Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “No,” said Josephine. “I never saw those keys again.”

  Frost asked, “When you’re at work, where do you keep your purse?”

  “In my desk.” Josephine visibly relaxed, as though this was a question she had no problem answering.

  “Is your office locked?” He leaned forward, as though afraid to miss a single word she said.

  “No. I’m in and out of my office all day, so I don’t bother to lock it.”

  “I assume the museum has security tapes? Some record of who might have gone into your office?”

  “Theoretically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Our security camera system went on the blink three weeks ago and it hasn’t been repaired yet.” She shrugged. “It’s a budget issue. Money’s always short, and we thought that just having the cameras in public view would be enough to deter any thieves.”

  “So any visitor to the museum could have wandered upstairs to your office and taken the keys.”

  “And after all the publicity about Madam X, we’ve had droves of visitors. The public’s finally discovered the Crispin Museum.”

  Jane said, “Why would a thief take just your key ring and leave your purse? Was anything else missing from your office?”

  “No. At least, I haven’t noticed. That’s why I didn’t worry about it. I just assumed I’d dropped the keys somewhere. I never imagined someone would use them to get into my car. To put that…thing in my trunk.”

  “Your apartment building doesn’t have a parking lot,” observed Frost.

  Josephine shook her head. “It’s every man for himself. I park on the street like all the other tenants. That’s why I don’t keep anything valuable in my car, because they’re always getting broken into. But it’s usually to take things.” She gave a shudder. “Not put things in.”

  “How is security in this building?” asked Frost.

  “We’ll get to that issue in a minute,” said Jane.

  “Someone has her key ring. I think that’s the most pressing concern, the fact that he has access to her car and to her apartment. The fact that he seems to be focused on her.” He turned to the young woman. “Do you have any idea why?”

  Josephine’s gaze skittered away. “No, I don’t.”

  “Could it be someone you know? Someone you’ve recently met?”

  “I’ve only been in Boston for five months.”

  “Where were you before that?” Jane asked.

  “Job hunting in California. I moved to Boston after the museum hired me.”

  “Any enemies, Dr. Pulcillo? Any ex-boyfriends you don’t get along with?”

  “No.”

  “Any archaeologist friends who’d know how to turn a woman into a mummy? Or a shrunken head?”

  “That knowledge is available to a lot of people. You don’t have to be an archaeologist.”

  “But your friends are archaeologists.”

  Josephine shrugged. “I don’t have all that many friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “As I told you, I’m new to Boston. I only got here in March.”

  “So you can’t think of anyone who might have stalked you? Stolen your keys? Anyone who might try to terrify you by putting a body in your trunk?”

  For the first time, Josephine’s composure slipped, revealing the frightened soul beneath the mask. She whispered: “No, I don’t! I don’t know who’s doing this. Or why he chose me.”

  Jane studied the young woman, begrudgingly admiring the flawless skin, the coal-dark eyes. What would it be like to be so beautiful? To walk into a room and feel every man’s gaze on you? Including gazes that you don’t welcome?

  “You understand, I hope, that you’re going to have to be a lot more careful from now on,” said Frost.

  Josephine swallowed. “I know.”

  “Is there somewhere else you can stay? Some place you’d like us to take you?” he asked.

  “I think…I think I may leave town for a while.” Josephine straightened, as though heartened by having a plan of action. “My aunt lives in Vermont. I’ll stay with her.”

  “Where in Vermont? We need to be able to check on you.”

  “Burlington. Her name is Connie Pulcillo. But you can always reach me on my cell phone.”

  “Good,” said Frost. “And I assume you won’t do anything as foolhardy as hiking all alone again.”

  Josephine managed a weak smile. “I won’t be doing that anytime soon.”

  “You know, that’s something I wanted to ask you about,” said Jane. “That little hike you took today.”

  Josephine’s smile faded, as though she realized that Jane could not be so easily charmed. “It wasn’t a wise thing to do, I know,” she admitted.

  “A rainy day. Muddy trails. Why on earth would you want to be there?”

  “I wasn’t the only one in the park. That family was there, too.”

  “They’re out-of-towners and their dog needed a walk.”

  “So did I.”

  “Judging by your muddy boots, you did more than take just a stroll.”

  “Rizzoli,” said Frost, “what are you getting at?”

  Jane ignored him and kept her focus on Josephine. “Is there something else you want to tell us, Dr. Pulcillo, about why you were up at Blue Hills Reservation? On a Thursday morning, when I assume you’re supposed to be at work?”

  “I’m not due at work until one.”

  “The rain didn’t discourage you?”

  Josephine’s face took on the expression of a hunted animal. She’s scared of me, thought Jane. What am I not getting about this picture?

  “It’s been a really hard week,” said Josephine. “I needed to get outside, just to think. I’d heard the park was a pretty place to walk, so I went.” She straightened, her voice now stronger. More assured. “That’s all it was, Detective. A walk. Is there something illegal about that?”

  The two women locked eyes for a moment. A moment that confused Jane because she did not understand what was really going on.

  “No, there’s nothing illegal about it,” said Frost. “And I think we’ve pressed you hard enough today.”

  Jane saw the young woman abruptly look away. And she thought: We haven’t pressed hard enough.

  TWELVE

  “Who appointed you the Good Cop?” said Jane as she and Frost slid into her Subaru.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were so busy making goo-goo eyes at Pulcillo, you forced me to play the Bad Cop.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” Jane snorted. “Are you a detective or a butler?”

  “What’s your problem? The poor girl just got the crap scared out of her. Her keys were stolen, a body’s in her trunk, and we’ve impounded her car. Doesn’t that sound like someone who needs a little sympathy? You were treating her like a suspect.”

  “Sympathy? Is that all you were giving her in there? I was waiting for you to ask her out on a date.”

  In all the time they’d worked together, Jane had never seen Frost truly angry at her. So to witness the fury that suddenly flared up in his eyes was more than unsettling; it was almost scary. “Fuck you, Rizzoli.”

  “Hey.”

  “You’ve got some real issues, you know that? What is it about her that ticks you off? The fact that she’s pretty?”

  “Something about her doesn’t add up. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “She’s scared. Her life’s just been turned upside down. That’s got to freak a person out.”

  “And you want to swoop right in and rescue her.”

  “I’m trying to be a decent human being.”

  “Tell me you’d be acting this way if she looked like a dog.”

  “Her looks have nothing to do with this. Why do you keep suggesting I’ve got other motives?”

  Jane sighed. “Look, I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble, okay? I’m Mama Bear, doing her duty
and keeping you safe.” She thrust the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. “So when’s Alice coming home? Hasn’t she been visiting her parents long enough?”

  He shot her a suspicious look. “Why are you asking about Alice?”

  “She’s been gone for weeks. Isn’t it about time she came home?”

  That elicited a snort. “Jane Rizzoli, marriage counselor. I kind of resent it, you know.”

  “What?”

  “That you think I’d ever go off the rails.”

  Jane pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. “I just thought I should say something. I’m all for heading off trouble.”

  “Yeah, that strategy worked really well on your dad. Is he talking to you these days, or did you piss him off for good?”

  At the mention of her father, her grip on the steering wheel tightened to a stranglehold. After thirty-one years of apparent marital bliss, Frank Rizzoli had suddenly developed a hankering for cheap blondes. Seven months ago, he had walked out on Jane’s mother.

  “I only told him what I thought about his bimbo.”

  Frost laughed. “Yeah. Then you tried to beat her up.”

  “I did not beat her up. We had words.”

  “You tried to arrest her.”

  “I should have arrested him for acting like a middle-aged moron. It’s so frigging embarrassing.” She stared grimly at the road. “Now my mom’s doing a pretty good job embarrassing me, too.”

  “Because she’s dating?” Frost shook his head. “You see? You’re so damn judgmental, you’re gonna piss her off as well.”

  “She’s acting like a teenager.”

  “Your dad dumped her and now she’s dating, so what? Korsak’s a good guy, so let her have some fun.”

  “We weren’t talking about my parents. We were talking about Josephine.”

  “You were talking about Josephine.”

  “There’s something about her that bothers me. Do you notice how she hardly looks us in the eye? I think she couldn’t wait to get us out of her apartment.”

  “She answered all our questions. What more did you expect?”

  “She didn’t give us everything. She’s holding something back.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Jane stared ahead at the road. “But it wouldn’t hurt to find out a little more about Dr. Pulcillo.”

  From her window above the street, Josephine watched the two detectives climb into the car and drive away. Only then did she open her purse and pull out her ankh key ring, the one she’d found hanging on the apple tree. She’d said nothing to the police about the return of these keys. If she’d mentioned it, then she would also have had to tell them about the note directing her there, the note addressed to Josephine Sommer. And Sommer was a name they must never know about.

  She gathered together the notes and envelopes addressed to Josephine Sommer and ripped them up, wishing that at the same time she could rip away the part of her life she’d been trying all these years to forget. Somehow it had caught up with her, and no matter how hard she tried to outrun it, it would always be part of who she was. She brought the shredded bits of paper into the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

  She had to leave Boston.

  Now was the logical time to get out of town. The police knew she was frightened by what had happened today, so her departure would rouse no suspicions. Perhaps later, they might ask questions, search records, but for now they had no reason to examine her past. They would assume she was who she said she was: Josephine Pulcillo, who lived quietly and modestly, who’d worked her way through college and grad school while waitressing at the Blue Star cocktail lounge. All of that was true. All of that would check out fine. As long as they didn’t dig deeper or earlier, as long as she gave them no reason to, she would never trip any alarms. She could slip away from Boston with no one the wiser.

  But I don’t want to leave Boston.

  She stared out the window at a neighborhood she’d grown attached to. Rain clouds had given way to splashes of sunshine, and the sidewalks sparkled, fresh and clean. When she’d arrived to take the job, it had been March and she’d been a stranger to these streets. She’d trudged through the icy wind, thinking that she wouldn’t last long here, believing that, like her mother, she was a warm-weather creature, bred for desert heat, not a New England winter. But one April day after the snow had melted, she’d walked through the Boston Common, past budding trees and the golden blush of daffodils, and she’d suddenly realized she belonged here. That in this city where every brick and stone seemed to resonate with the echoes of history, she felt at home. She’d walked the cobblestones of Beacon Hill and could almost hear the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels. She’d stood on the pier at Long Wharf and imagined the call of the fishmongers, the laughter of seamen. Like her mother, she had always been more interested in the past than in the present, and in this city, history still breathed.

  Now I’ll have to leave it. And leave behind this name, as well.

  The apartment buzzer startled her. She crossed to the intercom, pausing to calm her voice before she pressed the speaker button. “Yes?”

  “Josie, it’s Nicholas. Can I come up?”

  She could think of no way to gracefully decline his visit, so she buzzed him in. A moment later he was at her door, his hair sparkling with rain, his gray eyes pinched with worry behind drizzle-fogged glasses.

  “Are you all right? We heard what happened.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “We were waiting for you to come into work. Then Detective Crowe told us there’d been some trouble. That someone broke into your car.”

  “It’s a lot worse than that,” she said, and sank down wearily on the couch. He stood watching her, and for the first time his gaze made her uneasy; he was studying her far too closely. Suddenly she felt as exposed as Madam X, her protective wrappings stripped away to reveal the ugly reality underneath.

  “Someone had my keys, Nick.”

  “The ones you misplaced?”

  “They weren’t misplaced. They were stolen.”

  “You mean—on purpose?”

  “Theft usually is.” She saw his perplexed expression and thought: Poor Nick. You’ve been trapped too long with your musty antiquities. You have no idea how ugly the real world is. “It probably happened while I was at work.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “The museum keys weren’t on the ring, so you don’t have to worry about the building. The collection’s safe.”

  “I’m not worried about the collection. I’m worried about you.” He took in a deep breath, like a swimmer about to plunge deep underwater. “If you don’t feel safe here, Josephine, you could always…” Suddenly he straightened and boldly announced: “I have a spare bedroom in my house. You’re absolutely welcome to stay with me.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. But I’m going to leave town for a while, so I won’t be coming in to work for a few weeks. I’m sorry to leave you in the lurch, especially now.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “It seems like a good time to visit my aunt. I haven’t seen her in a year.” She went to the window, where she looked out at a view that she would miss. “Thank you for everything, Nicholas,” she said. Thank you for being the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in years.

  “What’s really going on?” he asked. He came up behind her, close enough to touch her, yet he didn’t. He merely stood there, a quiet presence patiently hovering nearby, as he always did. “You can trust me, you know. No matter what.”

  Suddenly she wanted to tell him the truth, tell him everything about her past. But she did not want to witness his reaction. He had believed in the bland fiction known as Josephine Pulcillo. He had always been kind to her, and the best way for her to repay that kindness was to maintain the illusion and not disappoint him.

  “Josephine? What happened today?” he asked.

  “You’ll probably see it on the news tonight,
” she said. “Someone used my keys to get into my car. To leave something in my trunk.”

  “What did they leave?”

  She turned and faced him. “Another Madam X.”

  THIRTEEN

  Josephine awakened to the glare of the late-afternoon sun in her eyes. Squinting through the window of the Greyhound bus, she saw rolling green fields cloaked in the golden haze of sunset. Last night she had scarcely slept, and only after boarding the bus that morning had she finally nodded off from sheer exhaustion. Now she had no idea where she was, but judging by the time they must be close to the Massachusetts–New York State border. Had she been driving her own car, the entire journey would take only six hours. By bus, with transfers in Albany and Syracuse and Binghamton, the journey would take all day.

  When they finally pulled into her last transfer stop in Binghamton, it was dark. Once again she dragged herself off the bus and made her way to a pay phone. Cell phone calls could be traced, and she’d left hers turned off since leaving Boston. Instead she reached into her pocket for quarters and deposited coins into the hungry phone. The same answering machine message greeted her, delivered in a brisk female voice.

  “I’m probably out digging. Leave a number and I’ll call you back.”

  Josephine hung up without saying a word. Then she hauled her two suitcases to the next bus and joined the short line of passengers waiting to board. No one spoke; they all seemed as drained as she was, and resigned to the next stage of their journey.

  At eleven PM, the bus pulled into the village of Waverly.

  She was the only passenger to step off, and she found herself standing alone in front of a dark mini-mart. Even a village this small had to have a taxi service. She headed toward a phone booth and was about to deposit quarters when she saw the OUT OF SERVICE note taped across the coin slot. It was the final blow at the end of an exhausting day. Staring at that useless pay phone, she suddenly laughed: a raw, desperate sound that echoed across the empty parking lot. If she couldn’t get a cab, she faced a five-mile hike in the dark, hauling two suitcases.