The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  The third report was for Joey Gilmore, age twenty-five. His body fell in front of the cash register counter, take-out cartons scattered on the floor around him. He had been shot once, in the back of the head.

  The last two victims were Arthur and Dina Mallory, both found near a corner table where they had been sitting. Arthur was shot twice, once in the back of the head, once in the spine. His wife was hit three times, the bullets punching into her cheek, her mid-back, and her skull. Scanning down to the pathologist’s summary, she saw that he’d concluded the same thing she did: that Dina Mallory had been moving when she was shot the first two times, probably trying to flee her attacker. Maura was about to set the report aside when she noticed a sentence describing the dissection of the stomach and duodenum.

  Based on volume of gastric contents, which appear to include spaghetti fragments with a tomato-based sauce, the postprandial period is estimated to be one to two hours.

  Maura opened Arthur Mallory’s autopsy report and scanned down to the examination of his stomach, which, as was routine in an autopsy, had been slit open and the contents collected.

  Gastric contents appear to include cheese and meat, with partially digested fragments of lettuce. Postprandial interval estimated at one to two hours.

  This did not make sense. Why would the Mallorys, their bellies full of what appeared to be an Italian meal, be sitting in a Chinese restaurant?

  The description of gastric contents, of macerated lettuce and tomato sauce, had ruined her appetite. “This is not the way to start off breakfast,” she said, closing the folder. “It’s a beautiful day and I’m going to make pancakes, how about that? Let’s not think about this anymore.”

  “What about the missing bullet?” said Rat.

  “Even if we could find it now, it wouldn’t change the conclusions. The bodies have been long buried or cremated, and the crime scene’s been cleaned up. To reopen a case, you need new forensic evidence. After this many years, there’d be nothing left.”

  “But there’s something wrong about all this, isn’t there? You think so, too.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. “Let’s assume the cook didn’t kill himself. Let’s assume someone else, a person unknown, walked in and started shooting. Why didn’t the cook just run?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t get out.”

  “There’s another exit from the kitchen. The report said it opens into an alley.”

  “Maybe the door was locked from the outside.”

  She pulled up the crime scene images on her laptop. This was completely inappropriate viewing for the boy, but he had raised good questions, and nothing he’d seen or heard so far appeared to have rattled him. “Here,” she said, pointing to the kitchen exit. “It looks like it’s ajar. So there’s no reason he couldn’t have fled. If he heard gunshots in the dining room, anyone with common sense would have run out that kitchen door.”

  “What about that door?” He pointed to the cellar door, blocked by the cook’s body. “Maybe he was going to hide down there.”

  “The cellar’s a dead end. It makes no sense to head that way. Look at all the evidence, Rat. He’s found holding the gun. There’s gunshot residue on his hand, which means he was in contact with the weapon when it was fired.” She paused, suddenly thinking about the extra bullet casing. The gun was fired twice in the kitchen, but only one blast was heard. And the Glock had a threaded barrel, so it could be fitted with a silencer. She tried to imagine an alternate sequence of events. An unknown killer executes Wu Weimin. Removes the silencer and places the weapon in the dead man’s hand. Fires one last time to plant gunshot residue on the victim’s skin. It would explain why only one blast was heard and why there were two bullet casings in the kitchen. But there was one detail she couldn’t explain with that scenario: why Wu Weimin, given the chance to flee out the back exit, had chosen to remain in the kitchen.

  She focused on the cellar door. On the cook’s body, lying in front of it. Blocking it. Suddenly she thought: Maybe he couldn’t flee.

  Because he had a very good reason to stay.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Luminous probably going to make this whole place light up,” said Jane. “According to the realtor, all they did after the event was wash down the walls and mop the floors. The linoleum was never replaced. So I’m not sure what this exercise is going to prove.”

  “We won’t know until we look, will we?” said Maura.

  They stood outside the old Red Phoenix restaurant, waiting for the crime scene unit to arrive. Total darkness was needed to properly examine the interior, and dusk was just now deepening toward night, bringing with it a damp chill that made Maura wish she had brought more than just her raincoat. At the far end of Knapp a lamp glowed, but this end of the street was deep in shadow, and the building, with its barred windows, its gated door, looked like a prison sealing in its ghosts.

  Jane peered through the restaurant window and gave a visible shudder. “We’ve already been in there, you know. It’s a creepy place, and it’s probably crawling with roaches. Just bare walls and empty rooms. There’s really nothing left to look at.”

  “The blood will still be there,” said Maura. Soap and scrubbing erased only the visible evidence; the chemical ghost of blood remained on floors and walls. Luminol could reveal old smears and footprints that may have been missed during the original investigation.

  The glare of headlights made her turn and squint as a vehicle rounded the corner and slowly rolled to a stop. Frost and Tam stepped out.

  “You got the key?” Jane called out.

  Frost pulled it from his pocket. “I had to sign our lives away before Mr. Kwan would hand it over.”

  “What’s the big deal? There’s nothing to steal in there.”

  “He said if we damage anything, we’ll hurt the resale value.”

  Jane snorted. “I could improve its resale value with a stick of dynamite.”

  Frost unlocked the door and felt around for the light switch. Nothing happened. “Bulb must’ve finally burned out,” he said.

  In the darkness beyond the threshold, something moved, startled by the sudden invasion. Maura turned on her flashlight and saw half a dozen roaches skitter away from the beam and vanish beneath the cash register counter.

  “Ewww,” said Frost. “I bet there’s, like, a thousand of them swarming around under there.”

  “Thanks a lot,” muttered Jane. “Now I’ll never get that picture out of my head.”

  Their four flashlight beams sliced back and forth, crisscrossing in the darkness. As Jane had described, the room was bare walls and floor, but when Maura looked around the room images from the crime scene photos superimposed themselves. She saw Joey Gilmore sprawled near the counter. Saw James Fang crumpled behind the counter. She crossed to the corner where the Mallorys had died and pictured the corpses as they had fallen. Arthur slumped facedown onto the table. Dina stretched out on the floor.

  “Hello?” a voice called from the alley. “Detective Rizzoli?”

  “We’re in here,” said Jane.

  A new pair of dueling flashlight beams joined theirs as two men from the crime scene unit entered the room. “It’s definitely dark enough in here,” one of the men said. “And there’s no furniture to move, so that’ll make things quick.” He squatted and examined the floor. “This is the same linoleum?”

  “That’s what we’re told,” said Tam.

  “Looks it, too. Stamped linoleum, lots of dings and cracks. Should light up really well.” He grunted as he stood up, his belly as big as an eight-month pregnancy.

  His much thinner associate, who towered over him, said: “What are you hoping to find in here?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Jane.

  “Must have a reason you’re looking again after nineteen years.”

  In the silence, Maura felt her face flush and wondered if the full responsibility for this outing was going to fall on her shoulders. Then Jane said, “We have reason to believe it wasn’t a murder
-suicide.”

  “So we’re looking for unexplained footprints? Evidence of an intruder, what?”

  “That would be a start.”

  His stouter colleague sighed. “Okay, we’ll give you soup to nuts. You want it, you got it.”

  “I’ll help you unload the van,” said Tam.

  The men carried in lighting equipment and video gear, electrical cords and chemicals. Although all the lightbulbs in the restaurant had burned out, the power outlets were still live, and when they plugged in the cord to illuminate the dining area, the glare of the lamps was as harsh as sunlight. While one of the criminalists videotaped the room, his partner unpacked boxes of chemicals from a cooler. Only now, in the light, did Maura recognize both men from the rooftop crime scene.

  Slowly, the videographer panned the room with the camera and straightened. “Okay, Ed? You ready to start?”

  “Soon as everyone gets on their gear,” Ed answered. “Masks are in that box over there. We should have enough for everyone.”

  Tam handed Maura a pair of goggles and a respirator, which she pulled over her face to protect against the luminol fumes. Only after everyone was masked did Ed—at least she now knew the tall man’s name—begin mixing chemicals. He swirled the solution in a jar, then decanted it into a spray bottle. “Someone want to be in charge of the lights?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Frost.

  “It’s gonna be really dark in here, so stay by the lamp or you’ll be fumbling for the switch.” Ed glanced around the room. “Where do you folks want to start?”

  “This section,” said Jane, pointing to the area near the cash register.

  Ed moved into position, then glanced at Frost. “Lights.”

  The room went black, and the darkness seemed to magnify the sound of Maura’s breathing in the respirator. Only faintly did she hear the hiss of the spray bottle as Ed released a mist of luminol. A geometric pattern of blue-green suddenly glowed on the floor as the luminol reacted with traces of old hemoglobin. Wherever blood drips or splatters or flows, it leaves behind echoes of its presence. Nineteen years ago, blood had seeped into this linoleum, lodging so stubbornly in cracks and crevices that it could not be eradicated, even with the most thorough mopping.

  “Light.”

  Frost flipped the switch and they all stood blinking in the glare. The blue-green glow had vanished; in its place was the same patch of floor they had seen earlier.

  Tam looked up from his laptop, on which he’d loaded the Red Phoenix crime scene photos. “Corresponds with what I see here,” he said. “No surprises. That’s right where Joey Gilmore’s body was found.”

  They moved the camera and tripod to the nook behind the counter, and everyone took their positions. Again the lights went out; again they heard the hiss of the spray bottle and more of the floor began to luminesce in checkerboard lines. Here was where James Fang died. The wall lit up as well, glowing spatters where traces of the waiter’s blood had splashed, like the fading echoes of a scream.

  In this building, there were still more screams to be heard.

  They moved on to the corner where the Mallorys had perished. Two bodies meant twice as many splatters, and here were the loudest shrieks of all, a horror show of splashes and smears that flared in the darkness and slowly faded.

  Frost turned on the lights and they all stood silent for a moment as they stared down at the tired patch of floor that had glowed so brightly only a moment earlier. Nothing had surprised them so far, but what they’d seen was nonetheless unsettling.

  “Let’s move on to the kitchen,” said Jane.

  They stepped through the doorway. It seemed colder in the next room, so cold that a chill rippled across Maura’s skin. She looked around at a refrigerator, an ancient ventilation hood and stove. The floor was concrete in here, designed for easy swabbing in an area where grease and sauces would splatter. And blood, too. She stood shivering by the cellar door while the team transferred their equipment from the next room, bringing in their cameras and chemicals. With the room now brightly lit, Ed and his partner frowned at their surroundings.

  “Got some rusty-looking kitchen equipment over there,” said Ed. “That’s going to react with the luminol and light up.”

  “It’s the floor we need to focus on,” said Maura. “Right here is where the cook was found.”

  “So we’ll find more blood. Big surprise,” said Ed, his note of sarcasm unmistakable.

  “Look, if you think this is a waste of time, just give me the bottle and I’ll do it,” Maura snapped.

  In the sudden silence, the two criminalists looked at each other. Ed said, “Do you want to tell us what you’re looking for, Dr. Isles? So this might actually make sense?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see it. Let’s start with that doorway leading into the dining room.”

  Ed nodded to Frost. “Lights off.”

  The sudden blackness was so complete in the kitchen that Maura felt herself sway, disoriented by the lack of any visual cues, any sense of who or what surrounded her. In this darkness, anyone could be standing beside her and she would not know he was there. The spray bottle hissed, and as glowing streaks of blue-green magically spread on the floor, she felt another chill whisper across her skin, as if a phantom had just brushed past her. Yes, there are indeed ghosts in this room, she thought, the ghosts of spilled blood that still cling to this floor. She heard another hiss of luminol, and more glowing patches materialized.

  “I see footprints here,” said Ed. “Maybe a woman’s size five, six.”

  “Those are in the crime scene photos, too,” Tam said. “The cook’s wife was the first person to enter. She lived in the apartment right upstairs. When she heard the gunshot, she walked in through the alley door and found her husband. Tracked his blood into the dining room, where she found the other victims.”

  “Well, that’s what it looks like here. Shoe impressions move in the direction of the dining room.”

  “The cook was right where I’m standing now,” said Maura. “We should focus here.”

  “Cool your jets, Doc,” the criminalist said, and Maura could hear his irritation. “We’ll get to that spot.”

  “I’ve got this section recorded.”

  “Okay, moving on.”

  Maura heard more spray, and new footprints appeared, a luminous record of the wife’s movements that night. They followed the prints backward, until suddenly a bright pool bloomed. Here was where Wu Weimin’s blood had collected, spilling from the wound on his temple. Maura had read the autopsy report, had seen the close-up photo of what was just a small punch through skin and skull, belying the devastation to the brain. Yet for a few moments, his heart had continued pumping, and blood had poured out to form a congealing halo. Here was where his wife had crouched beside him, leaving her shoe print. His body would still have been warm.

  “Lights.”

  Maura blinked at the floor where she now saw only bare concrete. But as Ed refilled the bottle with luminol, she could still see that pool, and the evidence of the wife’s presence.

  “We’ll finish up over there,” said Ed, pointing toward the kitchen exit leading to the alley. “Did the wife leave the same way she came in?”

  “No,” said Tam. “According to Ingersoll’s report, she ran out the front exit, down Knapp Street. Headed toward Beach Street to call for help.”

  “So there shouldn’t be any blood at this end.”

  Tam peered at his laptop. “I don’t see any in this crime scene photo.”

  Maura saw Ed glance at his wristwatch, a reminder that it was growing late. What they had captured so far on video was exactly what they’d expected to find. She thought of what these two men would probably say to each other later, comments that would no doubt circulate among the rest of Boston PD. Dr. Isles sent us on a wild goose chase.

  Was this a mistake? she wondered. Have I wasted everyone’s evening, all because I listened to the doubts of a sixteen-year-old boy? But Maura, too, had shared Rat’
s doubts. After he’d returned to school, leaving her alone in a house that seemed sadly silent and empty, she had spent many hours combing through all the reports and photos from the Red Phoenix files. The baffling details that the boy had so quickly spotted became more and more troubling to her as well.

  “Let’s wrap this up and go home,” said Jane, sounding both weary and a little disgusted.

  The lights went out again, and Maura stood with hands clenched, glad that her face was hidden in the darkness. She heard the spray bottle once again deliver its mist of luminol.

  Suddenly Ed blurted: “Hey, are you seeing this?”

  “Lights!” Jane called out, and Frost turned on the lamp.

  In the glare, they all stood silent for a moment, staring at bare concrete.

  “That didn’t show up in any of the crime scene photos,” said Tam.

  Ed was frowning. “Let me replay this video,” he said. As they crowded around the camera, he rewound and hit Play. Glowing in the darkness were three blue-green patches that moved in a line toward the alley exit. Two were smeared and misshapen, but the third was unmistakably a tiny footprint.

  “Maybe they’re not related to the shooting at all,” said Jane. “These stains could be cumulative, over years.”

  “Two bloody incidents in the same kitchen?” said Tam.

  “How do we explain the fact that these footprints aren’t in any of the crime scene photos?”

  “Because someone cleaned them up,” said Maura softly. “Before the police arrived.” Yet the traces remain here, she thought. Invisible to the human eye, but not to luminol.

  The others looked stunned by what had just been revealed. A child had been in this kitchen, a child who had stepped into blood and had tracked it across the floor and out the door, into the alley.

  “The cellar,” said Jane. She crossed to the cellar door and swung it open. As Maura moved beside her, Jane shone her flashlight down the wooden steps. From the blackness below rose the smell of damp stone and mold. The beam of Jane’s flashlight pierced shadows, and Maura glimpsed large barrels and giant tins of cooking oil, surely spoiled after two decades in storage.