Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  Jane looked at the images of the three victims and considered the gruesome options. To be gutted, salted, and wrapped in bandages like Lorraine Edgerton? To be beheaded, your face and scalp peeled from your skull, your features shrunken to the size of a doll’s? Or to be steeped in the black water of a bog, your death agonies preserved for all time in the leathery mask of your face?

  Or did the killer have a special plan reserved for Josephine, some new technique that they hadn’t yet encountered?

  The conference room had fallen quiet, and as Jane looked around the table at the team of detectives, she saw grim expressions, everyone silently acknowledging the unsettling truth: that this victim’s time was quickly running out. Where Barry Frost usually sat, there was only an empty chair. Without him, the team felt incomplete, and she couldn’t help glancing at the door, hoping that he’d suddenly walk in and take his usual seat at the table.

  “Finding her may come down to one thing: how deeply we can get into the mind of her abductor,” said Zucker. “We need more information on Bradley Rose.”

  Jane nodded. “We’re tracking it down. Trying to find out where he’s worked, where he’s lived, who his friends are. Hell, if he has a pimple on his butt, we’d like to know about it.”

  “His parents would be the best source of information.”

  “We’ve had no luck with them. The mother’s too sick to talk to us. And as for the father, he’s been stonewalling.”

  “Even with a woman’s life in danger? He won’t cooperate?”

  “Kimball Rose isn’t your ordinary guy. To start off with, he’s as rich as Midas and he’s protected by an army of lawyers. The rules don’t apply to him. Or to his creep of a son.”

  “He needs to be pressed harder.”

  “Crowe and Tripp just got back from Texas,” said Jane. “I sent them out there thinking that a little macho intimidation might work.” She glanced at Crowe, who had the bulky shoulders of the college linebacker he’d once been. If anyone could pull off a macho act, it would have been Crowe.

  “We couldn’t even get close to him,” said Crowe. “We were stopped at the gate by some asshole attorney and five security guards. Never even got in the door. The Roses have circled the wagons around their son, and we’re not going to get a thing out of them.”

  “Well, what do we know about Bradley’s whereabouts?”

  Tripp said, “He’s managed to stay under the radar for quite some time. We can’t locate any recent credit card charges, and nothing’s been deposited in his Social Security account for years, so he hasn’t been employed. At least, not a legitimate job.”

  “In how long?” asked Zucker.

  “Thirteen years. Not that he needs to work when he’s got Daddy Warbucks as a father.”

  Zucker thought about this for a moment. “How do you know the man’s even alive?”

  “Because his parents told me they get letters and e-mails from him,” Jane said. “According to the father, Bradley’s been living abroad. Which may explain why we’re having so much trouble tracking his movements.”

  Zucker frowned. “Would any father go this far? Protecting and financially supporting a dangerously sociopathic son?”

  “I think he’s protecting himself, Dr. Zucker. His own name, his own reputation. He doesn’t want the world to know his son is a monster.”

  “I still find it hard to believe that any parent would go to such lengths for a child.”

  “You never know,” said Tripp. “Maybe he actually loves the creep.”

  “I think Kimball is protecting his wife as well,” said Jane. “He told me she has leukemia, and she did look seriously ill. She doesn’t seem to think her son is anything but a sweet little boy.”

  Zucker shook his head in disbelief. “This is a deeply pathological family.”

  I don’t have a fancy psychology degree, but I could’ve told you that.

  “The cash flow may be the key here,” said Zucker. “How is Kimball getting money to his son?”

  “Tracking that presents a problem,” said Tripp. “The family has multiple accounts, some of them offshore. And he has all those lawyers protecting him. Even with a friendly judge on our side, it will take us time to sort through it.”

  “We’re focused only on New England,” said Jane. “Whether there’ve been financial transactions in the Boston area.”

  “And friends? Contacts?”

  “We know that twenty-five years ago, Bradley worked at the Crispin Museum. Mrs. Willebrandt, one of the docents, recalls that he chose to spend most of his time working after hours, when the museum was closed. So no one remembers much about him. He left no impressions, made no lasting friends. He was like a ghost.” And he’s still a ghost, she thought. A killer who slips into locked buildings, whose face eludes security cameras. Who stalks his victims without ever being noticed.

  “There is one rich source of information,” said Zucker. “It would give us the most in-depth psychological profile you could hope for. If the Hilzbrich Institute will release his records.”

  Crowe gave a disgusted laugh. “Oh yeah. That school for perverts.”

  “I’ve called the former director three times,” said Jane. “Dr. Hilzbrich refuses to release the records because of patient confidentiality.”

  “There’s a woman’s life at stake. He can’t refuse.”

  “But he has refused. I’m driving up to Maine tomorrow to put the squeeze on. And see if I can get something else out of him.”

  “That would be?”

  “Jimmy Otto’s file. He was a student there, too. Since Jimmy’s dead, maybe the doctor will hand over that record.”

  “How will that help us?”

  “It seems pretty clear to us now that Jimmy and Bradley were longtime hunting partners. They were both in the Chaco Canyon area. They were both in Palo Alto at the same time. And they seemed to share a fixation with the same woman, Medea Sommer.”

  “Whose daughter is now missing.”

  Jane nodded. “Maybe that’s why Bradley chose her. For revenge. Because her mother killed Jimmy.”

  Zucker leaned back in his chair, his face troubled. “You know, that particular detail really bothers me.”

  “Which detail?”

  “The coincidence, Detective Rizzoli. Don’t you find it remarkable? Twelve years ago, Medea Sommer shot and killed Jimmy Otto in San Diego. Then Medea’s daughter, Josephine, ends up working at the Crispin Museum—the same place where Bradley Rose once worked. The same place where the bodies of two of his victims were stashed. How did that happen?”

  “It’s bothered me, too,” Jane admitted.

  “Do you know how Josephine got that job?”

  “I asked her that question. She said the position was advertised on an employment website for Egyptologists. She applied, and a few weeks later, she received a call offering her the job. She admits that she was surprised that he chose her.”

  “Who made that call?”

  “Simon Crispin.”

  Zucker’s eyebrow lifted at that detail. “Who now happens to be dead,” he said softly.

  There was a knock on the door, and a detective stuck his head into the conference room. “Rizzoli, we’ve got a situation. You’d better come out and deal with it.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A certain Texas tycoon just blew into town.”

  Jane swiveled around in surprise. “Kimball Rose is here?”

  “He’s in Marquette’s office. You need to get over there.”

  “Maybe he decided to cooperate after all.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s out for your head, and he’s letting everyone know it.”

  “Oh, man,” muttered Tripp. “Better you than me.”

  “Rizzoli, you want us to come?” said Crowe, conspicuously cracking his knuckles. “Little psychological backup?”

  “No.” Tight-lipped, she gathered up her files and stood. “I’ll deal with him.” He may want my head. But I’m damn well going
to have his son’s.

  She walked through the homicide unit and knocked on Lieutenant Marquette’s door. Stepping inside, she found Marquette at his desk, his face unreadable. The same could not be said for his visitor, who stared at Jane with unmistakable contempt. By merely performing her job, she had dared to defy him, and in the eyes of a man as powerful as Kimball Rose, that was clearly an unforgivable offense.

  “I believe you two have met,” said Marquette.

  “We have,” said Jane. “I’m surprised Mr. Rose is here. Since he’s refused to take any of my phone calls.”

  “You have no right,” said Kimball. “Telling lies about my boy when he isn’t here to defend himself.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” said Jane. “I’m not sure what you mean by telling lies.”

  “Do you think I’m an imbecile? I didn’t get where I am by just being lucky. I ask questions. I got my sources. I know what your investigation’s all about. This nutty case you’re trying to build against Bradley.”

  “I admit, the case is certainly bizarre. But let’s be clear about one thing: I don’t make a case. I follow the evidence where it leads me. At the moment, it’s pointing straight at your son.”

  “Oh, I’ve learned all about you, Detective Rizzoli. You have a history of making snap judgments. Like shooting to death an unarmed man on that rooftop a few years ago.”

  At the mention of that painful incident, Jane stiffened. Kimball saw it and drove the knife deeper.

  “Did you give that man a chance to defend himself? Or did you play judge and jury and just pull the trigger, the way you’re doing to Bradley?”

  Marquette said, “Mr. Rose, that shooting isn’t relevant to this situation.”

  “Isn’t it? It’s all about this woman, who’s some kind of loose cannon. My son is innocent. He had nothing to do with this kidnapping.”

  “How can you be so certain of that?” asked Marquette. “You can’t even tell us where your son is.”

  “Bradley’s not capable of violence. If anything, violence is more likely to be done against him. I know my boy.”

  “Do you?” asked Jane. She opened the file she’d brought into the room and pulled out a photo, which she slapped down in front of him. He stared at the grotesque image of the tsantsa, its eyelids stitched shut, its lips pierced by braided threads.

  “You do know what this thing is called, don’t you, Mr. Rose?” she asked.

  He said nothing. Through the closed door they could hear phones ringing and detectives’ voices in the homicide unit, but in Marquette’s office, the silence stretched on.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen one of these before,” said Jane. “A well-traveled archaeology buff like you has certainly been to South America.”

  “It’s a tsantsa,” he finally said.

  “Very good. Your son would know that, too, wouldn’t he? Since I assume he’s traveled all over the world with you.”

  “And that’s all you got against him? That my son is an archaeologist?” He snorted. “You’ll have to do better than that in a courtroom.”

  “What about the woman he stalked? Medea Sommer filed a complaint against him in Indio.”

  “So what? She dropped those charges.”

  “And tell us about that private treatment program he attended in Maine. The Hilzbrich Institute. I understand they specialize in a certain class of troubled young men.”

  He stared at her. “How the hell did you—”

  “I’m not an imbecile, either. I ask questions, too. I hear the institute was very exclusive, very specialized. Very discreet. I guess it had to be, considering the clientele. So tell me, did the program work for Bradley? Or did it just introduce him to some equally perverted friends?”

  He looked at Marquette. “I want her off this case or you’re gonna hear from my lawyers.”

  “Friends like Jimmy Otto,” continued Jane. “You do remember the name Jimmy Otto?”

  Kimball ignored her and kept his attention on Marquette. “Do I have to go to your police commissioner? ’Cause I’ll do that. I’ll do whatever it takes, bring in everyone I know. Lieutenant?”

  Marquette was silent for a moment. A long moment during which Jane came to appreciate just how overwhelming Kimball Rose could be—not just his physical presence, but his unstated power. She understood the pressure Marquette was under, and she braced herself for the outcome.

  But Marquette did not disappoint her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” he said. “Detective Rizzoli is the lead investigator and she calls the shots.”

  Kimball glared at him, as though unable to believe that two mere public servants would defy him. Flushing dangerously red, he turned to Jane. “Because of your investigation, my wife is in the hospital. Three days after you came asking about Bradley, she collapsed. I had her flown here yesterday, to Dana-Farber hospital. She may not survive this, and I blame you. I will be watching you, Detective. You won’t be able to turn over a single rock without my knowing about it.”

  “That’s probably where I’ll find Bradley,” said Jane. “Under a rock.”

  He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  “That,” said Marquette, “was not a smart thing to say.”

  She sighed and picked up the photo from his desk. “I know,” she admitted.

  “How certain are you that Bradley Rose is our man?”

  “Ninety-nine percent.”

  “You’d better be ninety-nine point nine percent certain. Because you just saw who we’re dealing with. Now his wife’s in the hospital and he’s gone ballistic. He has the money—and the connections—to permanently make our lives miserable.”

  “Then let him make our lives miserable. It doesn’t change the fact that his son is guilty.”

  “We can’t afford any more screwups, Rizzoli. Your team’s already made one huge mistake, and that young woman paid for it.”

  If he’d intended to wound her, he couldn’t have done a better job. She felt her stomach clench as she stood gripping the file, as though that bundle of papers could salve her guilty conscience about Josephine’s abduction.

  “But you know that,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. I know that,” she said. And that mistake will haunt me until the day I die.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The house where Nicholas Robinson lived was in Chelsea, not far from the blue-collar Revere neighborhood, where Jane had grown up. Like Jane’s childhood home, Robinson’s was a modest house with a covered front porch and a tiny patch of a yard. In the front garden grew the biggest tomato plants that Jane had ever seen, but the recent heavy rains had cracked the fruit, and a number of overripe globes hung rotting on the vines. The neglected plants should have warned her about Robinson’s state of mind. When he opened the door, she was startled by how drained and haggard he looked, his hair uncombed, his shirt wrinkled as though he’d been sleeping in it for days.

  “Is there any news?” he asked, anxiously searching her face.

  “I’m sorry, but there isn’t. May I come in, Dr. Robinson?”

  He gave a weary nod. “Of course.”

  In her parents’ Revere home, the TV was the centerpiece of the living room, and the coffee table was littered with various remotes that had cloned themselves over the years. But in Robinson’s living room she saw no television at all, no entertainment center, and not a remote device in sight. Instead there were shelves filled with books and figurines and bits of pottery, and on the wall hung framed maps of the ancient world. It was every inch an impoverished academic’s house, but there was an orderliness to the clutter, as though every knickknack was precisely where it should be.

  He glanced around the room as though uncertain what to do next, then helplessly waved his hands. “I’m sorry. I should offer you something to drink, shouldn’t I? I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Why don’t we just sit down and talk?”

  They sank onto comfortable but well-worn chairs. Outside a motorcycle roar
ed past, but inside the house, with its shell-shocked owner, there was silence. He said softly: “I don’t know what I should do.”

  “I’ve heard the museum may be closed permanently.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the museum. I meant Josephine. I’d do anything to help you find her, but what can I do?” He gestured to his books, his maps. “This is what I’m good at. Collecting and cataloging! Interpreting useless details from the past. What purpose does it serve her, I ask you? It doesn’t help Josephine.” He looked down in defeat. “It didn’t save Simon.”

  “Maybe you can help us.”

  He looked at her with exhaustion-hollowed eyes. “Ask me. Tell me what you need.”

  “I’ll start with this question. What was your relationship with Josephine?”

  He frowned. “Relationship?”

  “She was more than a colleague, I think.” A lot more, judging by what she saw in his face.

  He shook his head. “Look at me, Detective. I’m fourteen years older than she is. I’m hopelessly myopic, I barely make a living, and I’m starting to go bald. Why would someone like her want someone like me?”

  “So she wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship.”

  “I can’t imagine she would be.”

  “You mean you don’t actually know? You never asked?”

  He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t have the nerve to actually get the words out. And I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. It might have ruined what we did have.”

  “What was that?”

  He smiled. “She’s like me—she’s so much like me. Hand us an old bone fragment or a rusted blade, and we can both feel the heat of history in it. That’s what we had in common, a passion for what came before us. That would have been enough, just being able to share that much.” His head drooped and he admitted: “I was afraid to ask for more than that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of how beautiful she is,” he said, his words soft as a prayer.

  “Was that one of the reasons you hired her?”

  She could see that her question instantly offended him. His face tightened and he straightened. “I would never hire on the basis of physical appearance. My only standards are competence and experience.”