The Sinner (19 page)

“You’d think he wouldn’t even want to touch
her.”

“I would assume he was wearing gloves, because he left no
fingerprints.”

“Still, he was rubbing up against her clothes. Exposing
himself
to infection.”

“You’re thinking of it the way the ancients did. As
though
one touch from a leper will turn you into a monster. It’s not as
transmissible
as you think.”

“But you
can
catch it. You
can
get
infected.”

“Yes.”

“And the next thing you know, your nose and fingers are
falling
off.”

“It’s treatable. There are antibiotics.”

“I don’t care if it’s treatable,” said
Rizzoli,
now moving slowly across the kitchen. “This is leprosy we’re talking
about.
Something straight out of the Bible.”

They pushed through the swinging door, into the dining room.
Rizzoli’s
Maglite swept a circle, and stacked chairs gleamed at the periphery. Though they
couldn’t see the infestation, they could hear the faint rustling. The
darkness
was alive.

“Which way?” said Rizzoli. Her voice now a murmur, as
though
they had entered hostile territory.

“Keep going. There’s a hallway to the right, at that end
of the room.”

Their lights played across the floor. The last traces of the drag
marks
had been obliterated by the passage of all the law enforcement personnel who had
since tramped through. On the night Maura had come to this death scene, she had
been
flanked by Detectives Crowe and Sleeper, had known that an army of CSTs were
already
poised to move in with their scopes and cameras and fingerprint powders. That
night,
she had not been afraid.

Now she found herself breathing hard. Found herself staying close
behind
Rizzoli, acutely conscious of the fact that she had no one to watch her own
back.
She felt her neck hairs rise, her attention focused with exquisite sensitivity
on
any sounds, any hint of movement behind her.

Rizzoli halted, flashlight veering to the right. “This is the
hallway?”

“The bathroom’s at that end.”

Rizzoli moved forward, light bouncing from one wall to the other.
At
the last doorway she paused, as though already knowing that what came next would
be disturbing. She cast her light into the room and stood staring at smears of
blood
on the tile floor. Her light briefly slid across the walls, past the bathroom
stall
and porcelain urinals and rust-stained sinks. Then it returned, as though pulled
by magnetic force, to the floor where the corpse had lain.

A place of death has a power all its own. Long after the body is
removed
and the blood scrubbed away, such a place still retains the memory of what has
happened
there. It holds echoes of screams, the lingering scent of fear. And like a black
hole, it sucks into its vortex the rapt attention of the living, who cannot turn
away, cannot resist a glimpse into hell.

Rizzoli crouched down to look at the blood-smeared tiles.

“It was a clean shot, into her heart,” said Maura,
squatting
down beside her. “Pericardial tamponade, leading to rapid cardiac arrest.
That’s
why there’s so little blood on the floor. She had no heartbeat, no
circulation.
When he performed the amputations, he was cutting into a corpse.”

They fell silent, their gazes on the brown stains. Here in this
bathroom,
there were no windows. A light shining in this room wouldn’t be visible
from
the street. Whoever wielded the knife could take his time, lingering undisturbed
over the object of his butchery. There were no screams to muffle, no threat of
discovery.
He could cut at his leisure, through skin and joint, harvesting his prizes in
flesh.

And when he was done, he left the body in this place where vermin
reigned,
where rats and roaches would feast, obliterating whatever flesh remained.

Maura rose to her feet, breathing hard. Though the building was
frigid,
her hands were sweating inside her gloves, and she felt her heart pounding.

“Can we go now?” she said.

“Wait. Let me look around some more.”

“There’s nothing more to see here.”

“We just got here, Doc.”

Maura glanced toward the dark hallway and shivered. She felt an
odd
shift in the air, a chill breath that raised the hairs on her neck. The door,
she
thought suddenly. We left the door to the alley unlocked.

Rizzoli was still crouched over the bloodstains, her Maglite
slowly
skimming the floor, her attention focused only on the blood. She’s not
rattled,
thought Maura. Why should I be? Calm down, calm down.

She edged toward the doorway. Wielded her light like a saber,
slashing
it swiftly into the dark hallway.

Saw nothing.

The hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up.

“Rizzoli,” she whispered. “Can we get out of here
now?”

Only then did Rizzoli hear the tension in Maura’s voice. She
asked,
just as quietly: “What is it?”

“I want to leave.”

“Why?”

Maura stared into the dark hallway. “Something doesn’t
feel
right.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Let’s just get out of here, okay?”

Rizzoli rose to her feet. Said, softly: “Okay.” She
stepped
past Maura into the hallway. Paused, as though sniffing the air for any hint of
a
threat. Fearless Rizzoli, always in the lead, thought Maura, as she followed the
detective back up the hallway and through the dining room. They stepped into the
kitchen, flashlights beaming. Perfect targets, she realized. And here we come,
creaking
across the floor, our beams like two bull’s-eyes.

Maura felt a whoosh of cold air and stared at the silhouette of a
man,
standing in the open doorway. She froze, a stunned observer, as voices suddenly
exploded
in the shadows.

Rizzoli, already in a combat crouch, screamed: “Freeze!”

“Drop your weapon!”

“I said
freeze
, asshole!” Rizzoli commanded.

“Boston PD! I’m Boston PD!”

“Who the hell . . .”

Rizzoli’s flashlight suddenly lit on the intruder’s
face.
He raised his arm against the glare, his eyes narrowed. There was a long
silence.

Rizzoli gave a snort of disgust. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah, nice to see you, too,” said Detective Crowe.
“I
guess this must be where all the action is.”

“I could’ve blown off your fucking head,” said
Rizzoli.
“You should have warned us you were coming in . . .” Her voice trailed
off. She went very still as another silhouette appeared. A tall man moved with
catlike
grace past Crowe, and into the circle of Rizzoli’s flashlight beam. The
light
suddenly wavered, her hand shaking too much to hold it steady.

“Hello Jane,” said Gabriel Dean.

The darkness only seemed to magnify the long silence.

When Rizzoli finally managed to respond, her tone was strangely
flat.
Businesslike.

“I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I just flew in this morning.”

She reholstered her weapon. Drew herself up straight. “What
are
you doing here?”

“The same thing you are. Detective Crowe is walking me
through
the scene.”

“The FBI’s coming in on this? Why?”

Dean glanced around their shadowy surroundings. “We should
talk
about this somewhere else. Somewhere warm, at least. I’d like to hear how
your
case intersects with this one, Jane.”

“If we talk, the info has to go both ways,” said
Rizzoli.

“Of course.”

“All cards on the table.”

Dean nodded. “You’ll know everything that I know.”

“Look,” said Crowe, “Let me finish walking Agent
Dean
through here. We’ll meet you back at the conference room. At least
we’ll
have enough light to see each other. And we won’t be standing around,
freezing
our asses off.”

Rizzoli nodded. “The conference room, two o’clock.
We’ll
see you there.”

F
OURTEEN

R
IZZOLI FUMBLED
for her car keys and dropped them
in
the snow. Cursed as she squatted down to retrieve them.

“Are you okay?” asked Maura.

“He took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting . . .”
She
stood up and huffed out a cloud of steam. “Jesus, what is he doing here?
What
the
hell
is he doing here?”

“His job, I imagine.”

“I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to work with
him again.”

“You may not have a choice.”

“I know. And that’s what pisses me off, that I
don’t
have a choice.” Rizzoli unlocked her car and they both slid inside, onto
icy
seats.

“Are you going to tell him?”asked Maura.

Grimly Rizzoli started the engine. “No.”

“He’d want to know.”

“I’m not sure he would. I’m not sure any man
would.”

“So you’re just writing off the happy ending? Not even
giving
it a chance?”

Rizzoli sighed. “Maybe, if we were different people, there
would
be a chance.”

“The affair didn’t happen to other people. It happened
to
you two.”

“Right. What a surprise, huh?”

“Why?”

For a moment Rizzoli was silent, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.
“You know what my two brothers used to call me when we were growing
up?”
she said softly. “The frog. They said no prince would ever want to kiss a
frog.
Much less marry me.”

“Brothers can be cruel.”

“But sometimes they just tell you the brutal truth.”

“When Agent Dean looks at you, I don’t think he sees a
frog.”

Rizzoli shrugged. “Who knows what he sees?”

“An intelligent woman?”

“Yeah, that’s really sexy.”

“To some men, it is.”

“Or so they claim. But you know what? I have a hard time
believing
it. Given the choice, men always go for the tits and ass.”

Rizzoli focused with angry intensity on the road as they drove
down
streets where dirty snow crusted sidewalks and the windows of parked cars were
frosted
white.

“He saw
something
in you, Jane. Enough to want
you.”

“It was the case we were working. The excitement of the hunt.
It makes you feel alive, you know? When you start to close in, the adrenaline
gets
pumping and everything looks different, feels different. You’re working
with
someone around the clock, working so close to him that you know his scent. You
know
how he drinks his coffee and how he ties his tie. Then the case turns hairy, you
get angry together and scared together. And pretty soon it starts to feel like
love.
But it isn’t. It’s just two people, working in a situation so intense
that
they can’t tell the difference between lust and the thrill of the chase.
That’s
what I think happened. We met over a few dead bodies. And after a while, even I
started
to look good to him.”

“Is that all he was to you? Someone who started to look
good?”

“Well, shit. He
does
look good.”

“Because if you don’t love him—if you don’t
even
care about him—then seeing him now shouldn’t be all that painful.
Should
it?”

“I don’t know!” was Rizzoli’s exasperated
response.
“I don’t know what I feel about him!”

“Does it depend on whether he loves you?”

“I’m sure not going to ask him.”

“It’s one way to get a straight answer.”

“How does that old saying go?
If you don’t want to
hear
the answer, then you shouldn’t ask the question?
”

“You never know. The answer might surprise you.”

At Schroeder Plaza, they stopped in the cafeteria to pick up
coffee
and carried their cups upstairs, to the conference room. While waiting for Crowe
and Dean to arrive, Maura watched Rizzoli rustle through papers and search
through
files as though they held some secret she was desperate to uncover. At two
fifteen,
they finally heard the faint chime of the elevator bell, and then Crowe’s
laughter
in the hall. Rizzoli’s spine went rigid. As the men’s voices drew
nearer,
her gaze remained fixed on the papers. When Dean appeared in the doorway, she
did
not immediately look up, as though refusing to acknowledge his power over her.

Maura had first met Special Agent Gabriel Dean in late August,
when
he had joined the homicide team investigating the slayings of wealthy couples in
the Boston area. A man of imposing stature and quiet intelligence, he had
quickly
come to dominate that team, and his conflict with Rizzoli, the lead
investigating
officer, was almost guaranteed from the start. Maura had been the first to watch
that conflict transform into attraction. She had noticed the first sparks of
their
affair, had seen their gazes meet over the bodies of victims. She had taken note
of Rizzoli’s blushes, her uncertainty. The first stages of love were always
fraught with confusion.

As were the last stages of love.

Dean came into the room, and his gaze immediately fixed on
Rizzoli.
He was dressed in a suit and tie, his crisp appearance a contrast to
Rizzoli’s
wrinkled blouse and unruly hair. When at last she looked up at him, it was
almost
with an air of defiance.
So here I am. Take it or leave it.

Crowe swaggered to the head of the table. “Okay, the
gang’s
all here. It’s time for show and tell.” He looked at Rizzoli.

“Let’s hear from the FBI first,” she said.

Dean opened the briefcase he’d carried into the room. He took
out a folder and slid it across the table to Rizzoli.

“That photograph was taken ten days ago, in Providence, Rhode
Island,” he said

Rizzoli opened the folder. Maura, sitting beside her, had a full
view
of the photograph. It was a death scene photo, taken of a man curled into a
fetal
position inside the trunk of a car. Blood was splattered across the fawn-colored
carpet. The face of the victim was surprisingly intact, the eyes open, the
dependent
skin suffused purple from lividity.

“The victim’s name was Howard Redfield, age fifty-one, a
divorced white male from Cincinnati,” said Dean. “The cause of death
was
a single gunshot wound, fired through the left temporal bone. In addition, he
had
multiple fractures of both kneecaps, administered with a blunt weapon, possibly
a
hammer. There were also severe burns to both hands, which were bound with duct
tape
behind his back.”

“He was tortured,” said Rizzoli.

“Yes. At great length.”

Rizzoli swayed back in her chair, her face pale. Maura was the
only
person in the room who knew the reason for that pallor, and she watched her with
concern. She saw the desperate battle play out on her face, saw her struggle
against
nausea.

“He was found dead in the trunk of his own car,” Dean
continued.
“The car was parked about two blocks from the bus station in Providence.
That’s
only about an hour, hour-and-a-half drive from here.”

“But a different jurisdiction,” said Crowe.

Dean nodded. “That’s why this death didn’t come to
your
attention. The killer could very well have driven that car down to Providence
with
the victim in his trunk, left it there, and caught a bus back to Boston.”

“
Back
to Boston? Why do you think this is where he
started
from?” asked Maura.

“It’s just a guess. We don’t know where the killing
actually took place. We can’t even be sure of Mr. Redfield’s movements
over the last few weeks. His home is in Cincinnati, but he turns up dead in New
England.
He left no credit card trail, no record of where he’s been staying. We do
know
he withdrew a large amount of cash from his account a month ago. And then he
left
home.”

“Sounds like someone who’s on the run and doesn’t
want
to be traced,” said Maura. “Or someone who’s scared.”

Dean looked at the photo. “Obviously, he was right to
be.”

“Tell us more about this victim,” said Rizzoli. She was
back
in control now, and able to gaze, without flinching, at the photo.

“Mr. Redfield was formerly a senior VP of Octagon Chemicals,
in
charge of their overseas operations,” said Dean. “Two months ago, he
resigned
from the company, ostensibly for personal reasons.”

“Octagon?” said Maura. “They’ve been in the
news.
Aren’t they currently under investigation by the Securities and Exchange
Commission?”

Dean nodded. “The SEC enforcement division has filed a civil
action
against Octagon, alleging multiple violations involving billions of dollars in
illegal
transactions.”

“Billions?” said Rizzoli. “Wow.”

“Octagon is a huge multinational, with annual sales of twenty
billion dollars. We’re talking about a very big fish.”

Rizzoli looked at the death scene photo. “And this victim was
swimming in that pond. He’d know the inside scoop. You think he was a
problem
for Octagon?”

“Three weeks ago,” said Dean, “Mr. Redfield made an
appointment to speak with officials from the Justice Department.”

“Yep,” said Crowe with a laugh. “He was definitely
a
problem for them.”

“He asked that Justice officials meet him here, in
Boston.”

“Why not Washington?” asked Rizzoli.

“He told them there were other parties who wished to make
statements.
That it had to be done here. What we don’t know is why he contacted the
Justice
Department, rather than go directly to the SEC, since we assume it had to do
with
the Octagon investigation.”

“But you don’t know that for certain?”

“No. Because he never kept the appointment. By then, he was
dead.”

Crowe said, “Hey, if it looks like a paid hit and it smells
like
a paid hit . . .”

“What does any of this have to do with Rat Lady?” asked
Rizzoli.

“I’m just getting to that,” said Dean. He looked at
Maura. “You performed the autopsy. What was her cause of death?”

“A gunshot wound to the chest,” said Maura. “Bullet
fragments penetrated her heart, and there was massive bleeding into the
pericardial
sac, preventing the heart from pumping. It’s called pericardial
tamponade.”

“And what type of bullet was used?”

Maura remembered the X ray of Rat Lady’s chest. The spray of
shell
fragments, like a galaxy of stars scattered through both lungs. “It was a
Glaser
blue-tip,” she said. “A copper jacket containing metal pellets.
It’s
designed to fragment inside the body, with little chance of through and through
penetration.”
She paused, and added: “It’s a devastating projectile.”

Dean nodded at the photo of Howard Redfield, lying curled and
bloody
in the trunk of his car. “Mr. Redfield was killed with a Glaser blue-tip. A
bullet fired from the same gun that killed your Jane Doe.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Rizzoli said, in disbelief, “But you just laid the case
for
a contract killing. Octagon’s way of dealing with a whistle-blower. This
other
victim, Rat Lady—”

“Detective Rizzoli’s right,” said Maura. “Rat
Lady
is the most unlikely target of a corporate hit that I could imagine.”

“Nevertheless,” said Dean, “The bullet that killed
her
was fired by the same weapon that killed Howard Redfield.”

Crowe said, “That’s how Agent Dean came into the
picture.
I requested a DRUGFIRE search on that blue-tip copper jacket you took out of her
chest.”

Similar to the FBI’s national AFIS database for fingerprints,
DRUGFIRE was a centralized database for firearm-related evidence. Marks and
striations
found on bullets from crime scenes were stored as digitized data, which could
then
be searched for matches, linking all crimes committed by the same firearm.

“DRUGFIRE came up with the match,” said Dean.

Rizzoli shook her head in bewilderment. “Why these two
victims?
I don’t see the connection.”

“That’s what makes Jane Doe’s death so
interesting,”
said Dean.

Maura did not like his use of the word
interesting
. It
implied
that some deaths were not interesting, not worthy of special attention. Those
victims
would certainly not agree.

She focused on the photo, an ugly splash of gore lying on the
conference
table. “Our Jane Doe doesn’t belong in this picture,” she said.

“Dr. Isles?”

“There’s a logical reason why Howard Redfield was
killed.
He may be a whistle-blower in an SEC investigation. The evidence of torture
tells
us his death wasn’t just a case of robbery gone wrong. The killer wanted
something
from him. Retribution, maybe. Or information. But how does our Jane
Doe—most
likely an illegal immigrant—fit in? Why would anyone want her dead?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dean looked
at
Rizzoli. “I understand you have a case which may tie into this as
well.”

His gaze seemed to rattle her. She gave a nervous shake of the
head.
“It’s another one that seems completely unrelated.”

“Detective Crowe told me that two nuns were attacked in their
convent,” said Dean. “In Jamaica Plain.”

“But that perp didn’t use a firearm. The nuns were
bludgeoned,
we think with a hammer. It looked like a rage attack. Some wacko who hates
women.”

“Maybe that’s what he wanted you to think. To hide any
connection
to these other homicides.”

“Yeah, well, it worked. Until Dr. Isles came up with Jane
Doe’s
diagnosis of leprosy. It turns out one of the nuns who was attacked, Sister
Ursula,
used to work in a leper village, in India.”

“A village that no longer exists,” Maura said.

Dean looked at her. “What?”

“It may have been a religious massacre. Nearly a hundred
people
were slaughtered, and the village was burned to the ground.” She paused.
“Sister
Ursula is the only one from that village who survived.”

She had never seen Gabriel Dean look so taken aback. Usually, Dean
was the one who held the secrets and doled out the revelations. This new
information
temporarily stunned him into silence.