The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Yet Josephine had almost no experience on her résumé. She was fresh from a doctoral program. You took her on as consultant, yet she was far less qualified than you are.”

  “But I’m not an Egyptologist. That’s why Simon told me he was bringing in a consultant. I suppose I should have felt a bit insulted, but to be honest, I knew I wasn’t qualified to evaluate Madam X. I do acknowledge my own limits.”

  “There must have been Egyptologists more qualified than Josephine to choose from.”

  “I’m sure there were.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Simon made the decision. After I advertised the job opening, we received dozens of résumés. I was in the process of narrowing down the choices when Simon told me he’d already made the decision. Josephine wouldn’t have made even my first cut, but he insisted she had to be the one. And somehow, he found the extra funds to hire her full-time.”

  “What do you mean, he found the extra funds?”

  “A substantial donation came in. Mummies have that effect, you know. They get donors excited, make them more willing to open their wallets. When you’ve worked in archaeological circles as long as Simon did, you learn who has the deep pockets. You know whom to ask for money.”

  “But why did he choose Josephine? That’s the question I keep coming back to. Of all the Egyptologists he could have hired, all the freshly minted PhDs who must have applied, why was she hired?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the choice, but I saw no point in arguing because I had the impression that he’d already made up his mind, and there was nothing I could do to change it.” Robinson sighed and looked out the window. “And then I met her,” he said softly. “And I realized there was no one else I’d rather work with. No one else I’d rather…” He fell silent.

  On that street of modest homes, the sound of traffic was constant, yet this living room seemed to be a trapped in a different and more genteel era, a time when a rumpled eccentric like Nicholas Robinson might contentedly grow old while surrounded by his books and maps. But he had fallen in love, and there was no contentment in his face, only anguish.

  “She’s alive,” he said. “I need to believe that.” He looked at Jane. “You believe it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. She looked away before he could read the rest of the answer in her eyes. But I don’t know if we can save her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  That evening, Maura dined alone.

  She had planned a romantic dinner for two, and a day earlier she had cruised the grocery store aisles gathering Meyer lemons and parsley, veal shanks and garlic, all the ingredients she needed to make Daniel’s favorite, osso buco. But the best-laid plans of illicit lovers can crumble in an instant with a single phone call. Only hours ago, Daniel had apologetically delivered the news that he was expected to dine that night with visiting bishops from New York. The call had ended as it so often did. I’m sorry, Maura. I love you, Maura. I wish I could get out of this.

  But he never could.

  Now those veal shanks were stored in her freezer, and instead of osso buco, she was resigned to dining alone on a grilled cheese sandwich and a stiff gin and tonic.

  She imagined where Daniel was at that moment. She pictured a table with men dressed in somber black, the preliminary bowing of heads, the murmured blessing over the food. The subdued clink of silverware and china as they discussed matters of importance to the church: declining seminary enrollments, the graying of the priesthood. Every profession conducted its own business dinners, yet when theirs was finished, these men would not go home to wives and families, but to their lonely beds. She wondered: As you sip your wine, as you look around the table at your colleagues, are you troubled at all by the absence of women’s faces, women’s voices?

  Are you thinking at all of me?

  She pressed the cheese sandwich onto the hot skillet and watched as butter sizzled, as the bread crisped. Like scrambled eggs, a grilled cheese sandwich was one of her meals of last resort, and the scent of browning butter brought back all the exhausted nights she’d known as a medical student. It was also the scent of those wounded evenings after her divorce, when planning a meal took more effort than she could muster. The smell of a grilled cheese sandwich was the scent of defeat.

  Outside, darkness was falling, mercifully cloaking the neglected vegetable garden that she had planted so optimistically in the spring. Now it was a jungle of weeds and bolting lettuce and unpicked peapods that hung dry and leathery on tangled vines. Someday, she thought, I’ll follow through. I’ll keep it weeded and neat. But this summer’s garden was a waste, yet another victim of too many demands and too many distractions.

  Daniel, most of all.

  In the window, she saw herself reflected in the glass, her lips downturned, her eyes tired and pinched. That unhappy image was as startling as a stranger’s face. In ten years, twenty years, would the same woman still be staring back at her?

  The pan was smoking, the bread starting to burn black. She turned off the burner and opened the window to air out the smoke, then carried her sandwich to the kitchen table. Gin and cheese, she thought as she refilled her drink. All the necessary food groups for a melancholy woman. As she sipped, she sorted through the mail she’d brought in that evening, setting aside unwanted catalogs for the recycling bin and stacking together the bills that she’d pay this weekend.

  She paused at an envelope with her typewritten name and address. It had no return address. She slit it open and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Instantly she dropped the page as though scalded.

  Printed in ink were the same two words she had seen painted in blood on the door in the Crispin Museum.

  FIND ME

  She shot to her feet, knocking over the glass of gin and tonic. Ice cubes clattered onto the floor but she ignored them and crossed straight to the phone.

  Within three rings, her call was answered by a brisk voice. “Rizzoli.”

  “Jane, I think he wrote me!”

  “What?”

  “It just came in my mail. It’s a single sheet of paper—”

  “Slow down. I’m having trouble hearing you in this traffic.”

  Maura paused to collect her nerves and managed to say, more calmly: “The envelope is addressed to me. Inside there’s a sheet of paper with only two words: Find me.” She drew a breath and said, quietly: “It has to be him.”

  “Is there anything else written on that page? Anything at all?”

  Maura turned the page over and frowned. “There are two numbers on the other side.”

  Over the phone, she heard a car honk, and Jane muttered an oath. “Look, I’m stuck on Columbus Avenue right now. You’re at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m heading right there. Is your computer on?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Turn it on. I need you to check something for me. I think I know what those numbers are.”

  “Hold on.” Carrying the phone and the note, Maura hurried down the hall to her office. “I’m booting up right now,” she said as the monitor flickered on and the hard drive hummed to life. “Tell me about these numbers,” she said. “What are they?”

  “I’m guessing they’re geographic coordinates.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Josephine told us she got a note just like yours with numbers that turned out to be the coordinates for Blue Hills Reservation.”

  “That’s why she went hiking there that day?”

  “The killer sent her there.”

  The hard drive had stopped spinning. “Okay. I’m booted up. What do you want me to do?”

  “Go to Google Earth. Type in those numbers for latitude and longitude.”

  Maura looked at the note again, suddenly struck by the significance of the words Find me. “Oh God,” she murmured. “He’s telling us where to find her body.”

  “I hope to hell you’re wrong. Have you typed in those numbers?”


  “I’ll do it now.” Maura set down the receiver and began tapping on the keyboard, entering the numbers for latitude and longitude. On the screen, the global map began to shift, moving toward the coordinates she’d specified. She picked up the receiver and said, “It’s starting to zoom in.”

  “What’s it showing?”

  “Northeastern U.S. It’s Massachusetts…”

  “Boston?”

  “It looks like—no, wait…” Maura stared as the details sharpened. Her throat suddenly went dry. “It’s in Newton,” she said softly.

  “Where in Newton?”

  Maura reached for the mouse. With each new click the image was magnified. She saw streets, trees. Individual rooftops. Suddenly she realized which neighborhood she was looking at, and a chill raised every hair on the back of her neck. “It’s my house,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “These coordinates are for my house.”

  “Jesus. Listen to me! I’m going to get a cruiser right over there. Is your house secure? I want you to check all your doors. Go, go!”

  Maura sprang from her chair and ran to the front door. It was locked. She ran to the garage door—also locked. She turned toward the kitchen and suddenly froze.

  I left the window open.

  Slowly she moved up the hall, her palms slick, her heart hammering. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw that the window screen was intact, the room unviolated. Melted ice cubes had left a puddle of water glistening under the table. She went to the door and confirmed that it was secured. Of course it would be. Two years ago, an intruder had broken into her home, and ever since then, she’d been careful to lock her doors, to arm her security system. She closed and latched the kitchen window and took calming breaths as her pulse gradually slowed. It was just a piece of mail, she thought. A taunt delivered through the U.S. Postal Service. Turning, she looked at the envelope that the note had arrived in. Only then did she notice that it had no postmark, that the stamp was pristine.

  He delivered it himself. He came to my street and slipped it in my mailbox.

  What else did he leave for me?

  Looking through the window, she wondered what secrets the darkness concealed. Her hands were clammy again as she crossed to the switch for the outside lamps. She was almost afraid of what the light might reveal, afraid that Bradley Rose himself would be standing right outside her window, staring back at her. But when she flipped the switch, the glare revealed no monsters. She saw the gas barbecue grill and the teak patio furniture that she’d bought only last month, but had yet to enjoy. And beyond the patio, at the periphery of the light, she could just make out the shadowy edge of her garden. Nothing alarming, nothing amiss.

  Then a pale ripple caught her eye, a faint white fluttering in the darkness. She strained to make out what it was, but it refused to take shape, refused to reveal itself. She pulled the flashlight from her kitchen drawer and shone it into the night. The beam landed on the Japanese pear tree that she’d planted two summers ago at the far corner of the yard. Suspended from one of its branches was something white and pendulous, something that was now swaying languorously in the wind.

  Her doorbell rang.

  She spun around, lungs heaving in fright. Hurrying into the hallway, she saw the electric blue of a cruiser’s rack lights pulsing through her living room window. She opened the front door to see two Newton patrolmen.

  “Everything okay, Dr. Isles?” one of the officers asked. “We got a report of a possible intruder at this address.”

  “I’m fine.” She released a deep breath. “But I need you to come with me. To check something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in my backyard.”

  The patrolmen followed her up the hall and into her kitchen. There she paused, suddenly wondering if she was about to make herself look ridiculous. The hysterical single woman, imagining ghosts dangling from pear trees. Now that she had two cops standing beside her, her fear had faded and more practical concerns came to mind. If the killer really had left something in her backyard, she had to approach the object as a professional.

  “Wait here just a minute,” she said, and ran back to the hall closet, where she kept the box of latex gloves.

  “Do you mind telling us what’s going on?” the officer called out.

  She returned to the kitchen carrying the box of gloves and handed gloves to both of them. “Just in case,” she said.

  “What are these for?”

  “Evidence.” She grabbed the flashlight and opened the kitchen door. Outside, the summer night was fragrant with the scent of pine bark mulch and damp grass. Slowly, she walked across the yard, her flashlight beam sweeping the patio, the vegetable plot, the lawn, searching for any other surprises she’d been meant to find. The only thing that did not belong was what now hung fluttering in the shadows ahead. She came to a halt in front of the pear tree and aimed her flashlight at the object dangling from the branch.

  “This thing?” said the cop. “It’s just a grocery sack.”

  With something inside it. She thought of all the horrors that might fit inside that plastic sack, all the gruesome keepsakes that a killer might harvest from a victim, and suddenly she did not want to look inside it. Leave it for Jane, she thought. Let someone else be the first to see it.

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” the cop said.

  “He left it here. He came into my yard and hung it on that tree.”

  The cop pulled on the gloves. “Well geez, let’s just see what it is.”

  “No. Wait—”

  But he’d already pulled the sack off the branch. He shone his flashlight at the contents, and even in the darkness she saw him grimace.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Looks like some kind of animal.” He held the sack open for her to look inside.

  At first glimpse, what she saw did indeed appear to be a mass of dark fur. But when she realized what it really was, her hands chilled to ice inside the latex gloves.

  She looked up at the cop. “It’s hair,” she said softly. “I think it’s human.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “It’s Josephine’s,” said Jane.

  Maura sat at her kitchen table, staring down at the evidence bag containing a thick mass of black hair. “We don’t know that,” she said.

  “It’s the right color. The right length.” Jane pointed to the envelope that had contained the note. “He practically tells us he’s the one who sent it.”

  Through the kitchen window, Maura saw the flashlights of the CSU team that had spent the last hour combing her backyard. And on the street three police cruisers were parked, rack lights flashing, and her neighbors were probably peering out their windows at the spectacle. I’m the woman you don’t want in your neighborhood, she thought. My house is where police cruisers and crime scene units and news vans regularly turn up. Her privacy had been stripped away, her home exposed to those TV cameras, and she wanted to fling open the front door and scream at the reporters to get off her street and leave her alone. She imagined how that would play out on the late-night news, the enraged medical examiner shrieking like a madwoman.

  The true object of her fury was not those cameras, however, but the man who had drawn them here. The man who had written the note and had left that souvenir hanging on her pear tree. She looked up at Jane. “Why the hell did he send this to me? I’m just a medical examiner. I’m peripheral to your investigation.”

  “You’ve also been present at almost every death scene. In fact, you were the very first person on this case, starting with the CT scan of Madam X. Your face has been on the news.”

  “So has yours, Jane. He could have mailed that souvenir to Boston PD. Why come to my house? Why leave it in my backyard?”

  Jane sat down and faced her across the table. “If that hair had been mailed to Boston PD, we would have handled it internally and quietly. Instead cruisers were dispatched and now you’ve got criminalists tramping around your property. Our boy has turne
d this into a public spectacle.” She paused. “Which may be the point.”

  “He likes the attention,” said Maura.

  “And he’s certainly getting that attention.”

  Outside, the CSU team had wrapped up their search. Maura heard the closing thud of van doors, the fading growl of departing vehicles.

  “You asked a question earlier,” said Jane. “You asked, Why me? Why would the killer leave the souvenir at your house, instead of sending it to Boston PD?”

  “We just agreed it’s because he wants attention.”

  “You know, there’s another reason I can think of. And you’re not going to like this one.” Jane turned on the laptop computer that she’d brought in from her car, and navigated to the Boston Globe website. “You remember reading this story about Madam X?”

  On the monitor was an archived Globe article: MYSTERY MUMMY’S SECRETS SOON TO BE REVEALED. Accompanying the article was a color photo of Nicholas Robinson and Josephine Pulcillo, flanking Madam X in her crate.

  “Yes, I read it,” said Maura.

  “This piece was picked up by the wire services. It ran in a lot of newspapers. If our killer spotted this story, then he’d know Lorraine Edgerton’s body had just been found. And that there’d be excitement to come after the CT scan. Now look at this.”

  Jane clicked on a saved file on her computer, and an image appeared on the screen. It was a head shot of a young woman with long black hair and delicately arching brows. This was not a candid shot but a formal pose in front of a professional backdrop, a photo that might have been taken for a college yearbook.

  “Who is she?” asked Maura.

  “Her name was Kelsey Thacker. She was a college student who was last seen twenty-six years ago, walking home from a neighborhood bar. In Indio, California.”

  “Indio?” said Maura. And she thought of the crumpled newspaper that she had pulled from the head of the tsantsa—a newspaper that had been printed twenty-six years ago.

  “We reviewed the missing persons reports for every woman who vanished from the Indio area that year. Kelsey Thacker’s name popped front and center. And when I saw her photo, I was sure of it.” She pointed to the image. “I think this is what Kelsey looked like before a killer cut off her head. Before he peeled off her face and scalp. Before he shrank it down and hung it on a string like a fucking Christmas ornament.” Jane took an agitated breath.