The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Jane glanced at her mother. “We haven’t really picked a name yet.”

  “You have to call her something. Why not your grandmother’s name?”

  “It has to hit me just right, you know? If she’s gonna get stuck with it for the rest of her life, I want the name to suit her.”

  “Regina is a beautiful name. It means queenly, you know.”

  “Like I want to give the kid ideas?”

  “Well, what are you going to call her?”

  Jane spotted the Name Your Baby book on the countertop. She refreshed her cup of coffee and sipped it as she flipped through pages, feeling a little desperate now. If I don’t choose soon, she thought, it’s going to be Regina by default.

  Yolanthe. Yseult. Zerlena.

  Oh, man. Regina was sounding better and better. The queen baby.

  She set the book down. Frowned at it for a moment, then picked it up again and flipped to the M’s. To the name that had caught her eye last night.

  Mila.

  Again she felt that cold breath whisper up her spine. I know I have heard this name before, she thought. Why does it give me such a chill? I need to remember. It’s important that I remember …

  The phone rang, startling her. She dropped the book, and it slapped onto the floor.

  Angela frowned at her. “You gonna answer that?”

  Jane took a breath and picked up the receiver. It was Gabriel.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I’m just having coffee with Mom.”

  “Is it okay that I called her?”

  She glanced at Angela, who was carrying the baby into the other room to change diapers. “You’re a genius. Did I tell you that?”

  “I think I should call Mama Rizzoli more often.”

  “I slept for eight hours straight. I can’t believe what a difference that makes. My brain’s actually functioning again.”

  “Then maybe you’re ready to deal with this.”

  “What?”

  “Moore called me a little while ago.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “We’re here now, at Shroeder Plaza. Jane, they got back a match on IBIS. A cartridge case with identical firing pin impressions. It was in the ATF database.”

  “Which cartridge case are we talking about?”

  “From Olena’s hospital room. After she shot that security guard, a single cartridge case was recovered from the scene.”

  “He was killed with his own weapon.”

  “And we’ve just found out that weapon has been used before.”

  “Where? When?”

  “January third. A multiple shooting in Ashburn, Virginia.”

  She stood clutching the receiver, pressing it so hard against her ear that she could hear the pounding of her own heartbeat. Ashburn. Joe wanted to tell us about Ashburn.

  Angela came back into the kitchen carrying the baby, whose black hair was now fluffed up like a crown of curls. Regina, the queen baby. The name suddenly seemed to fit.

  “What do we know about that multiple shooting?” Jane asked.

  “Moore has the file right here.”

  She looked at Angela. “Mom, I need to leave for a while. Is that okay?”

  “You go ahead. We’re happy right where we are. Aren’t we, Regina?” Angela bent forward and rubbed noses with the baby. “And in a little while, we’re going to take a nice little bath.”

  Jane said to Gabriel: “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there.”

  “No. Let’s meet somewhere else.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t want to talk about it here.”

  “Gabriel, what the hell is going on?”

  There was a pause, and she could hear Moore’s voice speaking softly in the background. Then Gabriel came back on the line.

  “JP Doyle’s. We’ll meet you there.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She did not take the time to shower, but simply got dressed in the first clothes she pulled out of her closet—baggy maternity slacks and the T-shirt her fellow detectives had given her at the baby shower with the words MOM COP embroidered over the belly. In the car she ate two slices of buttered toast as she drove toward the neighborhood of Jamaica Plain. That last conversation with Gabriel had put her on edge, and she found herself glancing in the rearview mirror as she waited at stoplights, taking note of the cars behind her. Had she seen that green Taurus four blocks earlier? And was that the same white van she’d noticed parked across the street from her apartment?

  JP Doyle’s was a favorite Boston PD haunt, and on any evening, the bar was usually packed with off-duty cops. But at three P.M., only a lone woman was perched at the counter, sipping a glass of white wine as ESPN flickered on the overhead TV. Jane walked straight through the bar and headed into the adjoining dining area, where memorabilia of Boston’s Irish heritage adorned the walls. Newspaper clippings about the Kennedys and Tip O’Neill and Boston’s finest had hung here so long that they were now brittle with age, and the Irish flag displayed above one booth had acquired the dirty tinge of nicotine yellow. In this lull between lunch and dinner, only two booths were occupied. In one sat a middle-aged couple, clearly tourists, judging by the Boston map spread out between them. Jane walked past the couple and continued to the corner booth, where Moore and Gabriel were sitting.

  She slipped in beside her husband and looked down at the file folder lying on the table. “What do you have to show me?”

  Moore didn’t answer, but glanced up with an automatic smile as the waitress approached.

  “Hey, Detective Rizzoli. You’re all skinny again,” the waitress said.

  “Not as skinny as I’d like to be.”

  “I heard you had a baby girl.”

  “She’s keeping us up all night. This may be my only chance to eat in peace.”

  The waitress laughed as she took out her order pad. “Then let’s feed you.”

  “Actually, I’d just like some coffee and your apple crisp.”

  “Good choice.” The waitress glanced at the men. “How ’bout you fellas?”

  “More coffee, that’s all,” said Moore. “We’re just going to sit here and watch her eat.”

  They maintained their silence while their cups were refilled. Only after the waitress had delivered the apple crisp and walked away did Moore finally slide the folder across to Jane.

  Inside was a sheet of digital photos. She immediately recognized them as micrographs of a spent cartridge case, showing the patterns left by the firing pin hitting the primer, and by the backward thrust of the cartridge against the breechblock.

  “This is from the hospital shooting?”she asked.

  Moore nodded. “That cartridge came from the weapon that John Doe carried into Olena’s room. The weapon she used to kill him. Ballistics ran it through the IBIS database, and they got back a hit, from ATF. A multiple shooting in Ashburn, Virginia.”

  She turned to the next set of photos. It was another series of cartridge micrographs. “They’re a match?”

  “Identical firing pin impressions. Two different cartridges found at two different death scenes. They were both ejected from the same weapon.”

  “And now we have that weapon.”

  “Actually, we don’t.”

  She looked at Moore. “It should have been found with Olena’s body. She was the last one to have it.”

  “It wasn’t at the takedown scene.”

  “But we processed that room, didn’t we?”

  “There were no weapons at all left at the scene. The federal takedown team confiscated all ballistics evidence when they left. The took the weapons, Joe’s knapsack, even the cartridges. By the time Boston PD got in there, it was all gone.”

  “They cleaned up a death scene? What’s Boston PD going to do about this?”

  “Apparently,” said Moore, “there’s not a thing we can do. The feds are calling it a matter of national security, and they don’t want information leaks.”

  “They don’t t
rust Boston PD?”

  “No one trusts anybody. We’re not the only ones being shut out. Agent Barsanti wanted that ballistics evidence as well, and he was none too happy when he found out the special ops team took it. This has turned into federal agency versus federal agency. Boston PD’s just a mouse watching two elephants battle it out.”

  Jane’s gaze returned to the photomicrographs. “You said this matching cartridge came from a crime scene in Ashburn. Just before the takedown, Joseph Roke tried to tell us about something that happened in Ashburn.”

  “Mr. Roke may very well have been talking about this.” Moore reached into his briefcase and pulled out another folder, which he set on the table. “I received it this morning, from Leesburg PD. Ashburn’s just a small town. It was Leesburg who worked the case.”

  “It’s not pleasant viewing, Jane,” said Gabriel.

  His warning was unexpected. Together they had witnessed the worst the autopsy room could offer, and she’d never seen him flinch. If this case has horrified even Gabriel, she thought, do I really want to see it? She gave herself no time to consider, but simply opened the folder and confronted the first crime scene photograph. This isn’t so bad, she thought. She had seen far worse. A slender brown-haired woman lay facedown on a stairway, as though she had dived from the top step. A river of her blood had streamed down, collecting in a pool at the bottom of the stairs.

  “That’s Jane Doe number one,” said Moore.

  “You don’t have ID on her?”

  “We don’t have ID on any of the victims in that house.”

  She turned to the next photograph. It was a young blonde this time, lying on a cot, the blanket pulled up to her neck, hands still clutching the fabric, as though it might protect her. A trickle of blood oozed from the bullet wound in her forehead. A swift kill, rendered with the stunning efficiency of a single bullet.

  “That’s Jane Doe number two,” said Moore. At her troubled glance, he added: “There are still others.”

  Jane heard the note of caution in his voice. Once again she was on edge as she turned to the next image. Staring at the third crime scene photo, she thought: This is getting harder, but I can still deal with it. It was a view through a closet doorway, into the blood-splattered interior. Two young women, both of them only partially clothed, sat slumped together in a tangle of arms and long hair, as though caught in a final embrace.

  “Jane Does number three and number four,” said Moore.

  “None of these women have been identified?”

  “Their fingerprints aren’t in any database.”

  “You’ve got four attractive women here. And no one reported them missing?”

  Moore shook his head. “They don’t match anyone on NCIC’s missing persons list.” He nodded at the two victims in the closet. “The cartridge that popped up in the IBIS match was found in that closet. Those two women were shot with the same weapon that the guard carried into Olena’s hospital room.”

  “And the other vics in this house? Also the same gun?”

  “No. A different weapon was used on them.”

  “Two guns? Two killers?”

  “Yes.”

  So far, none of the images had truly upset her. She reached without trepidation for the last photo, of Jane Doe number five. This time, what she saw made her rock back against the booth. Yet she could not drag her gaze from the image. She could only stare at the expression of mortal agony still etched on the victim’s face. This woman was older and heavier, in her forties. Her torso was tied to a chair with loops of white cord.

  “That’s the fifth and final victim,” said Moore. “The other four women were dispatched quickly. A bullet to the head, and that was that.” He looked at the open folder. “This one was eventually finished off with a bullet to the brain as well. But not until …” Moore paused. “Not until that was done to her.”

  “How long …” Jane swallowed. “How long was she kept alive?”

  “Based on the number of fractures in her hands and wrists, and the fact that all the bones were essentially pulverized, the medical examiner felt there were at least forty or fifty separate blows of the hammer. The hammerhead wasn’t large. Each blow would crush only a small area. But there was not one bone, one finger, that escaped.”

  Abruptly Jane closed the folder, unable to stomach the image any longer. But the damage was done, the memory now indelible.

  “It would have taken at least two attackers,” said Moore. “Someone to immobilize her while she was tied to the chair. Someone to hold her wrist to the table while that was being done to her.”

  “There would have been screams,” she murmured. She looked up at Moore. “Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming?”

  “The house is on a private dirt road, some distance from its neighbors. And remember, it was January.”

  When people keep their windows shut. The victim must have realized that no one would hear her cries. That there would be no rescue. The best she could hope for was the mercy of a bullet.

  “What did they want from her?” she asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “There must have been a reason for doing this. Something she knew.”

  “We don’t even know who she was. Five Jane Does. None of these victims match any missing persons report.”

  “How can we not know anything about them?” She looked at her husband.

  Gabriel shook his head. “They’re ghosts, Jane. No names, no identities.”

  “What about the house?”

  “It was rented out at the time to a Marguerite Fisher.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “There’s no such woman. It’s a fictitious name.”

  “Jesus. This is like going down a rabbit hole. Nameless victims. Renters who don’t exist.”

  “But we do know who owns that house,” said Gabriel. “A company called KTE Investments.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Yes. It took Leesburg PD a month to track it down. KTE is an off-the-books subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”

  Cold fingers seemed to stroke up the back of Jane’s neck. “Joseph Roke again,” she murmured. “He talked about Ballentree. About Ashburn. What if he wasn’t crazy at all?”

  They all fell silent as the waitress returned with the coffeepot. “Don’t you like your apple crisp, Detective?” she asked, noting Jane’s scarcely touched dessert.

  “Oh, it’s great. But I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

  “Yeah, no one seems to have an appetite,” the waitress said as she reached across to fill Gabriel’s cup. “Just a lot of coffee drinkers sitting around in here this afternoon.”

  Gabriel glanced up. “Who else?” he asked.

  “Oh, that guy over …” The waitress paused, frowning at the empty booth nearby. She shrugged. “Guess he didn’t like the coffee,” she said, and walked away.

  “Okay,” Jane said quietly. “I’m starting to freak out, guys.”

  Moore quickly swept up the folders and slid them into a large envelope. “We should leave,” he said.

  They walked out of Doyle’s, emerging into the hot glare of afternoon. In the parking lot they paused beside Moore’s car, scanning the street, the nearby vehicles. Here we are, two cops and an FBI agent, she thought, yet all three of us are jumpy. All three of us are reflexively scoping out the area.

  “What happens now?” asked Jane.

  “As far as Boston PD’s concerned, it’s hands off,” said Moore. “I’ve been ordered not to rattle this particular cage.”

  “And those files?” She glanced at the envelope Moore was carrying.

  “I’m not even supposed to have these.”

  “Well, I’m still on maternity leave. No one’s issued me any orders.” She took the envelope from Moore.

  “Jane,” said Gabriel.

  She turned toward her Subaru. “I’ll see you at home.”

  “Jane.”

  As she climbed in behind the wheel, Gabriel swung
open the passenger door and slid in beside her. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “You saw what they did to that woman’s hands. That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

  She stared out the window, watching Moore step into his car and drive away. “I thought it was over,” she said softly. “I thought, okay, we survived, so let’s get on with our lives. But it’s not over.” She looked at him. “I need to know why it all happened. I need to know what it means.”

  “Let me do the digging. I’ll find out what I can.”

  “And what should I do?”

  “You just got out of the hospital.”

  She put her key in the ignition and started the engine, setting off a blast of hot air from the AC vent. “I didn’t have major surgery,” she said. “I just had a baby.”

  “That’s reason enough for you to stay out of it.”

  “But this is what’s bothering me, Gabriel. This is why I can’t sleep!” She sank back against the seat. “This is why the nightmare doesn’t go away.”

  “It takes time.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about it.” She gazed, once again, at the parking lot. “I’m starting to remember more things.”

  “What things?”

  “Pounding. Yelling, gunfire. And then the blood on my face …”

  “That’s the dream you told me about.”

  “And I keep having it.”

  “There would have been noises and shouting. And there was blood on you—Olena’s blood. Nothing you remember is surprising.”

  “But there’s something else. I haven’t told you about it, because I’ve been trying to remember. Just before Olena died, she tried to tell me something.”

  “Tell you what?”

  She looked at Gabriel. “She said a name. Mila. She said: ‘Mila knows.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gabriel’s gaze suddenly turned toward the street. He tracked the progress of a car as it slowly cruised past, then rounded the corner, and glided out of sight.

  “Why don’t you go home?” he said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be there in a while.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Love you,” he said, and climbed out.