And she thought of her own father, who had secrets of his own, whose affair with another woman had fractured his marriage. Even the man she thought she knew, the man with whom she’d shared every Christmas, every birthday, had turned out to be a stranger.
Later that evening, she was forced to confront that same stranger when she and Gabriel pulled up in front of Angela’s house to pick up their daughter. Jane spotted the familiar car parked in the driveway and said: “What’s Dad doing here?”
“This is his house.”
“Used to be his house.” She stepped out and eyed the Chevy, parked in its usual spot, as if it had never left. As if Frank Rizzoli could just step back into his old life and everything would be exactly the way it always was. The Chevy had a new dent in the left front fender; she wondered if Frank’s bimbo had put it there, and whether he’d yelled at her about it, the way he’d once yelled at Angela when she’d scraped the car door. If you hung around any man long enough, even a shiny new lover would start to show his flaws. When had the bimbo noticed that Frank had nose hairs and morning breath like every other man?
“Let’s just pick up Regina and go home,” whispered Gabriel as they climbed the front porch.
“What do you think I’m going to do?”
“Not engage in the usual family drama, I hope.”
“A family without drama,” she said, ringing the bell, “would not be mine.”
Her mother opened the door. At least, she looked like Angela, but this was a flat zombie version who greeted them with a lifeless smile as they walked in. “She’s sound asleep, no trouble at all. Did you two have a nice dinner?”
“Yeah. Why’s Dad here?” asked Jane.
Frank called out: “I’m sitting in my own house, that’s what I’m doing. What kind of question is that?”
Jane walked into the living room and saw her father planted in his old easy chair, the wandering king back to reclaim his throne. His hair was a weird shoe-polish black—when had he dyed it? There were other changes too: the open-necked silk shirt, the fancy wristwatch. They made him seem like some Vegas version of Frank Rizzoli. Had she walked into the wrong house, entered an alternate universe with an android mom and a disco dad?
“I’ll get Regina,” said Gabriel, and he discreetly vanished down the hallway. Coward.
“Your mother and I have finally come to an understanding,” Frank announced.
“Meaning?”
“We’re going to patch things up. Go back to the way things were.”
“Is that with or without Blondie?”
“What the hell’s the matter with you? You trying to ruin things?”
“You did a pretty good job of it on your own.”
“Angela! Tell her.”
Jane turned to her mother, who stood staring at the floor. “Is this what you want, Ma?”
“It’s gonna be okay, Janie,” Angela said quietly. “It’s gonna work.”
“Like that’s the voice of enthusiasm.”
“I love your mom,” said Frank. “We’re a family, we’ve made a home, and we stay together. That’s what matters.”
Jane looked back and forth at her parents. Her father glared back, ruddy and pugnacious. Her mother didn’t meet her gaze. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she should say, but it was late, and Gabriel was already standing by the front door, holding their sleeping daughter.
“Thanks for babysitting, Ma,” Jane said. “I’ll call you.”
They walked out of the house to the car. Just as Gabriel finished buckling Regina into her car seat, the front door opened and Angela came out of the house, carrying Regina’s stuffed giraffe.
“She’ll scream bloody murder if you forget Benny,” she said, handing the giraffe to Jane.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
Angela hugged herself and glanced back at the house, as if waiting for someone else to answer the question.
“Mom?”
Angela sighed. “It’s the way things have to be. Frankie wants it. So does Mike.”
“My brothers don’t get a say in this. You’re the only one who does.”
“He never signed the divorce papers, Jane. We’re still married, and that means something. It means he never really gave up on us.”
“It means he wanted it both ways.”
“He’s your father.”
“Yeah, and I love him. But I love you, too, and you don’t look happy.”
In the shadowy driveway, she saw her mother attempt a brave smile. “We’re a family. I’ll make this work.”
“What about Vince?”
Just the mention of Korsak’s name made her mother’s smile suddenly crumple. She pressed her hands across her mouth and turned away. “Oh God. Oh God …” As she began to sob, Jane took her into her arms. “I miss him,” said Angela. “I miss him every day. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Do you love Vince?”
“Yes!”
“Do you love Dad?”
Angela hesitated. “Of course I do.” But the real answer was in that pause, those silent seconds before she could contradict what her heart already knew. She pulled away from Jane, took a deep breath, and straightened. “Don’t you worry about me. Everything’s going to be fine. Now you go home and get that girl to bed, okay?”
Jane watched her mother walk back into the house. Through the window, she saw Angela settle onto the living room sofa opposite Frank, who was still planted in his armchair. Just like the old days, thought Jane. Mom in her corner. Dad in his.
Thirteen
Maura paused on the driveway and looked up at the sound of a cawing crow. Dozens of them sat perched like ominous fruit in the tree above, their black wings flicking against the gray sky. A murder of crows was the correct term for this gathering, and it seemed appropriate on this cold gray afternoon, with thunderclouds moving in and a grim task awaiting her. Crime scene tape had been strung across the pathway leading to the backyard. She ducked under the strand and as she moved across the freshly disturbed soil, she felt the crows watching her, marking every step as they noisily discussed this new intruder in their kingdom. In the backyard, Detectives Darren Crowe and Johnny Tam stood beside a parked backhoe and a damp mound of dirt. As she approached, Tam waved to her with a purple-gloved hand. He was new to the homicide unit, an intense and humorless young detective who’d recently transferred from the Chinatown beat. To his misfortune, he’d been paired with Crowe, who’d driven his former partner Thomas Moore into a much-deserved retirement. A match made in hell, Jane had dubbed it, and the unit was taking bets on how long it would be before the tightly wound Tam finally snapped and hauled off at Crowe. It would be a disastrous career move for Tam, to be sure, but everyone agreed it would be damn satisfying to watch.
Even here in the heavily wooded backyard, with no TV cameras in sight, Crowe was at his GQ best with his movie-star haircut and a suit well tailored to his broad shoulders. He was a man accustomed to sucking up all the attention in a room, and it would be easy to overlook the far quieter Tam. But Tam was the one Maura focused on because she knew she could count on him to deliver the facts, unfiltered and accurate.
Before Tam could speak, Crowe said with a laugh: “I don’t think the homeowners expected to find that in their new swimming pool.”
Maura looked down at a soil-stained skull and rib cage lying in a partially folded blue plastic tarp. One glance at the skull told her the bones were human.
She donned gloves. “What’s the story here?”
“Supposed to be a new swimming pool. Owners bought the house three years ago, hired Lorenzo Construction to do the excavation. Two feet down, they scooped that up. Backhoe driver opened the tarp, freaked out, and called nine one one. Luckily it doesn’t look like he caused much damage with his equipment.”
Maura saw no clothing, no items of jewelry, but she needed neither to determine the sex of the deceased. Crouching down, she studied the skull’s delicate supraorbital ridges. She peeled back the folded tar
p, exposing a pelvis with widely flaring ilia. One glance at the femur told her the deceased was not tall, perhaps five foot three at the most.
“She’s been here awhile,” said Tam. He had not needed Maura’s help to recognize that the remains were female. “How long, do you think?”
“Fully skeletonized. Spine no longer articulated,” Maura observed. “These ligament attachments have already decayed.”
“Meaning months? Years?” said Crowe.
“Yes.”
Crowe gave a grunt of impatience. “That’s as specific as you’re gonna get?”
“I once saw full skeletonization in a shallow grave after only three months, so I can’t give you a more specific answer. My best estimate for postmortem interval is a minimum of six months. The fact she’s nude and the grave is pretty shallow would accelerate decay, but it was deep enough to protect her from scavenging carnivores.”
As if in response, there was a loud caw overhead. She glanced up to see three crows perched on branches, watching them. She’d seen the damage that corvids could cause to a human body, how those beaks could shred ligaments and pluck eyes from sockets. In unison the birds rose in a flurry of spiky wings.
“Creepy birds. Like little vultures,” said Tam, watching them flap away.
“And incredibly intelligent. If only they could talk to us.” She looked at him. “What’s the history of this property?”
“Belonged to some elderly lady for about forty years. She died fifteen years ago, it ended up in probate, and the house fell into disrepair. There were renters off and on, but it sat vacant for most of the time. Until this couple bought it around three years ago.”
Maura looked around the perimeter. “No fences. And it backs up to woods.”
“Yeah, it abuts Stony Brook Reservation. Easy access to anyone looking for a place to bury a body.”
“And the current owners?”
“Nice young couple. They’ve been slowly fixing up the house, renovated the bathroom and kitchen. This was the year they decided to add an in-ground pool. Before they started digging for the pool, they said this part of the yard was pretty thick with weeds.”
“So this burial probably predates their purchase of the house.”
“What about our girl here?” Crowe cut in. “You see a cause of death?”
“Have a little patience, Detective. I haven’t even finished unwrapping her.” Maura peeled away the last of the blue tarp, exposing tibias and fibulae, metatarsals and … She froze, staring at orange nylon cord, still looped around the anklebones. An image instantly snapped into her head. Another crime scene. Orange nylon cord. A body hanging from its ankles, eviscerated.
Without a word, she moved back to the rib cage. Knelt closer and stared at the xiphoid process, where the ribs came together to join at the breastbone. Even on that overcast day, in the gloom of the woods, she could see the distinct nick in the bone. She pictured the body, suspended upside down by its ankles. Pictured a blade slicing downward through the belly, from pubis to sternum. That nick was right where the blade would land.
Her hands suddenly felt chilled inside the gloves.
“Dr. Isles?” Tam said.
She ignored him and looked at the skull. There on the frontal bone, where the forehead sloped down to the brow, were three parallel scratches.
She rocked back on her knees, stunned. “We need to call Rizzoli.”
Fireworks ahead, thought Jane as she ducked under the bright strand of police tape. This was not her crime scene, not her turf, and she fully expected Darren Crowe to make that clear from the start. She thought of Leon Gott yelling Get off my lawn at the neighbor’s kid. Imagined Crowe thirty years from now, an equally cranky old man, yelling Get off my crime scene!
But it was Johnny Tam who greeted her in the side yard. “Rizzoli,” he said.
“How’s his mood?”
“The usual. All sunshine and brightness.”
“That good, huh?”
“He’s not too happy with Dr. Isles at the moment.”
“I’m not too happy, either.”
“She insisted on bringing you in. And when she talks, I listen.”
Jane eyed Tam, but as usual she couldn’t read his face; she’d never been able to. Though he was new to the homicide unit, he’d already built a reputation as a man who went about his work with quiet and unassuming doggedness. Unlike Crowe, Tam was no glory hound.
“You agree with her that there’s a link between these cases?” she asked.
“I know Dr. Isles isn’t one to rely on hunches. Which is why it kind of surprised me, that she called you about this. Considering the predictable blowback.”
They didn’t need to say the name to know they were both talking about Crowe.
“So how bad is it, working with him?” she asked as they moved down the flagstone path toward the backyard.
“Aside from the fact I’ve already ripped through three punching bags in the gym?”
“Trust me, it won’t get better. Working with him is like Chinese water tor—” She stopped. “You know what I mean.”
Tam laughed. “We Chinese may have invented it, but Crowe perfected it.”
They emerged into the backyard and she saw the object of their scorn standing with Maura. Everything about Crowe’s body language screamed pissed off, from his rigid neck to his agitated gestures.
“Before you turn this into a three-ring circus,” he said to Maura, “how about giving us a more specific time of death?”
“That’s as specific as I can be,” said Maura. “The rest is up to you. That is your job.”
Crowe noticed Jane approaching and said, “I’m sure the all-powerful Rizzoli has the answers.”
“I’m here at Dr. Isles’s request,” said Jane. “I’ll just take a look and get out of your way.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Maura said, quietly, “She’s over here, Jane.”
Jane followed her across the yard, to where a backhoe was parked. The remains were lying on a blue tarp at the edge of a freshly dug pit.
“Adult female,” said Maura. “About five foot three. No arthritic changes in the spine, epiphyses are closed. I estimate her age as somewhere between twenty and mid-thirties …”
“What the hell did you get me into?” Jane muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m already on his shit list.”
“So am I, but it doesn’t stop me from doing my job.” Maura paused. “Assuming I keep my job.” Something that had been in doubt after Maura’s testimony in court had sent a well-liked cop to prison. Maura’s aloofness—some would call it strangeness—had never made her popular among Boston PD’s rank and file, and now cops considered her a traitor to their brotherhood.
“I gotta be honest,” said Jane. “What you told me over the phone didn’t give me much of a tingle.” She looked at the remains, stripped down by decay to nothing more than bones. “To start off with, this is a woman.”
“Her ankles were bound with orange nylon cord. The same cord that was around Gott’s ankles.”
“That type of cord’s common enough. Unlike Gott, this one’s female and someone went to the trouble of burying her.”
“There’s a cut mark at the bottom of her sternum, just like Gott. I think she was quite possibly eviscerated.”
“Possibly?”
“Without any remaining soft tissues and organs, I can’t prove it. But that sternal cut is from a blade. The kind of nick you’d make when you slice open the abdomen. And there’s one more thing.” Maura knelt down to point at the skull. “Look at this.”
“Those three little scratches?”
“Remember Gott’s skull film, where I pointed out the three linear scratches? Like claw marks on the bone.”
“These aren’t linear. They’re just tiny little nicks.”
“They’re spaced precisely apart. They might have been made by the same tool.”
“Or by animals. Or that backhoe.” Jane turned at
the sound of voices. The crime scene unit had arrived, and Crowe was leading a trio of criminalists toward the remains.
“So what do you think, Rizzoli?” said Crowe. “You gonna call dibs on this?”
“I’m not fighting you for turf. I’m just checking out some similarities.”
“Your vic was, what? A sixty-four-year-old guy?”
“Yeah.”
“And this is a young female. Does that sound similar to you?”
“No,” Jane admitted, feeling Maura’s gaze on her.
“Your male victim—what did you find on autopsy? The cause of death?”
“There was a skull fracture, as well as crush injuries of the thyroid cartilage,” said Maura.
“There’s no obvious fractures on my gal’s skull,” said Crowe. My gal. As if she belonged to him, this nameless victim. As if he’d already claimed ownership.
“This woman was small and easier to control than a man,” Maura said. “There’d be no need to stun her first with a blow to the head.”
“But it is another difference,” said Crowe. “Another detail that doesn’t line up with the other case.”
“Detective Crowe, I’m looking at the gestalt of these two cases. The overall picture.”
“Which only you seem to be seeing. One vic is an older male, the other a younger female. One has a skull fracture, the other doesn’t. One was killed and displayed in his own garage, the other was buried in a backyard.”
“Both were nude, their ankles bound with cord, and they were very likely eviscerated. The way a hunter—”
“Maura,” cut in Jane. “How ’bout we walk the property?”
“I’ve already walked it.”
“Well, I haven’t. Come on.”
Reluctantly, Maura followed her away from the pit and they moved to the edge of the yard. There were overhanging trees here, which deepened the gloom of an already depressingly gray afternoon.
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