The Sinner (23 page)

“I’ve tried.”

“And?”

“She’s all business. You know how she can be, a goddamn
robo-cop.”
He sighed. Said, quietly: “I think I’ve lost her.”

“Tell me something, Agent Dean.”

“Yes?”

“Do you care about her?”

He met her gaze without flinching. “I wouldn’t be asking
you this question if I didn’t.”

“Then you have to trust me on this. You haven’t lost
her.
If she seems distant, it’s only because she’s afraid.”

“Jane?” He shook his head and laughed. “She’s
not
afraid of anything. Least of all me.”

She watched him walk out of her office, and she thought:
You’re
wrong. We’re all afraid of the people who can hurt us.

As a child, Rizzoli had loved winter. She would look forward all
summer
long to the first flutters of snow, to the morning when she’d open her
bedroom
curtains and see the ground covered in white, the purity still unmarred by
footprints.
She’d laugh as she ran from the house, to dive into the snowdrifts.

Now, fighting heavy noontime traffic, along with all the other
holiday
shoppers, she wondered who had stolen the magic.

The prospect of spending Christmas Eve with her family tomorrow
night
did nothing to cheer her. She knew how the evening would go: everyone stuffing
themselves
with turkey, their mouths too full to talk. Her brother Frankie, loud and
obnoxious
from too much rum-spiked eggnog. Her father, TV remote in hand, turning up ESPN
to
drown out all meaningful conversation. And her mother, Angela, exhausted from a
full
day’s cooking, nodding off in the easy chair. Every year, they repeated the
same old rituals, but that’s what made a family, she thought. We do the
same
things in the same way, whether or not they make us happy.

Though she had no desire to go shopping, she could put off the
ordeal
no longer; you simply did not show up at the Rizzolis’ on Christmas Eve
without
the requisite armful of gifts. It didn’t matter how inappropriate the gifts
might be, as long as they were prettily wrapped, and everyone got one. Last year
her brother Frankie, the asshole, gave her a dried toad from Mexico, its skin
fashioned
into a coin purse. It was a cruel reminder of the nickname he used to hurl at
her.
A frog for the frog.

This year, Frankie was toast.

She pushed her shopping cart through the crowds at the Target
store,
in search of a dried-toad equivalent. Christmas carols played over the store
speakers
and mechanical Santas greeted her with ho-ho-ho’s as she moved with grim
determination
up aisles festooned with tinsel garlands. For her dad, she bought fleece-lined
moccasins.
For her mom, a teapot from Ireland, decorated with tiny pink rosebuds. For her
younger
brother Michael, a plaid bathrobe, and for his new girlfriend Irene, dangly
earrings
of blood-red Austrian crystal. She even bought gifts for Irene’s little
boys,
matching snowsuits with racing stripes.

But for Frankie, the jerk, she was coming up empty-handed.

She cruised down the aisle for men’s underwear. Here there
were
possibilities. Frankie the macho Marine in pink thong underwear? No, too
disgusting;
even she would never stoop that low. She kept moving, past the jockey briefs,
and
slowed as she reached the boxer shorts, suddenly thinking not of Frankie, but of
Gabriel, in his gray suits and boring ties. A man of quiet and conservative
tastes,
right down to his underwear. A man who could drive a woman crazy, because
she’d
never know where she stood with him; she’d never know if a real heart was
beating
under that gray suit.

Abruptly she left the aisle and kept moving. Focus, damn it.
Something
for Frankie. A book? She could think of a few appropriate titles.
The Miss
Manners
Guide to Not Being An Asshole.
Too bad Miss Manners never wrote that one;
there’d
be a market for it. She cruised up the aisle, down the next, searching,
searching.

And then she came to a halt, her throat aching, her fingers numb
as
she clutched the cart handle.

She was staring at an aisle of baby supplies. She saw little
flannel
sleepers embroidered with ducks. Doll-size mittens and booties and fuzzy caps
topped
with yarn balls. Stacks of pink and blue receiving blankets in which to swaddle
newborns.
It was the blankets she focused on, remembering the way Camille had swaddled her
own dead infant in powder-blue wool, wrapping it with a mother’s love, a
mother’s
grief.

It took several rings before the sound of her cell phone cut
through
her trance. She pulled it from her purse and answered with a dazed:
“Rizzoli.”

“Hey, Detective. It’s Walt DeGroot here.”

DeGroot worked in the DNA section of the crime lab. Usually
Rizzoli
was the one who called him, trying to goad him into a quicker turnaround on test
results. Today she responded to his call with dulled interest.

“So what have you got for me?” she asked, her gaze
moving
back to the baby blankets.

“We ran that maternal DNA against the infant you found in the
pond.”

“Yeah?”

“The victim, Camille Maginnes, is definitely the mother of
that
child.”

Rizzoli gave a tired sigh. “Thanks, Walt,” she murmured.
“It’s what we expected.”

“Wait. There’s more.”

“More?”

“This, I don’t think you expected. It’s about the
baby’s
father.”

All at once she was focused completely on Walt’s voice. On
what
he was about to tell her.

“What about the father?” she asked.

“I know who he is.”

E
IGHTEEN

R
IZZOLI DROVE
through the afternoon and into the
gray
of dusk, seeing the road ahead through a fog of rage. The gifts she’d just
purchased
were still piled on her backseat, along with rolls of wrapping paper and foil
ribbon,
but her mind was no longer on Christmas. It was on a young girl, walking
barefoot
through the snow. A girl who sought the pain of frostbite, if only to mask her
deeper
agony. But nothing could match the girl’s secret torment, no amount of
prayer
or self-flagellation could silence her private shrieks of pain.

When at last she drove past the granite pillars, and into the
driveway
of Camille’s parents, it was nearly five
P
.
M
.,
and her shoulders were stiff from the tension of that long drive. She stepped
out
of the car and inhaled a stinging lungful of salt air. She walked up the steps
and
rang the bell.

The dark-haired housekeeper Maria answered the door.
“I’m
sorry, Detective, but Mrs. Maginnes isn’t here. Was she expecting
you?”

“No. When will she be home?”

“She and the boys went out shopping. She should be back for
dinner.
Another hour, I think.”

“Then I’ll wait for her.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I’ll just keep Mr. Maginnes company. If that’s all
right.”

Reluctantly, Maria admitted her into the house. A woman accustomed
to deferring to others was not about to bar the door against law enforcement.

Rizzoli did not need Maria to show her the way; she walked across
the
same polished floors, past the same marine paintings, and stepped into the Sea
Room.
The view across Nantucket Sound was ominous, the wind-roiled water flecked by
whitecaps.
Randall Maginnes lay on his right side in the hospital bed, his face turned to
the
windows so he could see the gathering storm. A front-row seat to nature’s
turbulence.

The private-duty nurse sitting beside him noticed the visitor, and
rose from her chair. “Hello?”

“I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston P.D. I’m just
waiting
for Mrs. Maginnes to get home. Thought I’d look in on Mr. Maginnes. See how
he’s doing.”

“He’s about the same.”

“How’s his progress since the stroke?”

“We’ve been doing physical therapy for months now. But
the
deficits are pretty severe.”

“Are they permanent?”

The nurse glanced at her patient, then made a gesture for Rizzoli
to
follow her out of the room.

In the hallway, the nurse said: “I don’t like to talk
about
him where he can hear us. I know he understands.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s the way he looks at me. The way he reacts to
things.
Even though he can’t talk, he does have a functioning mind. I played a CD
of
his favorite opera this afternoon—
La Boheme.
And I saw tears in his
eyes.”

“It may not be the music. It may be just frustration.”

“He certainly has a right to feel frustrated. After eight
months,
he’s had almost no recovery. That’s a very grim prognosis. He’ll
almost
certainly never walk again. He’ll always be paralyzed on one side. And as
for
speech, well—” She gave a sad shake of the head. “It was a
massive
stroke.”

Rizzoli turned to the Sea Room. “If you’d like to take a
coffee break or something, I’ll be happy to sit with him for a while.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Unless he needs some kind of special care.”

“No, you don’t need to do a thing. Just talk to him.
He’ll
appreciate that.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Rizzoli walked back into the Sea Room and pulled a chair close to
the
bedside. She sat down where she could see Randall Maginnes’s eyes. Where he
could not avoid seeing hers.

“Hi, Randall,” she said. “Remember me? Detective
Rizzoli.
I’m the cop investigating your daughter’s murder. You do know Camille
is
dead, don’t you?”

She saw a flicker of sadness in his gray eyes. An acknowledgment
that
he understood. That he mourned.

“She was beautiful, your girl Camille. But you know that,
don’t
you? How could you not? Every day in this house, you were watching her. You saw
her
grow up and change into a young woman.” She paused. “And you saw her
fall
apart.”

The eyes were still staring at her, still taking in every word she
said.

“So when did you start fucking her, Randall?”

Outside the window, gusts whipped across Nantucket Sound. Even in
the
fading daylight, the whitecaps glowed, bright pinpoints of turbulence in the
dark
sea.

Randall Maginnes was no longer looking at her. His gaze had
shifted
and he was staring downward, desperately avoiding her eyes.

“She’s only eight years old when her mother kills
herself.
And suddenly, Camille doesn’t have anyone but her daddy. She needs you. She
trusts you. And what did you do?” Rizzoli shook her head in disgust.
“You
knew how fragile she was. You knew why she went walking barefoot in the snow.
Why
she locked herself in her room. Why she ran off to the convent. She was running
away
from
you
.”

Rizzoli leaned closer. Close enough to catch a whiff of the urine
soaking
his adult diaper.

“The one time she came home for a visit, she probably thought
you wouldn’t touch her. That for once, you’d leave her alone. You had
a
house full of relatives here for the funeral. But that didn’t stop you. Did
it?”

The eyes were still avoiding hers, still staring downward. She
crouched
beside the bed. Moved so close to him that no matter which way he looked, she
was
right there, in his face.

“It was your baby, Randall,” she said. “We
didn’t
even need a sample of your DNA to prove it. The baby’s too close a match to
its mother. It’s written there, in the baby’s DNA. A child of incest.
Did
you know you made her pregnant? Did you know you destroyed your own
daughter?”

She just sat in the chair for a moment, gazing at him. In the
silence,
she could hear his breathing quicken, the noisy gasps of a man who is desperate
to
flee, but cannot.

“You know, Randall, I’m not a big believer in God. But
you
make me think that maybe I’ve been wrong about that. Because look what
happened
to
you
. In March, you fuck your daughter. In April, you get a stroke. You
won’t ever move again. Or talk again. You’re just a brain in a dead
body,
Randall. If that’s not divine justice, I don’t know what is.”

He was whimpering now, struggling to make his useless limbs move.

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Can you smell
yourself
rotting? While you lie here, peeing in your diaper, what do you suppose your
wife
Lauren’s up to? Probably having a very good time. Probably finding someone
else
to keep her company. Think about that. You don’t have to die to go to
hell.”

With a sigh of satisfaction, she rose to her feet. “Have a
nice
life, Randall,” she said, and walked out of the room.

As she headed for the front door, she heard Maria call to her:
“Are
you leaving already, Detective?”

“Yeah. I’ve decided not to wait for Mrs. Maginnes.”

“What shall I tell her?”

“Just that I dropped by.” Rizzoli glanced back, toward
the
Sea Room. “Oh, and tell her this.”

“Yes?”

“I think Randall misses Camille. Why don’t you put her
photo
where he can see it, all the time.” She smiled as she opened the front door
to leave. “He’ll appreciate that.”

Christmas lights were twinkling in her living room.

The garage door cranked open, and Maura saw that Victor’s
rental
car was parked inside, taking up the right side of the garage, as though it
belonged
there. As though this was now his house, as well. She pulled in beside it and
turned
off the engine with an angry twist of the key. Waited for a moment as the door
closed
again, trying to calm herself for what came next.

She grabbed her briefcase and stepped out of the car.

In the house, she took her time hanging up her coat, setting down
her
purse. Still carrying the briefcase, she walked into the kitchen.

Victor smiled at her as he dropped ice into a cocktail shaker.
“Hey.
I’m just mixing your favorite drink for you. Dinner’s already in the
oven.
I’m trying to prove to you that a man really can be useful around the
house.”

She watched as he rattled ice in the shaker and poured the liquid
into
a martini glass. He handed her the drink.

“For the hardworking lady of the house,” he said, and
pressed
a kiss to her lips.

She stood perfectly still.

Slowly he pulled away, his gaze searching her face.
“What’s
the matter?”

She set down the glass. “It’s time for you to be honest
with
me.”

“Do you think I haven’t been?”

“I don’t know.”

“If we’re talking about what went wrong three years
ago—the
mistakes I made—”

“This isn’t about what happened then. This is about now.
Whether you’re being honest with me now.”

He gave a bewildered laugh. “What did I do wrong this time?
What
am I supposed to apologize for? Because I’ll be happy to do it, if
that’s
what you want. Hell, I’ll even apologize for things I
haven’t
done.”

“I’m not asking for an apology, Victor.” She
reached
into her briefcase for the file that Gabriel Dean had lent her, and held it out
to
him. “I just want you to tell me about this.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a police file, transmitted from Interpol.
Concerning
a mass slaughter last year, in India. In a small village, outside
Hyderabad.”

He opened the folder to the first photograph, and winced at the
image.
Without a word, he turned to the next one, and the next.

“Victor?”

He closed the file and looked at her. “What am I supposed to
say
about this?”

“You knew about this massacre, didn’t you?”

“Of course I knew. That was a One Earth clinic they attacked.
We lost two volunteers there. Two nurses. It’s my job to know about
it.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“It happened a year ago. Why should I?”

“Because it’s relevant to our investigation. One of the
nuns
attacked at Graystones Abbey worked in that same One Earth clinic. You knew
that,
didn’t you?”

“How many volunteers do you think work for One Earth? We have
thousands of medical personnel, in over eighty countries.”

“Just tell me, Victor. Did you know Sister Ursula worked for
One
Earth?”

He turned and paced over to the sink. There he stood staring out
the
window, although there was nothing to see, only darkness beyond.

“It’s interesting,” she said. “After the
divorce,
I never heard from you. Not one word.”

“Do I need to point out that you never bothered to contact
me,
either?”

“Not a letter, not a phone call. If I wanted the latest news
about
you, I had to read it in
People
magazine. Victor Banks, the saint of
humanitarian
causes.”

“I didn’t anoint myself, Maura. You can’t hold that
against me.”

“And then suddenly, out of the blue, you show up here in
Boston,
anxious to see me. Just as I start work on this homicide case.”

He turned to look at her. “You don’t think I wanted to
see
you?”

“You waited three years.”

“Yes. Three years too long.”

“Why now?”

He searched her face, as though hoping to see some trace of
understanding.
“I’ve missed you, Maura. I really have.”

“But that’s not the original reason you came to see me.
Is
it?”

A long pause. “No. It wasn’t.”

Suddenly exhausted, she sank into a chair at the kitchen table and
gazed down at the folder containing the damning photograph. “Then why did
you?”

“I was in my hotel room, getting dressed, and the TV was on.
I
heard the news about the attack on the convent. I saw you there, on camera. At
the
crime scene.”

“That was the day you left the first message with my
secretary.
That same afternoon.”

He nodded. “God, you were stunning on TV. All wrapped up in
that
black coat. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”

“But that’s not why you called me, is it? It was the
murder
you were interested in. You called because I’m the ME on that case.”

He didn’t answer.

“You knew one of the victims used to work for One Earth. You
wanted
to find out what the police knew. What I knew.”

Still there was no answer.

“Why didn’t you just ask me about it? What are you
trying
to hide?”

He straightened, his gaze suddenly challenging hers. “Do you
have
any idea how many lives we save every year?”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“How many children we immunize? How many pregnant women get
their
only prenatal care from our clinics? They depend on us, because they have no
alternatives.
And One Earth survives only because of the goodwill of its benefactors. Our
reputation
has to be spotless. One whisper of bad press, and our grant money dries up like
that
.” He snapped his fingers.

“What does that have to do with this investigation?”

“I’ve spent the last twenty years building One Earth
from
nothing, but it’s never been about me. It’s always been about
them
—the people no one else cares about. They’re the ones who matter.
That’s
why I can’t let anything endanger our funding.”

Money, she thought. It’s all about money.

She stared at him. “Your corporate donor.”

“What?”

“You told me about it. That you got a huge grant last year,
from
a corporate donor.”

“We get grants from a lot of sources—”

“Was it Octagon Chemicals?”

The look of shock on his face answered her question. She heard his
sudden intake of breath, as though he was preparing to deny it, but then he
exhaled
without saying a word, the futility of argument leaving him silent.