“Talk to me, lady.”
She turned on the flashlight and aimed it overhead. That’s where the voice had come from—the air grate.
“Can you hear me?” It was a man’s voice. Low, mellifluous.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Did you find the food?”
“Who are you?”
“Be careful with it. You have to make it last.”
“My husband will pay you. I know he will. Please, just let me out of here!”
“Are you having any pains?”
“What?”
“Any pains?”
“I just want to get out! Let me out!”
“When it’s time.”
“How long are you going to keep me in here? When are you going to let me out?”
“Later.”
“What does that mean?”
No answer.
“Hello? Mister, hello? Tell my husband I’m alive. You tell him he has to pay you!”
Footsteps creaked away.
“Don’t go!” she screamed. “Let me out!” She reached up and pounded on the ceiling. Shrieked: “You have to let me out!”
The footsteps were gone. She stared up at the grate. He said he’ll be back, she thought. Tomorrow he’ll be back. After Dwayne pays him, he’ll let me out.
Then it occurred to her. Dwayne. The voice in the grate had not once mentioned her husband.
FIFTEEN
Jane Rizzoli drove like the Bostonian she was, her hand quick to hit the horn, her Subaru weaving expertly past double-parked cars as they worked their way to the Turnpike on-ramp. Pregnancy had not mellowed her aggression; if anything, she seemed more impatient than usual as traffic conspired to hold them up at every intersection.
“I don’t know about this, Doc,” she said, fingers drumming the steering wheel as they waited for a red light to count down. “This is just gonna screw around with your head. I mean, what good’s it gonna do you to see her?”
“At least I’ll know who my mother is.”
“You know her name. You know the crime she committed. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not.”
Behind them, a horn honked. The light had turned green.
“Asshole,” said Rizzoli, and she roared through the intersection.
They took the Massachusetts Turnpike west to Framingham, Rizzoli’s Subaru dwarfed by threatening convoys of big rigs and SUVs. After only a weekend on the quiet roads of Maine, it was a shock for Maura to be back on a busy highway, where one small mistake, one moment’s inattention, was all it took to close the gap between life and death. Rizzoli’s quick and fearless driving made Maura uneasy; she, who never took chances, who insisted on the safest car and double air bags, who never let her gas gauge fall below a quarter full, did not easily cede control. Not when two-ton trucks were roaring only inches from her window.
It wasn’t until they’d exited the Turnpike, onto Route 126 through downtown Framingham, that Maura settled back, no longer poised to clutch the dashboard. But she faced other fears now, not of big rigs or hurtling steel. What she feared most was coming face-to-face with herself.
And hating what she saw.
“You can change your mind anytime,” said Rizzoli, as though reading her thoughts. “You ask, and I’ll turn the car around. We can go to Friendly’s instead, have a cup of coffee. Maybe some apple pie.”
“Do pregnant women ever stop thinking about food?”
“Not this pregnant woman.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Okay, okay.” Rizzoli drove in silence for a moment. “Ballard came in to see me this morning.”
Maura looked at her, but Rizzoli’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “Why?”
“He wanted to explain why he never told us about your mother. Look, I know you’re pissed at him, Doc. But I think he really was trying to protect you.”
“Is that what he said?”
“I believe him. Maybe I even agree with him. I thought about keeping that information from you, too.”
“But you didn’t. You called me.”
“The point is, I can see why he wouldn’t want to tell you.”
“He had no excuse for keeping that information from me.”
“It’s just a guy thing, you know? Maybe a cop thing, too. They want to protect the little lady—”
“So they hold back the truth?”
“I’m just saying, I understand where he’s coming from.”
“Wouldn’t you be angry about it?”
“Sure as hell.”
“So why are you defending him?”
“Because he’s hot?”
“Oh, please.”
“I’m just telling you he’s really sorry about it. But I think he tried to tell you that himself.”
“I wasn’t in the mood for an apology.”
“So you’re just gonna stay mad at him?”
“Why are we discussing this?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s the way he talked about you. Like something happened between you two up there. Did it?”
Maura felt Rizzoli watching her with those bright cop’s eyes, and knew that if she lied, Rizzoli would see it.
“I don’t need any complicated relationships right now.”
“What’s complicated about it? I mean, besides the fact you’re pissed at him?”
“A daughter. An ex-wife.”
“Men his age, they’re all retreads. They’re all going to have ex-wives.”
Maura stared ahead at the road. “You know, Jane, not every woman is meant to be married.”
“That’s what I used to think, and look what happened to me. One day I can’t stand the guy, the next day I can’t stop thinking about him. I never thought it’d turn out this way.”
“Gabriel’s one of the good ones.”
“Yeah, he’s a straight-up guy. But the point is, he tried to pull the same stunt that Ballard did, that macho protection thing. And I was pissed at him. The point is, you can’t always predict when a guy’s a keeper.”
Maura thought of Victor. Of her disaster of a marriage. “No, you can’t.”
“But you can start off by focusing on what’s possible, on what has a chance. And forget the guys who’ll never work out.” Though they did not mention his name, Maura knew they were both thinking of Daniel Brophy. The impossible, personified. A seductive mirage who could lure her through the years, the decades, into old age. Stranding her there all alone.
“This is the exit,” said Rizzoli, turning off onto Loring Drive.
Maura’s heart started to pound as she saw the sign for MCI– Framingham. It’s time to come face-to-face with who I really am.
“You can still change your mind,” said Rizzoli.
“We’ve already gone through this.”
“Yeah, I just wanted you to know we can turn back.”
“Would you, Jane? After a lifetime of wondering who your mother is, what she looks like, would you leave it at that? When you’re so close to having every question you ever asked finally answered?”
Rizzoli turned to look at her. Rizzoli, who seemed always to be in motion, always at the eye of one storm or another, now regarded Maura with quiet understanding. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
In the administrative wing of the Betty Cole Smith Building, they both presented their IDs and signed in. A few minutes later, Superintendent Barbara Gurley came down to meet them at the front desk. Maura had expected an imposing prison commandant, but the woman she saw looked like a librarian, her short hair more gray than brown, her slim figure clad in a tan skirt and pink cotton blouse.
“Good to meet you, Detective Rizzoli,” said Gurley. She turned to Maura. “And you’re Dr. Isles?”
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.” Maura, too, reached out to shake hands. Found the other woman’s grasp cool and reserved. She knows who I am, thought Maura. She knows why I’m here.
“Let’s go up to my office. I�
�ve pulled her file for you.”
Gurley led the way, moving with crisp efficiency. No wasted motion, no backward glance to see if the visitors were keeping up. They stepped into an elevator.
“This is a level four facility?” asked Rizzoli.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that just medium security?” said Maura.
“We’re developing a level six trial unit. This is the only women’s correctional unit in the state of Massachusetts, so for the moment, we’re it. We have to deal with the whole spectrum of offenders.”
“Even mass murderers?” asked Rizzoli.
“If they’re female, and they’re convicted of a crime, they come here. We don’t have quite the same security issues that the men’s facilities have to deal with. Also, our approach is a little different. We emphasize treatment and rehabilitation. A number of our inmates have mental health and substance abuse problems. Plus, there’s the complicating fact that many of them are mothers, so we have to deal with all the emotional issues of maternal separation as well. There are a lot of children left crying when visiting hours end.”
“What about Amalthea Lank? You have any special issues with her?”
“We have …” Gurley hesitated, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “A few.”
“Like what?”
The elevator door opened and Gurley stepped out. “This is my office.”
They passed through an anteroom. The two secretaries stared at Maura, then quickly dropped their gazes back to their computer screens. Everyone’s trying to avoid meeting my eyes, she thought. What are they afraid I’ll see?
Gurley led the visitors into her office and closed the door. “Please, sit down.”
The room was a surprise. Maura had thought it would reflect Gurley herself, efficient and unadorned. But everywhere, there were photographs of smiling faces. Women holding babies, children posed with neatly parted hair and pressed shirts. A new bride and groom, surrounded by a flock of children. His, hers, ours.
“My girls,” said Gurley, smiling at the wall of photos. “These are the ones who made the transition back to society. The ones who made the right choices and moved on with their lives. Unfortunately,” she said, her smile fading, “Amalthea Lank will never be on this wall.” She sat down behind her desk and focused on Maura. “I’m not sure your visit here is such a good idea, Dr. Isles.”
“I’ve never met my birth mother.”
“That’s what concerns me.” Gurley leaned back in her chair and studied Maura for a moment. “We all want to love our mothers. We want them to be special women because it makes us special, as their daughters.”
“I don’t expect to love her.”
“What do you expect, then?”
That question made Maura pause. She thought of the imaginary mother she’d conjured up as a child, ever since her cousin had cruelly blurted out the truth: that Maura was adopted. That this was the reason why, in a family of blondes and towheads, she alone had black hair. She’d built a fairy-tale mother based on the darkness of her hair. An Italian heiress, forced to give up a daughter conceived in scandal. Or a Spanish beauty abandoned by her lover, tragically dead of a broken heart. Always, as Gurley had said, she’d imagined someone special, even extraordinary. Now she was about to confront not the fantasy but the real woman, and the prospect made her mouth go dry.
Rizzoli said to Gurley: “Why don’t you think she should see her?”
“I’m only asking her to approach this visit with caution.”
“Why? Is the inmate dangerous?”
“Not in the sense that she’ll spring up and physically attack anyone. In fact, she’s quite docile on the surface.”
“And beneath the surface?”
“Think of what she did, Detective. How much rage it must take to swing a crowbar with such force that you shatter a woman’s skull? Now you answer that question: What lies beneath Amalthea’s surface?” Gurley looked at Maura. “You need to go into this with your eyes open, and fully aware of whom you’re dealing with.”
“She and I may share the same DNA,” said Maura. “But I have no emotional attachment to this woman.”
“So you’re just curious.”
“I need to put this to rest. I need to move on.”
“That’s probably what your sister thought, too. You do know she came to visit Amalthea?”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“I don’t think it gave her any peace of mind. I think it only upset her.”
“Why?”
Gurley slid a file across the desk toward Maura. “Those are Amalthea’s psychiatric records. Everything you need to know about her is in there. Why don’t you just read that instead? Read it, walk away, and forget about her.”
Maura didn’t touch the file. It was Rizzoli who picked up the folder and said: “She’s under a psychiatrist’s care?”
“Yes,” said Gurley.
“Why?”
“Because Amalthea is a schizophrenic.”
Maura stared at the superintendent. “Then why was she convicted of murder? If she’s schizophrenic, she shouldn’t be in prison. She should be in a hospital.”
“So should a number of our inmates. Tell it to the courts, Dr. Isles, because I’ve tried to. The system itself is insane. Even if you’re flat-out psychotic when you commit murder, the insanity defense seldom sways a jury.”
Rizzoli asked, softly: “Are you sure she is insane?”
Maura turned to Rizzoli. Saw that she was staring down at the inmate’s psychiatric file. “Is there a question about her diagnosis?”
“I know this psychiatrist who’s been seeing her. Dr. Joyce O’Donnell. She doesn’t normally waste her time treating run-of-the-mill schizophrenics.” She looked at Gurley. “Why is she involved in this case?”
“You sound disturbed about it,” said Gurley.
“If you knew Dr. O’Donnell, you’d be disturbed too.” Rizzoli clapped the folder shut. Took a deep breath. “Is there anything else Dr. Isles needs to know before she sees the prisoner?”
Gurley looked at Maura. “I guess I haven’t talked you out of it, have I?”
“No. I’m ready to see her.”
“Then I’ll walk you down to visitor intake.”
SIXTEEN
I can still change my mind.
That thought kept going through Maura’s head as she walked through visitor processing. As she removed her watch and placed it, along with her handbag, in a locker. She could bring no jewelry or wallet into the visitors’ room, and she felt naked without her purse, stripped of any proof of identity, of all the little plastic cards that told the world who she was. She closed the locker and the clang was a jarring reminder of the world she was about to enter: a place where doors slammed shut, where lives were trapped in boxes.
Maura had hoped this meeting would be private, but when the guard admitted her into the visiting room, Maura saw that privacy was an impossibility. Afternoon visiting hours had commenced an hour earlier, and the room was noisy with the voices of children and the chaos of reunited families. Coins clattered into a vending machine, which disgorged plastic-wrapped sandwiches and chips and candy bars.
“Amalthea’s on her way down now,” the guard said to Maura. “Why don’t you find a seat?”
Maura went to an unoccupied table and sat down. The plastic tabletop was sticky with spilled juice; she kept her hands in her lap and waited, her heart hammering, her throat dry. The classic fight-or-flight response, she thought. Why the hell am I so nervous?
She rose and crossed to a sink. Filled a paper cup with water and gulped it down. Her throat still felt dry. This kind of thirst couldn’t be quenched by mere water; the thirst, the quickened pulse, the sweating hands—it was all the same reflex, the body preparing itself for imminent threat. Relax, relax. You’ll meet her, say a few words, satisfy your curiosity, and walk out. How hard can that be? She crushed the paper cup, turned, and froze.
A door had just opened and a woman entered, her shoul
ders squared, her jaw lifted in regal confidence. Her gaze settled on Maura and for a moment it locked there. But then, just as Maura thought: It’s her, the woman turned, smiled, and opened her arms wide to embrace a child who was running toward her.
Maura halted in confusion, not knowing whether to sit down or remain standing. Then the door opened again, and the guard who had spoken to her earlier reappeared, leading a woman by the arm. A woman who did not walk but shuffled, her shoulders slumped forward, her head bent, as though obsessively searching the floor for something she’d lost. The guard brought her to Maura’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat the prisoner down.
“There, now, Amalthea. This lady’s come to see you. Why don’t you have a nice talk with her, hmm?”
Amalthea’s head remained bent, her gaze fixed on the tabletop. Tangled strands of hair fell across her face in a greasy curtain. Though heavily streaked with gray, clearly that hair had once been black. Like mine, thought Maura. Like Anna’s.
The guard shrugged and looked at Maura. “Well, I’ll just let you two visit, okay? When you’re finished, give me a wave and I’ll take her back.”
Amalthea did not even glance up as the guard walked away. Nor did she seem to notice the visitor who had just sat down across from her. Her posture remained frozen, her face hidden behind that veil of dirty hair. The prison shirt hung loose on her shoulders, as though she was shrinking inside her clothes. Her hand, resting on the table, was rocking back and forth in a ceaseless tremor.
“Hello, Amalthea,” said Maura. “Do you know who I am?”
No response.
“My name is Maura Isles. I …” Maura swallowed. “I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.” For all my life.
The woman’s head twitched sideways. Not in reaction to Maura’s words, just an involuntary tic. A stray impulse sparking through nerves and muscles.
“Amalthea, I’m your daughter.”
Maura watched, waiting for a reaction. Even longing to see one. In that moment, everything else in the room seemed to vanish. She did not hear the cacophony of children’s voices or the quarters dropping into the vending machine or the scrape of chair legs across linoleum. All she saw was this tired and broken woman.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 108