Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles 03 - The Sinner

by Tess Gerritsen

Rizzoli shrugged. "At least a month."

  Maura leaned back in her chair. Now that Rizzoli had her emotions under control, Maura could retreat into her role of clinician. The cool-headed doctor, ready with practical advice. "You have plenty of time to decide."

  Rizzoli gave a snort and wiped her hand across her face. "There's nothing to decide."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I can't have it. You know I can't."

  "Why not?"

  Rizzoli gave her a look reserved for imbeciles. "What would I do with a baby?"

  "What everyone else does."

  "Can you see me being a mother?" Rizzoli laughed. "I'd be lousy at it. The kid wouldn't survive a month in my care."

  "Children are amazingly resilient."

  "Yeah, well, I'm no good with them."

  "You were very good with that little girl Noni."

  "Right."

  "You were, Jane. And she responded to you. She ignored me, and she shrinks from her own mother. But you two were like instant pals."

  "It doesn't mean I'm the mommy type. Babies freak me out. I don't know what to do with 'em, except to hand 'em over to someone else, quick." She released a sharp breath, as though that was that. Issue settled. "I can't do it. I just can't." She rose from the chair and crossed to the door.

  "Have you told Agent Dean?"

  Rizzoli halted, her hand on the knob.

  "Jane?"

  "No, I haven't told him."

  "Why not?"

  "It's kind of hard to have a conversation when we hardly see each other."

  "Washington's not the other end of the earth. It's even in the same time zone. You could try picking up the phone. He'd want to know."

  "Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's just one of those complications he'd rather not hear about."

  Maura sighed. "Okay, I admit it, I don't know him very well. But in the short time we all worked together, he struck me as someone who takes his responsibilities seriously."

  "Responsibilities?" Rizzoli finally turned and looked at her. "Oh, right. That's what I am. That's what this baby is. And he's just enough of a Boy Scout to do his duty."

  "I didn't mean it that way."

  "But you're absolutely right. Gabriel would do his duty. Well, to hell with that. I don't want to be some man's problem, some man's responsibility. Besides, it's not his decision. It's mine. I'm the one who'd have to raise it."

  "You haven't even given him a chance."

  "A chance to what? Get down on his knee and propose to me?" Rizzoli laughed.

  "Why is that so far-fetched? I've seen you two together. I've seen how he looks at you. There's more going on than just a one-night stand."

  "Yeah. It was a two-week stand."

  "That's all it was to you?"

  "What else could we manage? He's in Washington and I'm here." She shook her head in amazement. "Jesus, I can't believe I got caught. This is only supposed to happen to dumb chicks." She stopped. Laughed. "Right. So what does that make me?"

  "Definitely not dumb."

  "Unlucky. And too goddamn fertile."

  "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

  "Last week. He called me."

  "You didn't think to tell him then?"

  "I wasn't sure then."

  "But you are now."

  "And I'm still not going to tell him. I have to choose what's right for me, not for anyone else."

  "What are you afraid he'll say?"

  "That he'll talk me into screwing up my life. That he'll tell me to keep it."

  "Is that really what you're afraid of? Or are you more afraid that he won't want it? That he'll reject you before you get the chance to reject him?"

  Rizzoli looked at Maura. "You know what, Doc?"

  "What?"

  "Sometimes, you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  And sometimes, thought Maura as she watched Rizzoli walk out of the office, I hit the bull's-eye.

  Rizzoli and Frost sat in the car, the heater blowing cold air, snowflakes fluttering onto the windshield. The gray skies matched her mood. She sat shivering in the claustrophobic gloom of the car, and every snowflake that fell on the window was another opaque chip cutting off her view. Closing her in, burying her.

  Frost said, "You feeling better?"

  "Got a headache. That's all."

  "You sure you don't want me to drive you to the ER?"

  "I just need to pick up some Tylenol."

  "Yeah. Okay." He put the car into gear, then changed his mind and shifted back into park. He looked at her. "Rizzoli?"

  "What?"

  "You ever want to talk about anything—anything at all, I don't mind listening."

  She didn't respond, just turned her gaze to the windshield. To the snowflakes forming a white filigree on the glass.

  "We've been together what, two years now? Seems to me, you don't tell me a lot about what's going on in your life," he said. "I think I probably talk your ear off about me and Alice. Every fight we have, you hear about it, whether you want to or not. You never tell me to shut up, so I figure you don't mind. But you know, I just realized something. You do a lot of listening, but you hardly ever talk about yourself."

  "There's nothing much to say."

  He thought this over for a moment. Then he said, sounding almost embarrassed: "I've never seen you cry before."

  She shrugged. "Okay. Now you have."

  "Look, we haven't always gotten along great—"

  "You don't think so?"

  Frost flushed, as he always did when caught in an awkward moment. The guy had a face like a stoplight, turning red at the first hint of embarrassment. "What I mean is, we're not, like, buddies."

  "What, you want to be buddies now?"

  "I wouldn't mind."

  "Okay, we're buddies," she said brusquely. "Come on, let's get going."

  "Rizzoli?"

  "What?"

  "I'm here, okay? That's all I want you to know."

  She blinked, and turned to her side window, so he wouldn't see the effect his words had on her. For the second time in an hour, she felt tears coming. Goddamn hormones. She didn't know why Frost's words should make her cry. Maybe it was just the fact he was showing such kindness to her. In truth, he had always been kind to her, but she was exquisitely sensitive to it now, and a small part of her wished that Frost was as thick as a plank and unaware of her turmoil. His words made her feel vulnerable and exposed, and that was not the way she wanted to be regarded. It was not the way you earned a partner's respect.

  She took a breath and lifted her jaw. The moment had passed, and the tears were gone. She could look at him and manage a semblance of her old attitude.

  "Look, I need that Tylenol," she said. "We gonna sit here all day?"

  He nodded and put the car into gear. The windshield wipers whisked snow off the glass, opening up a view of sky and white streets. All through a blistering summer, she'd been looking forward to winter, to the purity of snow. Now, staring at this bleak cityscape, she thought she would never again curse the heat of August.

  On a busy Friday night, you couldn't swing a cat in the bar at J. P. Doyle's without hitting a cop. Located just down the street from Boston PD's Jamaica Plain substation, and only ten minutes from police headquarters at Schroeder Plaza, Doyle's was where off-duty cops usually gathered for beer and conversation. So when Rizzoli walked into Doyle's that evening for dinner, she fully expected to see a crowd of familiar faces. What she didn't expect to see was Vince Korsak sitting at the bar, sipping an ale. Korsak was a retired detective from the Newton PD, and Doyle's was out of his usual territory.

  He spotted her as she came in the door and gave her a wave. "Hey, Rizzoli! Long time, no see." He pointed to the bandage on her forehead. "What happened to you?"

  "Aw, nothing. Had a little slip in the morgue and needed a few stitches. So what're you doing in the neighborhood?"

  "I'm moving in here."

  "What?"

  "Just signed a leas
e on an apartment down the street."

  "What about your house in Newton?"

  "Long story. Look, you want some dinner? I'll tell you all about it." He grabbed his ale. "Let's get a booth in the other room. These asshole smokers are polluting my lungs."

  "Never bothered you before."

  "Yeah, well, that's when I used to be one of those assholes."

  Nothing like a coronary to turn a chain-smoker into a health freak, thought Rizzoli as she followed in the wake left by Korsak's substantial frame. Although he'd lost weight since his heart attack, he was still heavy enough to double for a linebacker, which was what he reminded her of as he bulldozed through the Friday evening crowd.

  They stepped through a doorway into the nonsmoking section, where the air was marginally clearer. He chose a booth beneath the Irish flag. On the wall were framed and yellowed clippings from the Boston Globe, articles about mayors long gone, politicians long dead. The Kennedys and Tip O'Neill and other fine sons of Eire, many of whom had served with Boston's finest.

  Korsak slid onto the wooden bench, squeezing his generous girth behind the table. Heavy as he was, he still looked thinner than he'd been back in August, when they had worked a multiple homicide investigation together. She could not look at him now without remembering their summer together. The buzzing of flies among the trees, the horrors that the woods had yielded up, lying among the leaves. She still had flashbacks to that month when two killers had joined to enact their terrible fantasies on wealthy couples. Korsak was one of the few people who knew the impact that the case had had on her. Together, they had fought monsters and survived, and they had a bond between them, forged in the crisis of an investigation.

  Yet there was so much about Korsak that repelled her.

  She watched him take a gulp of ale, and flick his tongue over the mustache of foam. Once again she was struck by his simian appearance. The heavy eyebrows, the thick nose, the bristly black hair covering his arms. And the way he walked, with thick arms swinging, shoulders rolled forward, the way an ape walks. She knew his marriage was troubled, and that, since his retirement, he had far too much time on his hands. Looking at him now, she felt a twinge of guilt, because he had left several messages on her phone, suggesting they meet for dinner, but she'd been too busy to return his calls.

  A waitress came by, recognized Rizzoli, and said, "You want your usual Sam Adams, Detective?"

  Rizzoli looked at Korsak's glass of beer. He had spilled it on his shirt, leaving a trail of wet spots.

  "Uh, no," she said. "Just a Coke."

  "You ready to order?"

  Rizzoli opened the menu. She had no stomach for beer tonight, but she was starved. "I'll have a chef's salad with extra Thousand Island dressing. Fish and chips. And a side of onion rings. Can you bring it all at the same time? Oh, and could you bring some extra butter with the dinner rolls?"

  Korsak laughed. "Don't hold back, Rizzoli."

  "I'm hungry."

  "You know what that fried stuff does to your arteries?"

  "Okay, then. You don't get any of my onion rings."

  The waitress looked at Korsak. "What about you, sir?"

  "Broiled salmon, hold the butter. And a salad with vinaigrette dressing."

  As the waitress walked away, Rizzoli gave Korsak an incredulous look. "Since when did you start eating broiled fish?" she asked.

  "Since the big guy upstairs whacked me over the head with that warning."

  "Are you really eating that way? This isn't something just for show?"

  "Lost ten pounds already. And that's even off cigarettes, so you know it's, like, real weight off. Not just water weight." He leaned back, looking just a little too satisfied with himself. "I'm even using the treadmill now."

  "You're kidding."

  "Joined a health club. Doing cardio workouts. You know, check the pulse, keep tabs on the ticker. I feel ten years younger."

  You look ten years younger was what he was probably fishing for her to say, but she didn't say it, because it would not have been true.

  "Ten pounds. Good for you," she said.

  "Just gotta stick with it."

  "So what're you doing, drinking beer?"

  "Alcohol's okay, haven't you heard? Latest word in the New England Journal of Medicine. Glass of red wine's good for the ticker." He nodded at the Coke that the waitress set in front of Rizzoli. "What's with that? You always used to order Adams Ale."

  She shrugged. "Not tonight."

  "Feeling okay?"

  No, I'm not. I'm knocked up and I can't even drink a beer without wanting to puke. "I've been busy," was all she said.

  "Yeah, I hear. What's with the nuns?"

  "We don't know yet."

  "I heard one of the nuns was a mommy."

  "Where did you hear that?"

  "You know. Around."

  "What else did you hear?"

  "That you dragged a baby out of a pond."

  It was inevitable that the news would get out. Cops talked to each other. They talked to their wives. She thought of all the searchers standing around the pond, the morgue attendants, the crime scene technicians. A few loose lips and pretty soon, even a retired cop out in Newton knows the details. She dreaded what the morning papers would bring. Murder was fascinating enough to the public; now there was forbidden sex, a potent additive that would keep this case front and center.

  The waitress set down their food. Rizzoli's order took up most of the table, the dishes spread out like a family feast. Attacking her food, she bit into a french fry so hot it burned her mouth, and had to gulp her Coke to cool things down.

  Korsak, for all his self-righteous comments about fried foods, was staring wistfully at her onion rings. Then he looked down at his broiled fish, sighed, and picked up his fork.

  "You want some of these rings?" she asked.

  "No, I'm fine. I tell you, I'm turning my life around. That coronary might be the best thing ever happened to me."

  "You serious?"

  "Yeah. I'm losing weight. Kicked the cigarettes. Hey, I think I even got some hair growing back." He dipped his head to show her his bald spot.

  If any hair was growing back, she thought, it was in his head, not on it.

  "Yeah, I'm making a lot of changes," he said.

  He fell silent and concentrated on his salmon, but did not seem to enjoy it. She almost shoved her plate of onion rings toward him out of pity.

  But when he raised his head again, he looked at her, not at her food. "I've got things changing at home too."

  Something about the way he said it made her uneasy. The way he looked at her, as though about to bare his soul. She dreaded hearing the messy details, but she could see how much he needed to talk.

  "What's happening at home?" she asked. Already guessing what was about to come.

  "Diane and me—you know what's been going on. You've seen her."

  She had first met Diane at the hospital, when Korsak was recuperating from his heart attack. At their first encounter, she had noticed Diane's slurred speech and glassy eyes. The woman was a walking medicine cabinet, high on Valium, codeine—whatever she could beg off her doctors. It had been a problem for years, Korsak told her, yet he had stood by his wife because that's what husbands were supposed to do.

  "How is Diane these days?" she asked.

  "The same. Still stoned out of her head."

  "You said things were changing."

  "They are. I've left her."

  She knew he was waiting for her reaction. She stared back, not sure whether to be happy or distressed for him. Not sure which he wanted to see from her.

  "Jesus, Korsak," she finally said. "Are you sure about this?"

  "Never been more sure of anything in my whole frigging life. I'm moving out next week. Found myself a bachelor pad, here in Jamaica Plain. Gonna set it up just the way I want it. You know, wide-screen TV, big fucking speakers that'll blow out your eardrums."

  He's fifty-four, he's had a heart attack, and he's going
off the deep end, she thought. Acting like a teenager who can't wait to move into his first apartment.

  "She won't even notice I'm gone. Long as I keep paying her pharmacy bills, she'll be happy. Man, I don't know why it took me so long to do this. Wasted half my life, but I tell you, that's it. From now on, I make every minute count."

  "What about your daughter? What does she say?"

  He snorted. "Like she gives a shit? All she ever does is ask for money. Daddy, I need a new car. Daddy, I wanna go to Cancun. You think I ever been to Cancun?"

  She sat back, staring at him over her cooling onion rings. "Do you know what you're doing?"

  "Yeah. I'm taking control of my life." He paused. Said, with a note of resentment, "I thought you'd be happy for me."

  "I am. I guess."

  "So what's with the look?"

  "What look?"

  "Like I've sprouted wings."

  "I've just got to get used to the new Korsak. It's like I don't know you anymore."

  "Is that a bad thing?"

  "No. At least you're not blowing smoke in my face anymore."

  They both laughed at that. The new Korsak, unlike the old, wouldn't stink up her car with his cigarettes.

  He stabbed a lettuce leaf and ate silently, frowning, as though it took all his concentration just to chew. Or to build up to what came next.

  "So how's it going between you and Dean? Still seeing each other?"

  His question, asked so casually, caught her off guard. It was the last subject she wanted to discuss, the last thing she expected him to ask about. He'd made no secret of the fact he disliked Gabriel Dean. She had disliked him too, when Dean had first walked into their investigation back in August, flashed his FBI badge, and proceeded to take control.

  A few weeks later, everything had changed between her and Dean.

  She looked down at her half-eaten meal, her appetite suddenly gone. She could feel Korsak watching her. The longer she waited, the less believable her answer would be.

  "Things are okay," she said. "You want another beer? I could use a refill on my Coke."

  "He come up to see you lately?"

  "Where's that waitress?"

  "What's it been? Few weeks? A month?"

  "I don't know. . . ." She waved to the waitress, who didn't see her signal and instead headed back to the kitchen.