The Sinner (24 page)

“It’s not hard to confirm,” said Maura. “Why
don’t
you just tell me the truth?”

He looked down. Gave a tired nod. “Octagon is one of our
major
donors.”

“And what do they expect from you? What does One Earth have
to
do in return for that money?”

“Why do you think we have to do anything? Our work speaks for
itself. Why do you think we’re welcomed in so many countries? Because
people
trust us. We don’t proselytize, and we don’t muck around in local
politics.
We’re just there to help them. That’s all that matters in the end,
isn’t
it? Saving lives?”

“And Sister Ursula’s life? Does that matter to
you?”

“Of course it does!”

“She’s now on full life support. One more EEG, and
they’ll
probably pull the plug. Who wants her dead, Victor?”

“How should I know?”

“You seem to know a lot that you never bothered to tell me.
You
knew one of the victims worked for you.”

“I didn’t think that was relevant.”

“You should have let me decide that.”

“You said you were focusing on the other nun. The young one.
She
was the only victim you talked about. I assumed the attack had nothing to do
with
Ursula.”

“You concealed information.”

“Now you’re talking like a goddamn cop. Are you going to
whip out the badge and handcuffs next?”

“I’m trying
not
to get the police involved.
I’m
trying to give you a chance to explain.”

“Why bother? You’ve already passed judgment.”

“And you’re already acting guilty.”

He stood very still, his gaze averted, one hand clutching the
granite
countertop. The seconds ticked by in silence. And she suddenly focused on the
wooden
block of knives resting just within his reach. Eight Wusthof chef’s knives,
which she always kept well honed and ready for use. Never before had she felt
afraid
of Victor. But the man standing so close to those knives was someone she did not
know, did not even recognize.

She said, quietly, “I think you should leave.”

He turned to face her. “What are you going to do?”

“Just leave, Victor.”

For a moment he didn’t move. She stared at him, her heart
hammering,
every muscle tensed. Watching his hands, waiting for his next move, the whole
time
thinking:
No, he wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t believe he’d ever
hurt
me.

And, at the same time, frighteningly aware of the strength of his
hands.
She wondered if those same hands would ever reach for a hammer and crush a
woman’s
skull.

“I love you, Maura,” he said. “But there are some
things
more important than either one of us. Before you do anything, think about what
you
might be destroying. How many people—innocent people—you might be
hurting.”

She flinched as he moved toward her. But he didn’t stop; he
walked
right past her. She heard his footsteps move down the hallway, and then the
front
door slammed shut.

At once she rose and went into the living room. Through the
window,
she watched his car back out of the driveway. She went to the front door and
turned
the deadbolt. Then she bolted the door leading to the garage. Locking Victor
out.

She returned to the kitchen to lock the back door as well, her
hand
shaking as she slid the chain in place. She turned and gazed at a room that now
seemed
foreign to her, the air still reverberating with the echoes of threat. The
cocktail
that Victor had poured for her was sitting on the countertop. She picked up the
drink,
which was no longer chilled, and poured it down the sink, as though it was
contaminated.

She
felt contaminated now, by his touch. By his lovemaking.

She went straight to the bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and
stepped
into the shower. There she stood under the stream of hot water, trying to wash
away
all traces of him from her skin, but she could not purge the memories. She
closed
her eyes and it was still his face she saw, his touch she remembered.

In the bedroom, she stripped the sheets, and his scent wafted up
from
the linen. Yet another painful reminder. She made the bed with fresh sheets that
did not smell of their lovemaking. Replaced the towels in the bathroom, towels
he
had used. Went back to the kitchen and discarded the takeout food he had left
warming
in the oven—a casserole of eggplant parmesan.

She ate no dinner that night; instead she poured a glass of
zinfandel
and carried it into the living room. She lit the gas fireplace and sat staring
at
the Christmas tree.

Happy holidays, she thought. I can crack open a chest and bare the
contents of a torso. I can slice off slivers of lung, and through the
microscope,
diagnose cancer or tuberculosis or emphysema. But the secret of what lies inside
a human heart is beyond the reach of my scalpel.

The wine was an anesthetic, deadening her pain. She finished the
glass
and went to bed.

In the night, she awakened with a start, and heard the house
creaking
in the wind. She was breathing hard, her heart racing, as the last shreds of a
nightmare
tore away. Burned bodies, stacked like black twigs on a pyre. Flames, casting
their
glow on a circle of standing figures. And she, trying to stay in the shadows,
trying
to hide from the firelight. Even in my dreams, she thought, I can’t get
away
from those images. I live with my own private Dante’s inferno in my head.

She reached out to feel cool sheets beside her, where Victor had
once
slept. And she missed him then, his absence suddenly so painful to her that she
crossed
her arms over her stomach, to quell the emptiness there.

What if she was wrong? What if he was telling her the truth?

At dawn, she finally climbed out of bed, feeling drugged and
unrested.
She went to the kitchen to make coffee, and sat down at the table, sipping from
her
mug in the gloomy light of morning. Her gaze fell to the folder of photographs,
still
lying on the table.

She opened it, and saw the inspiration for last night’s
nightmares.
The burned bodies, the charred remains of huts. So many dead, she thought,
killed
in one night’s paroxysm of violence. What terrible rage must have driven
the
attackers to slaughter even the animals? She gazed at dead goats and humans,
mingled
in a common tangle of corpses.

The goats. Why the goats?

She mulled this over, trying to understand what could motivate
such
senseless destruction.

Dead animals.

She turned to the next photo. It showed the One Earth clinic, its
cinder
block walls scorched by fire, the pile of burned bodies lying in front of the
doorway.
But it was not the bodies she focused on; it was the clinic roof, made of
corrugated
tin, still intact. She had not really looked at the roof before. Now she studied
what appeared to be fallen leaves. Dark blots were scattered atop the ridged
metal.
They were too small for her to make out any detail.

She carried the photo into her office and switched on the lights.
Hunting
in her desk, she found a magnifying glass. Under the bright desk lamp, she
studied
the image, focusing on the tin roof, her lens bringing out every detail of the
fallen
leaves. The dark blots suddenly took on a terrible new shape. A chill whispered
up
her spine. She dropped the magnifying glass and sat stunned.

Birds. They were dead birds.

She went into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and paged Rizzoli.
When her phone rang a few minutes later, she jumped at the sound.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” said Maura.

“At six-thirty?”

“I should have told Agent Dean yesterday, before he left
town.
But I didn’t want to say anything. Not until I could talk to Victor.”

“Victor? That’s your ex-husband?”

“Yes.”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

“I think he knows what happened in India. In that
village.”

“He told you that?”

“Not yet. That’s why you have to bring him in for
questioning.”

N
INETEEN

T
HEY SAT IN
B
ARRY
F
ROST
’
S
CAR
, parked just outside the Colonnade Hotel. Frost and Rizzoli were in
the
front seat, Maura in the back.

“Let me talk to him first,” said Maura.

“It’d be better if you stayed right here, Doc,”
said
Frost. “We don’t know how he’ll react.”

“He’ll be less likely to resist if I speak to him.”

“But if he’s armed—”

“He won’t hurt me,” said Maura. “And I
don’t
want you to hurt him, is that clear? You aren’t arresting him.”

“What if he decides he doesn’t want to come?”

“He’ll come.” She pushed open the car door.
“Just
let me handle it.”

They took the elevator to the fourth floor, sharing the ride with
a
young couple who probably wondered about the grim trio standing beside them.
Flanked
by Rizzoli and Frost, Maura knocked on the door to room 426.

A moment passed.

She was about to knock again when the door finally swung open and
Victor
stood looking at her. His eyes were tired, his expression infinitely sad.

“I wondered what you’d decide,” he said. “I
was
starting to hope that . . .” He shook his head.

“Victor—”

“But then, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He
looked
at Rizzoli and Frost, standing in the hallway. Gave a bitter laugh. “Did
you
bring handcuffs?”

“There’s no need for handcuffs,” said Maura.
“They
only want to talk to you.”

“Yes, of course. Just talk. Should I call a lawyer?”

“It’s up to you.”

“No, you tell
me
. Am I going to need a lawyer?”

“You’re the only one who knows that, Victor.”

“That’s the test, isn’t it? Only the guilty insist
on
a lawyer.”

“A lawyer is never a bad idea.”

“Then just to prove something to you, I’m not going to
call
one.” He looked at the two detectives. “I need to put on my shoes. If
you
have no objections.” He turned and walked toward the closet.

Maura said to Rizzoli, “Could you wait out here?” She
followed
Victor into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her for one last moment
of privacy. He was sitting in a chair, lacing up his boots. She noticed his
suitcase
was lying on the bed.

“You’re packing,” she said.

“I’m booked on a flight home at four. But I guess those
plans
are about to change, aren’t they?”

“I had to tell them. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He stood. “You had a choice, and you made it. I guess that
says
it all.” He crossed the room and opened the door. “I’m
ready,”
he announced. He handed Rizzoli a key ring. “I assume you’ll want to
search
my rental car. It’s the blue Toyota, parked in the garage, third floor.
Don’t
say I didn’t cooperate.”

It was Frost who walked Victor down the hall. Rizzoli tugged on
Maura’s
sleeve, holding her back as the two men continued toward the elevators.

“Here’s where you have to back off,” Rizzoli said.

“I’m the one who gave him to you.”

“That’s why you can’t be part of this.”

“He was my husband.”

“Exactly. You have to step away and let us handle this. You
know
that.”

Of course she did.

She followed them downstairs anyway. Climbed into her own car and
tailed
them to Schroeder Plaza. She could see Victor in the back seat. Only once, as
they
waited at a stoplight, did he turn and look at her. Their gazes met, just for an
instant, through the window. Then he turned away and did not look at her again.

By the time she found a parking spot and walked into Boston PD
headquarters,
they had already brought Victor upstairs. She took the elevator to the second
floor
and headed straight for the Homicide Unit.

Barry Frost intercepted her. “You can’t go back there,
Doc.”

“He’s already being questioned?”

“Rizzoli and Crowe are handling it.”

“I
gave
him to you, goddamn it. At least let me hear
what
he has to say. I could watch from the next room.”

“You have to wait here.” He added, gently, “Please,
Dr. Isles.”

She met his sympathetic gaze. Of all the detectives in the unit,
he
was the only one who, with just a kind look, could silence her protest.

“Why don’t you sit over there, at my desk?” he
said.
“I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

She sank into a chair and stared at the photo on Frost’s
desk—his
wife, she assumed. A pretty blonde with aristocratic cheekbones. A moment later,
he brought her the coffee and set it in front of her.

She didn’t touch it. She just kept gazing at the photo of
Frost’s
wife, and thought of other marriages. Of happy endings.

Rizzoli did not like Victor Banks.

He sat at the table in the interrogation room, calmly sipping from
a cup of water, his shoulders relaxed, his posture almost casual. A good-looking
man, and he knew it.
Too
good-looking. She eyed the worn leather jacket,
the
khaki trousers, and was reminded of an upscale Indiana Jones, without the
bullwhip.
He had a medical degree to boot, with solid-gold humanitarian credentials. Oh
yeah,
the girls would go for this one. Even Dr. Isles, always so cool and levelheaded
in
the autopsy lab, had lost her heart to this man.

And you betrayed her, you son of a bitch.

Darren Crowe sat to her right. By earlier agreement, she would do
most
of the talking. So far, Victor had been chilly but cooperative, answering her
introductory
questions with the curt responses of a man who wished to make quick work of
this.
A man who had no particular respect for the police.

By the time she was finished with him, he’d respect her, all
right.

“So you’ve been in Boston for how long, Mr. Banks?”
she asked.

“It’s Dr. Banks. And I told you, I’ve been here
about
nine days. I flew in last Sunday night.”

“You said you came to Boston for a meeting?”

“With the dean of the Harvard School of Public Health.”

“The reason for that meeting?”

“My organization has work-study arrangements with a number of
universities.”

“Your organization being One Earth?”

“Yes. We’re an international medical charity. We operate
clinics around the world. Of course we welcome any medical and nursing students
who
want to volunteer at our clinics. The students get some real-life experience in
the
field. We, in return, benefit from their skills.”

“And who set up this meeting at Harvard?”

He shrugged. “It was just a routine visit.”

“Who actually made the call?”

A silence.
Gotcha.

“You did, didn’t you?” she said. “You called
Harvard
two weeks ago. Told the Dean you’d be coming to Boston anyway, and could
you
drop by his office.”

“I need to keep my contacts fresh.”

“Why did you really come to Boston, Dr. Banks? Wasn’t
there
another reason?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“And that was?”

“My ex-wife lives here. I wanted to see her.”

“But you haven’t spoken to her in—what? Nearly
three
years.”

“Obviously she’s already told you everything. Why do you
need to talk to me?”

“And suddenly you want to see her so desperately that you fly
across the country, without even knowing if she’ll see you?”

“Love sometimes demands we take risks. It’s a matter of
faith.
Believing in something you can’t see or touch. We just have to take the
leap.”
He looked her in the eye. “Don’t we, Detective?”

Rizzoli felt herself flush, and for a moment could not think of
anything
to say. Victor had just reversed the question, twisting it so that she suddenly
felt
the conversation was about her.
Love demands risks.

Crowe broke the silence. “Hey, nice-looking lady, your
ex-wife,”
he said. Not hostile, but in the casual tone of one guy to another, the two of
them
now ignoring Rizzoli. “I can see why you’d fly all this way to try and
patch things up. So did you manage to?”

“Things were working out between us.”

“Yeah, I hear you’ve been staying at her house for the
last
few days. Sounds like progress to me.”

“Why don’t we just get down to the truth,” Rizzoli
cut
in.

“The truth?” asked Victor.

“The real reason you came to Boston.”

“Why don’t
you
tell me which answer you’re
fishing
for, and I’ll just give it to you? It’ll save us both time.”

Rizzoli dropped a folder on the table. “Take a look at
those.”

He opened it and saw it was the set of photographs from the
devastated
village. “I’ve already seen these,” he said, and closed the
folder
again. “Maura showed them to me.”

“You don’t seem very interested.”

“It’s not exactly pleasant viewing.”

“It’s not meant to be. Take another look.” She
opened
the folder, fished out one of the photos, and slapped it on top. “This one
in
particular.”

Victor looked at Crowe, as though seeking an ally against this
unpleasant
woman, but Crowe simply gave him a what-can-you-do? shrug.

“The photo, Dr. Banks,” said Rizzoli.

“Exactly what am I supposed to say about it?”

“That was a One Earth clinic in that village.”

“Is that so surprising? We go where people need us. Which
means
we’re sometimes in uncomfortable or even dangerous situations.” He was
still not looking at the photo, still avoiding the grotesque image.
“It’s
the price we pay as humanitarian workers. We take on the same risks our patients
do.”

“What happened in that village?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious.”

“Look at the picture.”

“It’s all in the police report, I’m sure.”

“
Look
at the goddamn picture! Tell me what you
see.”

At last his gaze fell on the photograph. After a moment, he said:
“Burned
bodies. Lying in front of our clinic.”

“And how did they die?”

“I’m told it was a massacre.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

His gaze snapped up to hers. “I wasn’t there, Detective.
I was at home in San Francisco when I got the phone call from India. So you can
hardly
expect me to provide the details.”

“How do you know it was a massacre?”

“That was the report we got from the police in Andhra
Pradesh.
That it was either a political or religious attack, and there were no witnesses,
since the village was relatively isolated. People tend to avoid having much
contact
with lepers.”

“Yet they burned the bodies. Don’t you find that
odd?”

“Why is it odd?”

“The bodies were dragged into large piles before they were
set
on fire. You’d think that no one would want to touch a leper. So why stack
the
bodies together?”

“It would be more efficient, I suppose. To burn them in
groups.”

“Efficient?”

“I’m trying to come at this logically.”

“And what’s the logical reason for burning them at
all?”

“Rage? Vandalism? I don’t know.”

“All that work, moving the dead bodies. Hauling in the cans
of
gasoline. Building wooden pyres. And the whole time, the threat of discovery was
hanging over them.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m saying the bodies
had
to be burned. To
destroy
the evidence.”

“Evidence of what? It’s clearly a massacre. No
fire’s
going to hide that.”

“But a fire would hide the fact it’s not a
massacre.”

She was not surprised when his gaze dropped away, his eyes
suddenly
reluctant to meet hers.

“I don’t know why you’re asking me these
questions,”
he said. “Why don’t you believe the police report?”

“Because either they got it wrong, or they were bribed.”

“You know this, do you?”

She tapped the photo. “Look again, Dr. Banks.”

“I’d rather not.”

“These aren’t just human corpses burned here. The goats
were
slaughtered and burned as well. So were the chickens. What a waste—all that
nutritious meat. Why kill goats and chickens, and then burn them?”

Victor gave a sarcastic laugh. “Because they might have had
leprosy
too? I don’t know!”

“That doesn’t explain what happened to the birds.”

Victor shook his head. “What?”

Rizzoli pointed to the clinic’s corrugated tin roof. “I
bet
you didn’t even notice this. But Dr. Isles did. These dark blots on top of
the
roof here. At first glance, they just look like fallen leaves. But isn’t it
strange, that there are leaves here, when there don’t seem to be any trees
nearby?”

He said nothing. He was sitting very still, his head bowed so that
she could not read his face. His body language alone told her he was bracing for
the inevitable.

“They’re not leaves, Dr. Banks. They’re dead birds.
Some kind of crows, I believe. Three of them are lying there at the edge of the
photo.
How do you explain that?”

He gave a careless shrug. “They could have been shot, I
suppose.”

“The police didn’t mention any evidence of gunfire.
There
were no bullet holes in the building, no recovered cartridge cases. No bullet
fragments
found in any of the victims. They did report that several of the corpses had
fractured
skulls, so they assumed the victims were all clubbed to death while they
slept.”

“That’s what I would assume, too.”

“So how do we explain the birds? Surely those crows
didn’t
just sit on that roof, waiting for someone to climb up there and whack them over
the head with a stick.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at. What do dead
birds
have to do with this?”

“They have everything to do with it. They weren’t
clubbed,
and they weren’t shot.”