“I don’t much like it, either,” she said and looked at the book again. At the story of Chen O. Like the Red Phoenix, it was a tale of slaughter. And an abducted woman, she thought, remembering Charlotte Dion.
“Jane, it’s for you.” Gabriel stood with the phone in his hand and a look of concern in his eye. “He won’t give me his name.”
She took the phone. Felt her husband watching her as she answered, “Detective Rizzoli.”
“I know you’ve been asking about me, so I figured I’d cut to the chase. Let’s you and me talk, face-to-face. Four PM tomorrow, my house. Just you and no one else. You can tell your husband he has nothing to worry about.”
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Kevin Donohue.”
She looked up sharply at Gabriel. Barely managed to keep her voice even as she said: “What is this about, Mr. Donohue?”
“The Red Phoenix. Your investigation’s going way off the rails. I think it’s time to set a few things straight.”
TWENTY-ONE
Although both Frost and Tam sat watching her from their parked cars, Jane felt dangerously alone and exposed as she rang the bell at Kevin Donohue’s front gate. A moment later two beefy men strode toward her down the driveway, both of them sporting the conspicuous bulges of sidearms under their jackets. They asked her no questions, merely admitted her through the gate and locked it again behind her. As she passed under the arch, she spotted a surveillance camera mounted overhead. Every move she made was being monitored.
Following the men up the driveway, she noted the absence of trees and shrubbery. There was only a broad lawn and a concrete driveway lined with ugly lampposts, where yet more security cameras were mounted. Here was the stark evidence that being a prince of the Irish mob had its downside. You could never stop looking over your shoulder because you knew that somewhere, a bullet had your name on it.
As wealthy as he was, Donohue had depressingly pedestrian taste, something that was apparent as soon as Jane walked into the house and saw the bland pastel paintings hanging on the wall. They looked like the mass-produced landscapes for sale at every local shopping mall. Her escorts led her into the living room where an enormous man, bloated as a toad, sat in an extra-large armchair. He was in his sixties, clean-shaven and balding, with blue eyes that glared from beneath heavy lids. She didn’t need to be introduced; she already knew that this Jabba the Hutt character was Kevin Donohue, known for his impressive appetites and his equally impressive bad temper.
“Scan her, Sean,” someone said. She hadn’t noticed there was another man in the room, a skinny and nervous-looking fellow in a business suit.
One of her escorts moved toward her, holding a radio frequency scanner, and Jane snapped, “What the hell’s this all about?”
“I’m Mr. Donohue’s attorney,” the skinny man said. “Before he talks to you, we need to make sure you’re not bugged. And you’ll have to hand us your cell phone.”
“This wasn’t part of the agreement.”
“Detective Rizzoli,” rumbled Donohue, “I’m granting you the privilege of keeping your weapon, on account of your voluntarily coming here. But I don’t want any recording of this conversation. If you’re worried about your safety, I’m sure your associates parked outside will come running to your rescue at the first sign of trouble.”
For a moment Jane and Donohue traded stares. Then she handed her cell phone to the attorney and stood motionless while the bodyguard scanned her for radio signals. Only when Sean pronounced her clean did Donohue wave her toward the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose an armchair instead, so that she would be at his eye level.
“Your reputation precedes you,” said Donohue.
“So does yours.”
He laughed. “I see the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?”
He folded his hands on his bulging belly. “Detective Jane Rizzoli. Smart-ass tongue. Fucking bulldog.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Which is why I’m telling you to dig somewhere else for your bones. You’re wasting your time on me.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about me. So has your husband. Oh yeah, I know all about your husband, Mr. Special Agent Gabriel Dean. Quite the law enforcement couple. I’m not worried that you’re gonna find anything useful, mind you. But with all these questions going around, it makes me look weak to my rivals. Like I’m about to topple. And if I look weak, that brings the vultures out.” He leaned forward, his belly flopping over his belt. “There is nothing you’re going to find, okay? Nothing that can link me to the Red Phoenix.”
“What about Joey Gilmore?”
He sighed. “You’ve been talking to his old hag of a mother.”
“She says you and Joey had a falling-out nineteen years ago.”
“Small stuff. Not worth the price of a bullet.”
“Can’t be all that small if you’re bringing in outside people to mop up now.”
“What?”
Jane glanced at Donohue’s two bodyguards. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for some pictures, okay? Don’t freak out, boys.” She pulled out two morgue photos and slid them across the coffee table toward Donohue. “Your hired help just can’t keep their heads on straight.”
Donohue stared. Of all the morgue photos Jane could have brought, she’d chosen the two that were most graphically grotesque. Jane Doe with her slashed throat gaping open. John Doe’s severed head lying beside his torso on the autopsy table. The images had their desired effect: Donohue’s face had turned as pasty as the corpses.
“Why the fuck are you showing me this?” he demanded.
“Why did you hire these two killers?”
The lawyer cut in. “This conversation has come to an end. Sean, Colin. Escort Detective Rizzoli out of the house.”
“Shut up,” said Donohue.
“Mr. Donohue, it’s not in your best interests to—”
“I’m gonna answer her question, okay?” Donohue looked at Jane. “I didn’t hire ’em. I don’t even know who that woman is.” He eyed Jane Doe’s morgue photo with new interest and grunted. “Nice-looking gal. What a waste.”
“And the man? Do you recognize him?”
“Maybe. Looks a little familiar. What do you think, Sean?”
His man Sean eyed the photo. “I think I seen him around. Don’t know his name, but he’s local. Ukrainian or Russian.”
Donohue shook his head. “Bad news, those boys. Completely lacking any moral conscience. I can tell you, this guy never worked for me.” He looked up at Jane. “Now I guess he never will.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” she said.
“Because you’ve already decided I’m guilty. Even though I’ll swear on my mother’s Bible that I didn’t hire these two.” After the initial shock of seeing the morgue photos, his color and his cockiness had returned. “So you might wanna think of backing off.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Donohue?”
“You’re a smart girl. What do you think?”
“I think you’re scared. I think you know you’re cornered.”
“By you?” He laughed. “You are the least of my worries.”
“You called me a bulldog, remember? Well, I’m going to keep on digging in your backyard because that’s where I’ll find Joey Gilmore’s bones.”
“Come on. The cook killed those people and pulled a chuck. Everyone knows it was suicide, but Joey’s old hag of a mother just can’t let it go. That’s why she sent me that fucking note.”
Jane went very still. “You got one?”
“Few weeks ago, got a copy of Joey’s obit. Plus some stupid message that she wrote on the back. I know what really happened. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“If Mrs. Gilmore is the reason you’re investigating Mr. Donohue,” said the attorney, “don’t waste your time.”
“How do you know Mary Gilmore’s sending these notes?” Jane as
ked. “Did she sign yours? Was there a return address?”
The attorney frowned as he suddenly registered what Jane had said. “Notes, as in plural? Are you saying she’s sent more than one?”
“There have been others. Mailings sent to all the family members of the Red Phoenix victims. The notes are similar to what Mr. Donohue received.”
The attorney looked confused. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would Mrs. Gilmore harass other people with these mailings?”
“Maybe she’s not the one sending them,” said Jane.
The attorney and Donohue looked at each other. “We need to rethink this,” said the attorney. “Obviously, something else is going on. If Mary Gilmore isn’t doing this …”
Donohue’s fingers rolled into two plump fists. “I want to know who the hell is.”
TWENTY-TWO
Maura awakened just after dawn, and was happy to see that the sun was shining. She’d cook pancakes and sausages for the boy, and then they’d set off to tour Boston. First on the schedule was the Freedom Trail and the North End, then they’d go for a picnic and a run with the dog at Blue Hills Reservation. She’d planned a day packed with so many activities that there would be little time for awkward silences, for all the reminders that they were still very much strangers. Six months ago, in the Wyoming mountains, she had trusted Julian “Rat” Perkins with her life. Now she had to acknowledge that this hulking teenager with the enormous feet was still a mystery to her. She wondered if he felt the same way about her. Did he worry that she would abandon him, the way everyone else in his life had?
She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, appropriate attire for a romp with the dog. Thought about the chicken-and-avocado sandwiches she planned to make, and wondered if Rat liked avocados. Had he ever tasted an avocado or alfalfa sprouts or tarragon? I know so little about him, she thought. Yet here he is, a part of my life.
She walked down the hall and noticed that his bedroom door was open. “Rat?” she said. Peeking in, she did not see him.
In the kitchen, she found him sitting in front of the laptop computer that she’d left on the table the night before. The dog lay at his feet and his ears pricked up at the sight of Maura, as if here at last was someone who’d pay attention to him. Looking over the boy’s shoulder, she was startled to see an autopsy image on the screen.
“Don’t look at that,” she said. “I should have put this all away last night.” She punched the Exit key, and the morgue photo swooshed out of sight. Quickly she scooped up all the Red Phoenix files and set them on the counter. “Why don’t you help me make breakfast?”
“Why did he do it?” the boy asked. “Why would he kill people he didn’t even know?”
Maura looked into his troubled eyes. “Did you read the police report?”
“It was lying here on the table, and I couldn’t help looking at it. But it doesn’t make sense to me. Why someone would do that.”
She pulled over a chair and sat down across from him. “Sometimes, Rat, there’s no way to explain these things. I’m sorry to say that too often, I haven’t a clue why people do things like this. Why they drown their babies or strangle their wives or shoot their co-workers. I see the results of their actions, but I can’t tell you what sets them off. I just know that it happens. And people are capable of doing terrible things.”
“I know,” he murmured and looked down at the dog, who rested his enormous head in Rat’s lap as though knowing that comfort was what the boy needed at that moment. “So this is what you do?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you like your work?”
“I don’t think like is the right word.”
“What is the right word?”
“It’s challenging. Interesting.”
“And it doesn’t bother you, seeing things like this?”
“Someone has to speak for the dead. I know how to do it. They tell me—their bodies tell me—how they died. If it was a natural death, or if it was violent. Yes, it can be upsetting. It can make you question what it means to be human when you see what people do to each other. But this is the job I feel I was always meant to do, to be their voice.”
“Do you think I could do it?” He looked at the stack of files. “Your kind of work?”
“You mean, be a pathologist?”
“I want to learn the answers, too.” He looked at her. “I want to be just like you.”
“And that,” she said with a smile, “is the most flattering thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“At Evensong, my teachers say I’m really good at noticing things that other people miss. So I think I could do it.”
“If you want to be a pathologist,” she said, “you’ll have to make very good grades in school.”
“I know.”
“You’ll have to go to college, and then four years of medical school. After that, you’ll have to do a residency, plus a fellowship in forensic pathology. That’s a lot of years and a lot of commitment, Rat.”
“Are you saying you don’t think I can do it?”
“I’m just saying you really have to want it.” She looked into the boy’s dark eyes and thought she could glimpse the man that he would one day become. Intense and fiercely loyal. A man who would not only speak for the dead, but fight for them as well. “You’ll have to learn science, because only science will prove your case on the witness stand. A hunch isn’t good enough.”
“What if your hunch is really strong?”
“It’s never as convincing as what a drop of blood can tell you.”
“But a hunch tells you when something’s not right. Like in that picture.”
“Which picture?”
“The Chinese man who killed himself. I’ll show you.” He got up and brought the laptop and file folders back to the table. With a few mouse clicks, he reopened the digital image of Wu Weimin’s body, lying in the Red Phoenix kitchen. “The police said he shot himself once, in the head,” said Rat.
“Yes.”
“Look what’s lying on the floor next to him.”
Last night, she’d glanced at the photos only briefly. It had been late, she’d had a long day with the boy, and she’d been drowsy after two glasses of wine. Now she focused more intently on the dead cook, and on the weapon that was still clasped in his hand. Near his shoulder lay a spent bullet casing.
Rat pointed to what she’d missed, at the periphery of the photo. A second casing. “It says he had one bullet in his head,” said Rat. “But if he fired twice, where did the other bullet go?”
“It could have ended up anywhere in the kitchen. Under the circumstances, the police probably saw no reason to go searching for it.”
“And why did he shoot twice?”
“I’ve seen it before in suicides. The victim has to build up the courage to kill himself, and maybe he misses the first time. Or the gun misfires. I’ve even seen a suicide where the victim shot himself more than twice in the head. Another one who shot himself with his nondominant hand. And there was one man who …” She paused, suddenly appalled that she was having this conversation with a sixteen-year-old boy. But he was looking back at her as calmly as a fellow professional.
“It’s certainly a valid concern to bring up,” she said. “I’m sure the police considered it.”
“But it didn’t change their minds. They still say he killed those four people, even though they can’t explain why.”
“How could they? So few people really knew the cook.”
“Like no one really knew me,” he said quietly.
Now she understood what was really troubling the boy. He, too, had been called a murderer; he, too, had been judged by people who scarcely knew him. When Rat looked at Wu Weimin, what he saw was himself.
“All right,” she conceded. “Let’s assume for the moment that he didn’t kill himself. Let’s say it was staged to look like a suicide. Which means someone else must have shot those other four people, and then killed the cook.”
Rat nodded.
“Think about it. Imagine you’re the cook. You’re standing in the kitchen and someone starts shooting in the other room. The gun had no silencer, so you’d hear those gunshots.”
“Then how come no one else did? The report says there were people in the three apartments upstairs, but they heard only one bang. That’s why no one called the police right away. Then the cook’s wife went downstairs and found her husband’s body.”
“How much of this did you read?”
“Most of it.”
“That’s more than I have,” she confessed. She opened the folder to the report filed by Staines and Ingersoll. When Detective Tam had dropped off the material, she had not welcomed the extra work, and had put it off until last night, when she’d given the photos only a cursory glance. Now she read the police report from beginning to end, and confirmed what Rat had just told her. Seven different witnesses stated that they’d heard only one bang, yet a total of nine bullet casings were found in the Red Phoenix restaurant.
Her sixth sense was starting to tingle. That uneasy feeling that something was not right, just as the boy had said.
She opened Wu Weimin’s autopsy report. According to the pathologist, the cook was found lying on his side, his back wedged up against the closed cellar door. His right hand—the one still clutching the gun—was later swabbed and found positive for gunshot residue. Oblivious to the fact that Rat was watching, she clicked through the cook’s autopsy photos. The fatal bullet had been fired into the right temple, and a close-up showed it to be a hard contact wound, the edges seared and blackened in a pressure abrasion ring caused by gases rushing out of the barrel. There was no exit wound. She clicked on the skull X-ray and saw metallic fragments scattered throughout the cranium. A hollow-point bullet, she thought, designed to mushroom and disintegrate, transferring its kinetic energy directly to tissues. Maximum damage with minimum penetration.
She moved on to the other files.
The second autopsy report was for James Fang, age thirty-seven, found slumped behind the cash register counter. He had been shot once in the head. The bullet had entered above his left eyebrow.
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