Maura pointed to the coffee. “You like it black, right?”
“Yes. Thanks.” He took a sip, then set it down again, because he had not really wanted it.
“Did you eat any lunch?” she asked.
He rubbed his face. “I’m not hungry.”
“You look exhausted. I’ll get you a blanket, if you’d like to rest here for a while.”
“There’s no way I can sleep. Not until she’s out of there.”
“Did you reach her parents?”
“Oh god.” He shook his head. “That was an ordeal. The hardest part was convincing them they had to keep it a secret. They can’t show up here, they can’t call their friends. I almost wonder if I should have kept it from them.”
“The Rizzolis would want to know.”
“But they’re not good at keeping secrets. And if this one gets out, it could kill their daughter.”
They sat for a moment in silence. The only sound was the hiss of cool air blowing from the AC vent. On the wall behind the desk were elegantly framed floral prints. The office reflected the woman: neat, precise, cerebral.
She said, quietly: “Jane’s a survivor. We both know that. She’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive.”
“I just want her to stay out of the line of fire.”
“She’s not stupid.”
“The problem is, she’s a cop.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“How many cops get killed trying to be heroes?”
“She’s pregnant. She won’t take any chances.”
“No?” He looked at her. “Do you know how she ended up in the hospital this morning? She was testifying in court when the defendant got out of control. And my wife—my brilliant wife—jumped into the fight to subdue him. That’s when her water broke.”
Maura looked appropriately shocked. “She really did that?”
“That’s exactly what you’d expect Jane to do.”
“I guess you’re right,” Maura said with a shake of the head. “That’s the Jane we both know and love.”
“For once, just this once, I want her to play the coward. I want her to forget she’s a cop.” He laughed. “As if she’d ever listen to me.”
Maura couldn’t help smiling as well. “Does she ever?”
He looked at her. “You know how we met, don’t you?”
“Stony Brook Reservation, wasn’t it?”
“That death scene. It took us about thirty seconds to get into our first argument. About five minutes before she ordered me off her turf.”
“Not a very promising start.”
“And a few days later, she pulls her gun on me.” At Maura’s startled look, he added: “Oh, it was justified.”
“I’m surprised that didn’t scare you off.”
“She can be a scary woman.”
“And you may be the only man she doesn’t terrify.”
“But that’s what I liked about her,” said Gabriel. “When you look at Jane, what you see is honest, and brave. I grew up in a family where nobody said what they really thought. Mom hated Dad, Dad hated Mom. But everything was just fine, right up till the day they died. I thought that was how most people went through life, by telling lies. But Jane doesn’t. She’s not afraid to say exactly what she thinks, no matter how much trouble it lands her in.” He paused. Added, quietly: “That’s what worries me.”
“That she’ll say something she shouldn’t.”
“You give Jane a shove, and she’ll shove right back. I’m hoping that for once, she’ll stay quiet. Just play the scared pregnant lady in the corner. It may be the one thing that saves her.”
His cell phone rang. At once he reached for it, and the number he saw on the display made his pulse kick into a gallop. “Gabriel Dean,” he answered.
“Where are you right now?” said Detective Thomas Moore.
“I’m sitting in Dr. Isles’s office.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Wait, Moore. What is it?”
“We know who Joe is. His full name is Joseph Roke, age thirty-nine. Last known address Purcellville, Virginia.”
“How did you ID him?”
“He abandoned his car about two blocks from the hospital. We have a witness who saw an armed man leave the car, and she confirms he’s the man on the TV videotape. His fingerprints are all over the steering wheel.”
“Wait. Joseph Roke’s prints are on file?”
“Military records. Look, I’ll come right over.”
“What else do you know?” said Gabriel. He’d heard the urgency in Moore’s voice, and knew there was something the detective had not yet told him. “Just tell me.”
“There’s a warrant for his arrest.”
“What charges?”
“It was … a homicide. A shooting.”
“Who was the victim?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We can talk about it when I get there.”
“Who was the victim?” Gabriel repeated.
Moore sighed. “A cop. Two months ago, Joseph Roke killed a cop.”
“It started off as a routine traffic stop,” said Moore. “The event was automatically recorded by the video camera mounted in the police officer’s cruiser. New Haven PD didn’t attach the entire video, but here’s the first of the freeze-frame images they e-mailed me.” Moore clicked the mouse, and a photo appeared on his laptop computer. It showed the back of the New Haven police officer, caught in midstride as he walked toward a vehicle parked in front of his cruiser. The other car’s rear license plate was visible.
“It’s a Virginia plate,” said Moore. “You can see it more clearly with image enhancement. It’s the same car we found this afternoon, parked illegally on Harrison Street a few blocks from the medical center.” He looked at Gabriel. “Joseph Roke is the registered owner.”
“You said he was from Virginia.”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing in Connecticut two months ago?”
“We don’t know. Nor do we know what he’s now doing in Boston. All I’ve got on him is the rather sketchy biographical profile that New Haven PD has put together.” He pointed to his laptop. “And this. A shooting caught on camera. But that’s not the only thing you see in these photos.”
Gabriel focused on Roke’s vehicle. On the view through the rear window. “There’s a passenger,” he said. “Roke has someone sitting beside him.”
Moore nodded. “With image enhancement, you can clearly see this passenger has long dark hair.”
“It’s her,” said Maura, staring at the screen. “It’s Jane Doe.”
“Which means they were together in New Haven two months ago.”
“Show us the rest,” said Gabriel.
“Let me go to the last image—”
“I want to see them all.”
Moore paused, his hand on the mouse. He looked at Gabriel. “You don’t really need to,” he said quietly.
“Maybe I do. Show me the whole sequence.”
After a hesitation, Moore clicked the mouse, advancing to the next photo. The police officer was now standing at Roke’s window, looking in at the man who, in the next few seconds, would end his life. The cop’s hand was resting on his weapon. Merely a cautionary stance? Or did he already have an inkling that he was looking into the face of his killer?
Again, Moore hesitated before advancing to the next image. He had already seen these; he knew what horrors lay ahead. He clicked the mouse.
The image was an instant in time, captured in all its gruesome detail. The police officer was still standing, and his weapon was out of its holster. His head was snapped back by the bullet’s impact, his face caught in mid-disintegration, flesh exploding in a bloody mist.
A fourth and final photo finished the sequence. The officer’s body was now lying on the road beside the shooter’s car. It was just the postscript, yet this was the image that made Gabriel suddenly lean forward. He stared at the car’s rear window. At a silhouette that had no
t been visible in the three earlier images.
Maura saw it, too. “There’s someone in Roke’s backseat,” she said.
“That’s what I wanted you both to see,” said Moore. “A third person was in Roke’s car. Hiding, maybe, or sleeping in the backseat. You can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. All you can see is this head with short hair, popping up right after the shooting.” He looked at Gabriel. “There’s a third associate we haven’t seen or heard yet. Someone who was with them in New Haven. That activation code may have been meant for more than one person.”
Gabriel’s gaze was still riveted on the screen. On that mysterious silhouette. “You said he had a military record.”
“That’s how we matched his prints. He served in the army, 1990 to ’92.”
“Which unit?” When Moore did not immediately answer, Gabriel looked at him. “What was he trained to do?”
“EOD. Explosive ordnance disposal.”
“Bombs?” said Maura. She looked, startled, at Moore. “If he knows how to disarm them, then he probably knows how to build them.”
“You said he only served two years,” said Gabriel. His own voice struck him as eerily calm. A cold-blooded stranger’s.
“He had … problems overseas, when he got to Kuwait,” said Moore. “He received a dishonorable discharge.”
“Why?”
“Refusing to obey orders. Striking an officer. Repeated conflicts with other men in his unit. There was some concern that he was emotionally unstable. That he might be suffering from paranoia.”
Moore’s words had felt like blow after pummeling blow, pounding the breath from Gabriel’s lungs. “Jesus,” he murmured. “This changes everything.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maura.
He looked at her. “We can’t waste any more time. We’ve got to get her out now.”
“What about negotiations? What about going slow?”
“It doesn’t apply here. Not only is this man unstable, he’s already killed a cop.”
“He doesn’t know Jane’s a cop,” said Moore. “And we’re not going to let him find out. Look, the same principles apply here. The longer a hostage crisis goes on, the better it usually comes out. Negotiation works.”
Gabriel pointed to the laptop. “How the hell do you negotiate with someone who does that?”
“It can be done. It has to be done.”
“It’s not your wife in there!” He saw Maura’s startled gaze, and he turned away, struggling for composure.
It was Moore who spoke next, his voice quiet. Gentle. “What you’re feeling now—what you’re going through—I’ve been there, you know. I know exactly what you’re dealing with. Two years ago, my wife, Catherine, was abducted, by a man you may remember. Warren Hoyt.”
The Surgeon. Of course, Gabriel remembered him. The man who late at night would slip into homes where women slept, awakening to find a monster in their bedrooms. It was the aftermath of Hoyt’s crimes that had first brought Gabriel to Boston a year ago. The Surgeon, he suddenly realized, was the common thread that bound them all together. Moore and Gabriel, Jane and Maura. They had all, in one way or another, been touched by the same evil.
“I knew Hoyt was holding her,” said Moore. “And there was nothing I could do about it. No way I could think of to save her. If I could have exchanged my life for hers, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But all I could do was watch the hours go by. The worst part of it was, I knew what he was doing to her. I’d watched the autopsies on his other victims. I saw every cut he ever made with his scalpel. So yes, I know exactly what you’re feeling. And believe me, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Jane out of there alive. Not just because she’s my colleague, or because you’re married to her. It’s because I owe her my happiness. She’s the one who found Catherine. Jane’s the one who saved her life.”
At last Gabriel looked at him. “How do we negotiate with these people?”
“We need to find out exactly what they want. They know they’re trapped. They have no choice but to talk to us, so we keep talking to them. You’ve dealt with other hostage situations, so you know the negotiator’s playbook. The rules haven’t changed, just because you’re on the other side of it now. You have to take your wife, your emotions, out of this equation.”
“Could you?”
Moore’s silence answered the question. Of course he couldn’t.
And neither can I.
THIRTEEN
Mila
Tonight we are going to a party.
The Mother tells us that important people will be there, so we must look our prettiest, and she has given us new clothes for the occasion. I am wearing a black velvet dress with a skirt so tight that I can scarcely walk, and I must pull the hem all the way up to my hips just so I can climb into the van. The other girls slide in beside me in a rustle of silk and satin, and I smell their clashing bouquet of perfumes. We have spent hours with our makeup creams and lipsticks and mascara brushes, and now we sit like masked dolls about to perform in a Kabuki play. Nothing you see is real. Not the eyelashes or the red lips or the blushing cheeks. The van is cold, and we shiver against each other, waiting for Olena to join us.
The American driver yells out the window that we must leave now, or we’ll be late. At last the Mother comes out of the house, tugging Olena after her. Olena angrily shakes off the Mother’s hand and proceeds to walk the rest of the way on her own. She is wearing a long, green silk dress with a high Chinese collar and a side slit that reaches all the way to her thigh. Her black hair swings straight and sleek to her shoulders. I have never seen anyone so beautiful, and I stare at her as she crosses to the van. The drugs have calmed her down as usual, have turned her docile, but they have also made her unsteady, and she sways in her high heels.
“Get in, get in,” the driver orders.
The Mother has to help Olena into the van. Olena slides onto the seat in front of mine and promptly slumps against the window. The Mother slides the door shut and climbs in beside the driver.
“It’s about time,” he says, and we pull away from the house.
I know why we are going to this party; I know what is expected of us. Still, this feels like an escape because it is the first time in weeks that we have been allowed out of the house, and I eagerly press my face to the window as we turn onto a paved road. I see the sign: DEERFIELD ROAD.
For a long time, we drive.
I watch the road signs, reading the names of the towns we are passing through. RESTON and ARLINGTON and WOODBRIDGE. I look at people in other cars, and I wonder if any of them can see the silent plea in my face. If any of them cared. A woman driver in the next lane glances at me, and for an instant our eyes meet. Then she turns her attention back to the road. What did she see, really? Just a redheaded girl in a black dress, going out for a good time. People see what they expect to see. It never occurs to them that terrible things can look pretty.
I begin to catch glimpses of water, a wide ribbon of it, in the distance. When the van finally stops, we are parked at a dock, where a large motor yacht is moored. I did not expect tonight’s party to be on a boat. The other girls are craning their necks to see it, curious about what this enormous yacht looks like inside. And a little afraid, too.
The Mother slides open the van door. “These are important men. You will all smile and be happy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother,” we murmur.
“Get out.”
As we scramble from the van, I hear Olena say, in a slurred voice, “Fuck yourself, Mother,” but no one else hears her.
Tottering on high heels, shivering in our dresses, we walk single file up the ramp and onto the boat. On the deck, a man stands waiting for us. Just by the way the Mother hurries forward to greet him, I know this man is important. He gives us a cursory glance, and nods in approval. Says in English, to the Mother: “Take them inside and get a few drinks in them. I want them in the mood when our guests arrive.”
“Yes, Mr. Desmond.”
The man’s gaze pauses on Olena, who is swaying unsteadily near the railing. “Is that one going to cause us trouble again?”
“She took the pills. She’ll be quiet.”
“Well, she’d better be. I don’t want her acting up tonight.”
“Go,” the Mother directs us. “Inside.”
We step through the doorway into the cabin, and I am dazzled by my first glimpse. A crystal chandelier sparkles over our heads. I see dark wood paneling, couches of cream-colored suede. A bartender pops open a bottle, and a waiter in a white jacket brings us flutes of champagne.
“Drink,” the Mother says. “Find a place to sit and be happy.”
We each take a flute and spread out around the cabin. Olena sits on the couch beside me, sipping champagne, crossing her long legs so that the top of her thigh peeks out through the slit.
“I’m watching you,” the Mother warns Olena in Russian.
Olena shrugs. “So does everyone else.”
The bartender announces: “They’re here.”
The Mother gives Olena one last threatening look, then retreats through a doorway.
“See how she has to hide her fat face?” Olena says. “No one wants to look at her.”
“Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t get us into trouble.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, my darling little Mila, we are already in trouble.”
We hear laughter, and hearty greetings between colleagues. Americans. The cabin door opens and all the girls snap straight and smile as four men walk in. One is the host, Mr. Desmond, who met us on the deck. His three guests are all men, all nicely dressed in suits and ties. Two of them are young and fit, men who walk with the confident grace of athletes. But the third man is older, as old as my grandfather and far heavier, with wire-rimmed glasses and graying hair that is giving way to inevitable baldness. The guests gaze around the room, inspecting us with clear interest.
“I see you’ve brought in a few new ones,” the older man says.
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 134