a cool nod. “Detectives.” She did not immediately step aside, a pause intended to demonstrate that here, on her own territory, she was in command.

  “May we come in?” Jane finally asked. Knowing that, of course, they would be allowed in. That the game had already begun.

  O’Donnell waved them into the house. “This isn’t how I care to spend Christmas day,” she said.

  “It’s not exactly how we want to spend it either,” Jane countered. “And I’m sure it’s not what the victim wanted.”

  “As I told you, the recording’s already been erased,” said O’Donnell, leading the way into her living room. “You can listen to it, but there’s nothing to hear.”

  Not much had changed since the last time Jane had visited this house. She saw the same abstract paintings on the walls, the same richly hued Oriental carpets. The only new feature was the Christmas tree. The trees of Jane’s childhood had been decorated with haphazard taste, the branches hung with the mismatched assortment of ornaments hardy enough to have survived earlier Rizzoli Christmases. And there’d been tinsel—lots and lots of it. Vegas trees, Jane used to call them.

  But on this tree, there was not a single strand of tinsel. No Vegas in this house. Instead, the branches were hung with crystal prisms and silver teardrops, reflecting wintry sunshine on the walls, like dancing chips of light. Even her damn Christmas tree makes me feel inadequate.

  O’Donnell crossed to her answering machine. “This is all I have now,” she said, and pressed Play. The digital voice announced: “You have no new messages.” She looked at the detectives. “I’m afraid the recording you asked about is gone. As soon as I got home last night, I played all my messages. Erased them as I went. By the time I got to your message, about preserving the recording, it was too late.”

  “How many messages were there?” asked Jane.

  “Four. Yours was the last.”

  “The call we’re interested in would have come in around twelve-ten.”

  “Yes, and the number’s still there, in the electronic log.” O’Donnell pressed a button, cycling back to the 12:10 call. “But whoever called at that time didn’t say anything.” She looked at Jane. “There was no message at all.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I told you. There was nothing.”

  “Extraneous noises? TV, traffic?”

  “Not even heavy breathing. Just a few seconds of silence, and then the hang-up click. That’s why I immediately erased it. There was nothing to hear.”

  “Is the caller’s number familiar to you?” asked Frost.

  “Should it be?”

  “That’s what we’re asking you,” Jane said, the bite in her voice unmistakable.

  O’Donnell’s gaze met hers and Jane saw, in those eyes, a flash of disdain. As though I’m not even worth her attention. “No, I didn’t recognize the phone number,” said O’Donnell.

  “Do you know the name Lori-Ann Tucker?”

  “No. Who’s that?”

  “She was murdered last night, in her own home. That call was made from her telephone.”

  O’Donnell paused and said, reasonably, “It could have been a wrong number.”

  “I don’t think so, Dr. O’Donnell. I think the call was meant to reach you.”

  “Why call me and then say nothing? It’s more likely that she heard the recording on my answering machine, realized she’d made a mistake, and simply hung up.”

  “I don’t believe it was the victim who called you.”

  Again, O’Donnell paused, this time longer. “I see,” she said. She moved to an armchair and sat down, but not because she was shaken. She looked perfectly unruffled sitting in that chair, an empress holding court. “You think it was the killer who called me.”

  “You don’t sound at all worried by that possibility.”

  “I don’t know enough yet to be worried. I don’t know anything about this case. So why don’t you tell me more?” She gestured to the couch, an invitation for her visitors to sit down. It was the first hint of hospitality that she’d offered.

  Because now we have something interesting to offer her, thought Jane. She’s caught a whiff of blood. It’s exactly what this woman craves.

  The couch was a pristine white, and Frost paused before settling onto it, as though afraid to smudge the fabric. But Jane didn’t give it a second glance. She sat down in her snow-dampened slacks, her focus on O’Donnell.

  “The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman,” said Jane. “She was killed last night, around midnight.”

  “Suspects?”

  “We’ve made no arrests.”

  “So you have no idea who the killer is.”

  “I’m only saying that we’ve made no arrests. What we’re doing is following leads.”

  “And I’m one of them.”

  “Someone called you from the victim’s home. It could well have been the perp.”

  “And why would he—assuming it’s a he—want to talk to me?”

  Jane leaned forward. “We both know why, Doctor. It’s what you do for a living. You probably have a nice little fan club out there, all the killers who consider you their friend. You’re famous, you know, among the murderer set. You’re the lady shrink who talks to monsters.”

  “I try to understand them, that’s all. Study them.”

  “You defend them.”

  “I’m a neuropsychiatrist. I’m far more qualified to testify in court than most expert witnesses. Not every killer belongs in prison. Some of them are seriously damaged people.”

  “Yeah, I know your theory. Bonk a kid on the head, screw up his frontal lobes, and he’s absolved of all responsibility for anything he does from then on. He can kill a woman, chop her up into pieces, and you’ll still defend him in court.”

  “Is that what happened to this victim?” O’Donnell’s face had taken on a disturbing alertness, her eyes bright and feral. “Was
she dismembered?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’d just like to know.”

  “Professional curiosity?”

  O’Donnell sat back in her chair. “Detective Rizzoli, I’ve interviewed a lot of killers. Over the years, I’ve compiled extensive statistics on motives, methods, patterns. So yes, it is professional curiosity.” She paused. “Dismemberment is not that unusual. Especially if it’s to aid in disposal of the victim.”

  “That wasn’t the reason for it in this case.”

  “You know that?”

  “It’s pretty clear.”

  “Did he purposefully display the body parts? Was it staged?”

  “Why? You happen to have any sicko pals who’re into that kind of thing? Any names you want to share with us? They write to you, don’t they? Your name’s out there. The doctor who loves to hear all the details.”

  “If they write me, it’s usually anonymous. They don’t tell me their names.”

  “But you do get letters,” said Frost.

  “I hear from people.”

  “Killers.”

  “Or fabricators. Whether they tell the truth or not is impossible for me to determine.”

  “You think some of them are just sharing their fantasies?”

  “And they’ll probably never act on them. They just need a way to express unacceptable urges. We all have them. The mildest-mannered man occasionally daydreams about things he’d like to do to women. Things so twisted he doesn’t dare tell anyone. I bet that even you entertain a few inappropriate thoughts, Detective Frost.” She kept her gaze on him, a look that was meant to make him uncomfortable. Frost, to his credit, did not even flush.

  “Has anyone written you about fantasies of dismemberment?” he asked.

  “Not lately.”

  “But someone has?”

  “As I said, dismemberment is not unusual.”

  “As a fantasy or a real act?”

  “Both.”

  Jane said, “Who’s been writing you about their fantasies, Dr. O’Donnell?”

  The woman met Jane’s gaze. “That correspondence is confidential. That’s why they feel safe telling me their secrets, their desires, their daydreams.”

  “Do these people ever call you?”

  “Rarely.”

  “And you talk to them?”

  “I don’t avoid them.”

  “Do you keep a list of these callers?”

  “Hardly a list. I can’t remember the last time it happened.”

  “It happened last night.”

  “Well, I wasn’t here to answer it.”

  “You weren’t here at two A.M., either,” said Frost. “We called then, and got your machine.”

  “Where were you last night?” Jane asked.

  O’Donnell shrugged. “Out.”

  “At two A.M., on Christmas Eve?”

  “I was with friends.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Probably around two-thirty.”

  “They must be very good friends. You mind telling us their names?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t I want my privacy violated? Do I actually have to answer that question?”

  “This is a homicide investigation. A woman was slaughtered last night. It was one of the most brutal crime scenes I’ve ever walked into.”

  “And you want my alibi.”

  “I’m just curious why you won’t tell us.”

  “Am I a suspect? Or are you just trying to show me who’s in charge?”

  “You’re not a suspect. At the moment.”

  “Then I’m under no obligation to even talk to you.” Abruptly, O’Donnell rose to her feet and started toward the door. “I’ll walk you out, now.”

  Frost, too, started to get up, then saw that Jane wasn’t budging, and he sank back down again.

  Jane said, “If you gave one damn about the victim, if you saw what he did to Lori-Ann Tucker—”

  O’Donnell turned to face her. “Why don’t you tell me? What, exactly, was done to her?”

  “You want the details, do you?”

  “It’s my field of study. I need to know the details.” She moved toward Jane. “It helps me understand.”

  Or it turns you on. That’s why you suddenly look interested. Even eager.

  “You said she was dismembered,” said O’Donnell. “Was the head removed?”

  “Rizzoli,” said Frost, a cautionary note in his voice.

  But Jane did not need to reveal a thing; O’Donnell had already drawn her own conclusions. “The head is such a powerful symbol. So personal. So individual.” O’Donnell stepped closer, moving in like a predator. “Did he take it with him, as a trophy? A reminder of his kill?”

  “Tell us where you were last night.”

  “Or did he leave the head at the scene? Someplace where it would elicit maximum shock? Someplace it would be impossible to miss? A kitchen counter, perhaps? Or a prominent place on the floor?”

  “Who were you with?”

  “It’s a potent message, displaying a head, a face. It’s the killer’s way of telling you he’s in complete control. He’s showing you how powerless you are, Detective. And how powerful he is.”

  “Who were you with?” The instant the words were out, Jane knew they were a mistake. She’d allowed O’Donnell to goad her, and she had lost her temper. The ultimate sign of weakness.

  “My friendships are private,” O’Donnell said, and added, with a quiet smile, “Except for the one you already know about. Our mutual acquaintance. He keeps asking about you, you know. Always wants to know what you’re up to.” She did not have to say his name. They both knew she was talking about Warren Hoyt.

  Don’t react, thought Jane. Don’t let her see how deeply she’s dug her claws into me. But she could feel her own face snap taut and saw Frost glance at her with concern. The scars that Hoyt had left on Jane’s hands were only the most obvious wounds; there were far deeper ones. Even now, over two years later, she flinched at the mention of his name.

  “He’s a fan of yours, Detective,” said O’Donnell. “Even though he’ll never walk again because of you, he bears you absolutely no grudge.”

  “I couldn’t care less what he thinks.”

  “I went to see him last week. He showed me his collection of news clippings. His Janie file, as he calls it. When you were trapped in that hospital siege, over the summer, he kept the TV on all night. Watched every second of it.” O’Donnell paused. “He told me you had a baby girl.”

  Jane’s back went rigid. Don’t let her do this to you. Don’t let her dig those claws in deeper.

  “I believe your daughter’s name is Regina, isn’t it?”

  Jane rose to her feet, and though she was shorter than O’Donnell, something in Jane’s eyes made the other woman abruptly step back. “We’ll be calling on you again,” said Jane.

  “Call me all you want,” said O’Donnell. “I have nothing else to tell you.”

  “She’s lying,” said Jane.

  She yanked open the car door and slid in behind the wheel. There she sat, staring at a scene that was Christmas card–pretty, the sun glistening on icicles, the snow-frosted houses decked in tasteful wreaths and holly. No garish Santas and reindeer on this street, no rooftop extravaganzas like the ones in Revere, where she had grown up. She thought of Johnny Silva’s house, just down the street from her parents’, and of the long lines of rubberneckers from miles around who’d detour onto their street, just to gape at the eye-popping light show that the Silvas put up in their front yard every December. There you’d find Santa and the three wise men and the manger with Mary and Jesus and a menagerie of so many animals it would’ve sunk Noah’s ark. All lit up like a carnival. You could have powered a small African nation with the electricity the Silvas burned through every Christmas.

  But here on Brattle Street, there were no such gaudy spectacles, only understated elegance. No Johnny Silvas lived
here. She’d rather have that moron Johnny for a neighbor than the woman who lived in this house.

  “She knows more about this case than she’s telling us.”

  “How do you draw that conclusion?” asked Frost.

  “Instinct.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in instinct. That’s what you always tell me. That it’s nothing better than a lucky guess.”

  “But I know this woman. I know what makes her tick.” She looked at Frost, whose winter pallor seemed even more pronounced in the weak sunshine. “She got more than a hang-up call from the killer last night.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Why did she erase it?”

  “Why wouldn’t she? If the caller left no message?”

  “That’s her story.”

  “Oh man. She got to you.” He shook his head. “I knew she would.”

  “She didn’t get close.”

  “Yeah? When she started talking about Regina, that didn’t light your fuse? She’s a shrink. She knows just how to manipulate you. You shouldn’t even be dealing with her.”

  “Who should? You? That weenie Kassovitz?”

  “Someone who doesn’t have a history with her. Someone she can’t touch.” He gave Jane a probing look that made her want to turn away. They had been partners for two years now, and even though they were not the closest of friends, they understood each other in a way that mere friends or even lovers seldom did, because they had shared the same horrors, fought the same battles. Frost, better than anyone, even better than her husband, Gabriel, knew her history with Joyce O’Donnell.

  And with the killer known as the Surgeon.

  “She still scares you, doesn’t she?” he asked quietly.

  “All she does is piss me off.”

  “Because she knows what does scare you. And she never stops reminding you of him, never forgets to bring up his name.”

  “Like I’m the least bit afraid of a guy who can’t even wiggle his toes? Who can’t pee unless some nurse shoves a tube up his dick? Oh yeah, I’m real scared of Warren Hoyt.”

  “You still having the nightmares?”

  His question stopped her cold. She couldn’t lie to him; he’d see it. So she said nothing at all, but just looked straight ahead, at that perfect street with its perfect houses.