The Surgeon (8 page)

There's no overlap. No common anchor point or node in which
their lives intersected. This is what puzzles me most. It's key to
the investigation. What is the link between Sterling and Ortiz?"
Rizzoli's gaze dropped back to the photo. To the gold
pendant dangling at Diana's throat. I could be wrong. I can't
say anything, not until I'm certain, or it'll be one more thing
Darren Crowe will use to ridicule me.
"You're aware there's another twist to this case?" said
Moore. "Dr. Catherine Cordell."
Zucker nodded. "The surviving victim from Savannah."
"Certain details about Andrew Capra's killing spree were
never released to the public. The use of catgut suture. The
folding of the victims' nightclothes. Yet our unsub here is
reenacting those very details."
"Killers do communicate with each other. It's a twisted
brotherhood, of sorts."
"Capra's been dead two years. He can't communicate with
anyone."
"But while he was alive, he may have shared all the
gruesome details with our unsub. That's the explanation I'm
hoping for. Because the alternative is far more disturbing."
"That our unsub had access to the Savannah police

reports," said Moore.
Zucker nodded. "Which would mean he's someone in law
enforcement."
The room fell silent. Rizzoli couldn't help looking around at
her colleagues--all of them men. She thought about the kind
of man who is drawn to police work. The kind of man who
loves the power and authority, the gun and the badge. The
chance to control others. Precisely what our unsub craves.
When the meeting broke up, Rizzoli waited for the other
detectives to leave the conference room before she
approached Zucker.
"Can I hold on to this photo?" she asked.
"May I ask why?"
"A hunch."
Zucker gave her one of his creepy John Malkovich smiles.
"Share it with me?"
"I don't share my hunches."
"It's bad luck?"
"Protecting my turf."

"This is a team investigation."
"Funny thing about teamwork. Whenever I share my
hunches, someone else always gets the credit." With photo in
hand, she walked out of the room and immediately regretted
making that last comment. But all day she had been irritated
by her male colleagues, by their little remarks and snubs that
together added up to a pattern of disdain. The last straw was
the interview that she and Darren Crowe had conducted of
Elena Ortiz's next-door neighbor. Crowe had repeatedly
interrupted Rizzoli's questions to ask his own. When she'd
yanked him out of the room and called him on his behavior,
he'd shot back the classic male insult:
"I guess it's that time of month."
No, she was going to keep her hunches to herself. If they
didn't pan out, then no one could ridicule her. And if they bore
fruit, she would rightfully claim credit.
She returned to her workstation and sat down to take a
closer look at Diana Sterling's graduation photo. Reaching for
her magnifying glass, she suddenly focused on the bottle of
mineral water she always kept on her desk, and her temper
boiled up when she saw what had been shoved inside.
Don't react, she thought. Don't let 'em see they've gotten to
you.

Ignoring the water bottle and the disgusting object it
contained, she aimed the magnifying glass on Diana
Sterling's throat. The room seemed unusually hushed. She
could almost feel Darren Crowe's gaze as he waited for her to
explode.
It ain't gonna happen, asshole. This time I'm gonna keep
my cool.
She focused on Diana's necklace. She had almost missed
this detail, because the face was what had initially drawn her
attention, those gorgeous cheekbones, the delicate arch of
the eyebrows. Now she studied the two pendants dangling
from the delicate chain. One pendant was in the shape of a
lock; the other was a tiny key. The key to my heart, thought
Rizzoli.
She rifled through the files on her desk and found the
photos from the Elena Ortiz crime scene. With the magnifying
glass, she studied a close-up shot of the victim's torso.
Through the layer of dried blood caked on the neck, she could
just make out the fine line of the gold chain; the two pendants
were obscured.
She reached for the phone and dialed the M.E.'s office.
"Dr. Tierney is out for the afternoon," said his secretary.
"Can I help you?"
"It's about an autopsy he did last Friday. Elena Ortiz."

"Yes?"
"The victim was wearing an item of jewelry when she was
brought into the morgue. Do you still have it?"
"Let me check."
Rizzoli waited, tapping her pencil on the desk. The water
bottle was right there in front of her, but she steadfastly
ignored it. Her anger had given way to excitement. To the
exhilaration of the hunt.
"Detective Rizzoli?"
"Still here."
"The personal effects were claimed by the family. A pair of
gold stud earrings, a necklace, and a ring."
"Who signed for them?"
"Anna Garcia, the victim's sister."
"Thank you." Rizzoli hung up and glanced at her watch.
Anna Garcia lived all the way out in Danvers. It meant a drive
through rush hour traffic. . . .
"Do you know where Frost is?" asked Moore.
Rizzoli glanced up, startled, to see him standing beside her

desk. "No, I don't."
"He hasn't been around?"
"I don't keep the boy on a leash."
There was a pause. Then he asked, "What's this?"
"Ortiz crime scene photos."
"No. The thing in the bottle."
She looked up again and saw a frown on his face. "What
does it look like? It's a fucking tampon. Someone around
here has a real sophisticated sense of humor." She glanced
pointedly at Darren Crowe, who suppressed a snicker and
turned away.
"I'll take care of this," Moore said and picked up the bottle.
"Hey. Hey! " she snapped. "Goddamnit, Moore. Forget it!"
He walked into Lieutenant Marquette's office. Through the
glass partition she saw Moore set the bottle with the tampon
on Marquette's desk. Marquette turned and stared in Rizzoli's
direction.
Here we go again. Now they'll be saying the bitch can't
take a practical joke.

She grabbed her purse, gathered up the photos, and
walked out of the unit.
She was already at the elevators when Moore called out:
"Rizzoli?"
"Don't fight my fucking battles for me, okay?" she snapped.
"You weren't fighting. You were just sitting there with that . . .
thing on your desk."
"Tampon. Can you say the word nice and loud?"
"Why are you angry with me? I'm trying to stick up for you."
"Look, Saint Thomas, this is how it works in the real world
for women. I file a complaint, I'm the one who gets the shaft. A
note goes in my personnel record. Does not play well with
boys. If I complain again, my reputation's sealed. Rizzoli the
whiner. Rizzoli the wuss."
"You're letting them win if you don't complain."
"I tried it your way. It doesn't work. So don't do me any
favors, okay?" She slung her purse over her shoulder and
stepped onto the elevator.
The instant the door closed between them, she wanted to
take back those words. Moore didn't deserve such a rebuke.
He had always been polite, always the gentleman, and in her

anger she had flung the unit's nickname for him in his face.
Saint Thomas. The cop who never stepped over the line,
never swore, never lost his cool.
And then there were the sad circumstances of his personal
life. Two years ago, his wife, Mary, had collapsed from a
cerebral hemorrhage. For six months she'd hung on in the
twilight zone of a coma, but until the day she actually died
Moore had refused to give up hope that she'd recover. Even
now, a year and a half after Mary's death, he did not seem to
accept it. He still wore his wedding ring, still kept her photo on
his desk. Rizzoli had watched the marriages of too many other
cops disintegrate, had watched the changing gallery of
women's photos on her colleagues' desks. On Moore's desk,
the image of Mary remained, her smiling face a permanent
fixture.
Saint Thomas? Rizzoli gave a cynical shake of the head. If
there were any real saints in the world, they sure as hell
wouldn't be cops.
One wanted him to live, the other wanted him to die, and both
claimed to love him more. The son and daughter of Herman
Gwadowski faced each other across their father's bed, and
neither was willing to give in.
"You weren't the one who had to take care of Dad," Marilyn
said. "I cooked his meals. I cleaned his house. I took him to

the doctor every month. When did you even visit him? You
always had better things to do."
"I live in L.A., for god's sake," snapped Ivan. "I have a
business."
"You could have flown out once a year. How hard was that?"
"Well, I'm here now."
"Oh, right. Mr. Big Shot swoops in to save the day. You
couldn't be bothered to visit before. But now you want
everything done."
"I can't believe you'd just let him go."
"I don't want him to suffer anymore."
"Or maybe you just want him to stop draining his bank
account."
Every muscle in Marilyn's face snapped taut. "You bastard."
Catherine could listen no more, and she cut in: "This isn't
the place to be discussing it. Please, can you both step out of
the room?"
For a moment, brother and sister eyed each other in hostile
silence, as though just the act of being the first to leave was a
surrender. Then Ivan stalked out, an intimidating figure in a

tailored suit. His sister, Marilyn, looking every bit the tired
suburban housewife she was, gave her father's hand a
squeeze and followed her brother.
In the hallway, Catherine laid out the grim facts.
"Your father has been in a coma since the accident. His
kidneys are now failing. Because of his long-term diabetes,
they were already impaired, and the trauma made things
worse."
"How much was due to surgery?" asked Ivan. "The
anesthetic you gave him?"
Catherine suppressed her rising temper and said, evenly:
"He was unconscious when he came in. Anesthesia was not a
factor. But tissue damage puts a strain on kidneys, and his
are shutting down. Plus, he has a diagnosis of prostate
cancer that's already spread to his bones. Even if he does
wake up, those problems remain."
"You want us to give up, don't you?" said Ivan.
"I simply want you to rethink his code status. If his heart
should stop, we don't have to resuscitate him. We can let him
go peacefully."
"You mean, just let him die."
"Yes."

Ivan gave a snort. "Let me tell you something about my dad.
He's not a quitter. And neither am I."
"For god's sake, Ivan, this isn't about winning or losing!"
said Marilyn. "It's about when to let go."
"And you're so quick to do that, aren't you?" he said, turning
to face her. "The first sign of difficulty, little Marilyn always
gives up and lets Daddy bail her out. Well, he never bailed me
out."
Tears glistened in Marilyn's eyes. "It's not about Dad, is it?
It's about you having to win."
"No, it's about giving him a fighting chance." Ivan looked at
Catherine. "I want everything done for my father. I hope that's
absolutely clear."
Marilyn wiped tears from her face as she watched her
brother walk away. "How can he say he loves him, when he
never came to see him?" She looked at Catherine. "I don't
want my dad resuscitated. Can you put that in the chart?"
This was the sort of ethical dilemma every doctor dreaded.
Although Catherine sided with Marilyn, the brother's last
words had carried a definite threat.
She said, "I can't change the order until you and your
brother agree on this."

"He'll never agree. You heard him."
"Then you'll have to talk to him some more. Convince him."
"You're afraid he'll sue, aren't you? That's why you won't
change the order."
"I know he's angry."
Sadly Marilyn nodded. "That's how he wins. It's how he
always wins."
I can stitch a body back together again, thought Catherine.
But I cannot mend this broken family.
The pain and hostility of that meeting still clung to her when
she walked out of the hospital a half hour later. It was Friday
afternoon and a free weekend stretched ahead, yet as she
drove out of the medical center parking garage she felt no
sense of liberation. It was even hotter today than yesterday, in
the nineties, and she looked forward to the coolness of her
apartment, to sitting down with an iced tea and the TV tuned
to The Discovery Channel.
She was waiting at the first intersection for the light to turn
green when her gaze drifted to the name of the cross street.
Worcester.
It was the street where Elena Ortiz had lived. The victim's
address had been mentioned in the Boston Globe article,

which Catherine had finally felt compelled to read.
The light changed. On impulse, she turned onto Worcester
Street. She'd never had reason to drive this way before, but
something drew her onward. The morbid need to see where
the killer had struck and to see the building where her own
personal nightmare had come to life for another woman. Her
hands were damp, and she could feel her pulse quickening as
she watched the numbers on the buildings climb.
At Elena Ortiz's address, she pulled over to the curb.
There was nothing distinctive about this edifice, nothing that
shouted to her of terror and death. She saw just another three-
story brick building.
She stepped out of her car and stared at the windows of the
upper floors. Which apartment had been Elena's? The one
with the striped curtains? Or the one with the jungle of hanging
plants? She approached the front entrance and looked at the
tenant names. There were six apartments; Apartment 2A's
tenant name was blank. Already Elena had been erased, the
victim purged from the ranks of the living. No one wanted to
be reminded of death.
According to the Globe, the killer had gained access by
way of a fire escape. Backing up onto the sidewalk, Catherine
spotted the steel lattice snaking up the alley side of the
building. She took a few steps into the gloom of the alley, then
abruptly halted. The back of her neck was prickling. She

turned to look at the street and saw a truck rattle by, a woman
jogging. A couple getting into their car. Nothing that should
make her feel threatened, yet she could not ignore the silent
shouts of panic.
She returned to her car, locked the doors, and sat clutching
the steering wheel, repeating to herself: "Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong." As cold air blasted from the car vent, she
felt her pulse gradually slow. At last, with a sigh, she leaned
back.
Her gaze turned, once again, to Elena Ortiz's apartment
building.
Only then did she focus on the car, parked in the alley. On
the license plate mounted on its rear bumper.
POSEY5.
In an instant she was fumbling through her purse for the
detective's business card. With shaking hands she dialed his
number on her car phone.
He answered with a businesslike, "Detective Moore."
"This is Catherine Cordell," she said. "You came to see me
a few days ago."
"Yes, Dr. Cordell?"