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First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Bantam Press
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Copyright © Tess Gerritsen 2017
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
The Surgeon
The Apprentice
The Sinner
Body Double
Vanish
The Mephisto Club
Keeping the Dead
The Killing Place
The Silent Girl
Last to Die
Die Again
Girl Missing
Harvest
Life Support
The Bone Garden
Playing with Fire
To the divine Ms. Margaret Ruley
WHEN I WAS seven years old, I learned how important it is to cry at funerals. On that particular summer day, the man lying in the coffin was my great uncle Orson, who was most memorable for his foul-smelling cigars and his stinky breath and his unabashed farting. While he was alive, he pretty much ignored me, the way I’d ignored him, so I was not in the least bit grief-stricken by his death. I did not see why I should have to attend his funeral, but that is not a choice seven-year-olds are allowed to make. And so that day I found myself squirming on a church pew, bored and sweating in a black dress, wondering why I couldn’t have stayed home with Daddy, who had flat-out refused to come. Daddy said he’d be a hypocrite if he pretended to grieve for a man he despised. I didn’t know what that word, hypocrite, meant, but I knew I didn’t want to be one either. Yet there I was, wedged between my mother and Aunt Sylvia, forced to listen to an endless parade of people offering insipid praise for the unremarkable Uncle Orson. A proudly independent man! He was passionate about his hobbies! How he loved his stamp collection!
No one mentioned his bad breath.
I amused myself through the endless memorial service by studying the heads of the people in the pew in front of us. I noticed that Aunt Donna’s hat was dusted with white dandruff, that Uncle Charlie had dozed off and his toupee had slipped askew. It looked like a brown rat trying to crawl down the side of his head. I did what any normal seven-year-old girl would do.
I burst out laughing.
The reaction was immediate. People turned and frowned at me. My mortified mother sank five sharp fingernails into my arm and hissed, “Stop it!”
“But his hair’s fallen off! It looks like a rat!”
Her fingernails dug deeper. “We will discuss this later, Holly.”
At home, there was no discussion. Instead, there was shouting and a slap on the face, and that’s how I learned what constituted appropriate funeral behavior. I learned that one must be somber and silent and that, sometimes, tears are expected.
Four years later, at my mother’s funeral, I made a point of noisily shedding copious tears because that was what everyone expected of me.
But today, at the funeral of Sarah Basterash, I’m not certain whether anyone expects me to cry. It’s been more than a decade since I last saw the girl I knew in school as Sarah Byrne. We were never close, so I can’t really say that I mourn her passing. In truth, I’ve come to her funeral in Newport only out of curiosity. I want to know how she died. I need to know how she died. Such a terrible tragedy is what everyone in the church is murmuring around me. Her husband was out of town, Sarah had a few drinks, and she fell asleep with a candle burning on her nightstand. The fire that killed her was merely an accident. That, at least, is what everyone says.
It’s what I want to believe.
The little church in Newport is packed to capacity, filled with all the friends that Sarah made in her short life, most of whom I’ve never met. Nor have I met her husband, Kevin, who under happier circumstances would be quite an attractive man, someone I might make a play for, but today he looks genuinely broken. Is this what grief does to you?
I turn to survey the church, and I spot an old high school classmate named Kathy sitting behind me, her face blotchy, her mascara smeared from crying. Almost all the women and many of the men are crying, because a soprano is singing that old Quaker hymn “Simple Gifts,” and that always seems to bring on the tears. For an instant, Kathy and I lock gazes, hers brimming and wet, mine cool and dry-eyed. I’ve changed so much since high school that I can’t imagine she recognizes me, yet her gaze is transfixed and she keeps staring at me as if she’s spotted a ghost.
I turn and face forward again.
By the time “Simple Gifts” is over, I too have managed to produce tears, just like everyone else.
I join the long line of mourners to pay my last respects, and as I file past the closed coffin, I study Sarah’s photograph, which is displayed on an easel. She was only twenty-six, four years younger than I am, and in the photo she is dewy and pink-cheeked and smiling, the same pretty blonde I remember from our school days, when I was the girl no one noticed, the phantom who lurked in the periphery. Now here I am, my skin still flush with life, while Sarah, pretty little Sarah, is nothing but charred bones in a box. I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks as they look at the image of Sarah Before the Fire; they see the smiling face in the photo and imagine scorched flesh and blackened skull.
The line moves forward, and I offer my condolences to Kevin. He murmurs, “Thank you for coming.” He has no idea who I am or how I knew Sarah, but he sees that my cheeks are tearstained, and he grasps my hand in gratitude. I have wept for his dead wife, and that is all it takes to pass muster.
I slip out of the church into the cold November wind and walk away at a brisk pace, because I don’t want to be waylaid by Kathy or any other childhood acquaintances. Over the years, I’ve managed to avoid them all.
Or perhaps they were avoiding me.
It is only two o’clock, and although my boss at Booksmart Media has given me the whole day off, I consider going back to the office to catch up on emails and phone calls. I am the publicist for a dozen authors and I need to schedule media appearances, mail out galleys, and write pitch letters. But before I head back to Boston, there is one more stop I have to make.
I drive to Sarah’s house—or what used to be her house. Now there are only blackened remains, charred timbers, and a pile of soot-stained bricks. A white picket fence that once enclosed the front garden lies smashed and flattened, wrecked by the fire crew when they dragged their hoses and ladders from the street. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the house must already have been an inferno.
I get out of my car and approach the ruins. The air is still foul with the stench of smoke. Standing there on the sidewalk, I can make out the faint glint of a stainless-steel refrigerator buried in that blackened mess. Just a glance at this Newport neighborhood tells me this would have been an expensive house, and I wonder what sort of business Sarah’s husband is in, or if there’s money in his family. An advantage I certainly never had.
The wind gusts and dead leaves rattle across my shoes, a brittle sound that brings back another autumn day, twenty years ago, when I was ten years old and crunching across dead leaves in the woods. That day still casts its shadow across my life, and it’s the reason I am standing here today.
I look down at the makeshift memorial that’s materialized in Sarah’s honor. People have left bouquets of flowers, and I see a mound of wilted roses and lilies and carnations, floral tributes to a young woman who was clearly loved. Suddenly I focus on a bit of greenery that is not part of any bouquet but has been draped across the other flowers, like an afterthought.
It is a palm leaf. Symbol of the martyr.
A chill scrabbles up my spine and I back away. Through the thudding of my heart, I hear the sound of an approaching car, and I turn to see a Newport police cruiser slow down to a crawl. The windows are rolled up and I cannot make out the officer’s face, but I know he’s giving me a long and careful look as he passes by. I turn away and duck back into my car.
There I sit for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to slow down and my hands to stop trembling. I look again at the ruins of the house, and I once again picture Sarah at six years old. Pretty little Sarah Byrne, bouncing on the school-bus seat in front of me. Five of us rode the school bus that afternoon.
Now there are only four of us left.
“Goodbye, Sarah,” I murmur. Then I start the car and drive back to Boston.
EVEN MONSTERS WERE mortal.
The woman lying on the other side of the window might appear to be as human as all the other patients in this intensive-care unit, but Dr. Maura Isles knew only too well that Amalthea Lank was indeed a monster. Behind the cubicle window was the creature who stalked Maura’s nightmares, who cast a shadow over Maura’s past, and whose face foretold Maura’s future.
Here is my mother.
“We’d heard that Mrs. Lank had a daughter, but we didn’t realize you were right down the road in Boston,” said Dr. Wang. Was that a note of criticism she heard in his voice? Disapproval that she’d neglected her filial duties and failed to turn up at the bedside of her dying mother?
“She is my biological mother,” said Maura, “but I was just an infant when she gave me up for adoption. I learned about her only a few years ago.”
“You’ve met her, though?”
“Yes, but I haven’t spoken to her since …” Maura paused. Since I swore I’d have nothing more to do with her. “I didn’t know she was in the ICU until the nurse called me this afternoon.”
“She was admitted here two days ago, after she developed a fever and her white count crashed.”
“How low is it?”
“Her neutrophil count—that’s a specific type of white blood cell—is only five hundred. It should be triple that.”
“I assume you’ve started empiric antibiotics?” She saw him blink in surprise and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Wang. I should have mentioned that I’m a physician. I work for the medical examiner’s office.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.” He cleared his throat and instantly shifted to the far-more-technical language they shared as medical doctors. “Yes, we started antibiotics right after we drew blood cultures. About five percent of patients on her chemotherapy regimen get febrile neutropenia.”
“Which chemo regimen is she on?”
“Folfirinox. It’s a combination of four drugs, including fluorouracil and leucovorin. According to one French study, Folfirinox definitely prolongs life for patients with metastatic pancreatic cancer, but they have to be closely monitored for fevers. Fortunately, the prison nurse at Framingham stayed on top of that.” He paused, searching for a way to pose a delicate question. “I hope you don’t mind me asking this.”
“Yes?”
He looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the subject he was about to broach. It was far easier to discuss blood counts and antibiotic protocols and scientific data, because facts were neither good nor evil; they did not invite judgment. “Her medical record from Framingham doesn’t mention the reason why she’s in prison. All we were told is that Mrs. Lank is serving a life term with no chance of parole. The guard assigned to watch her insists that his prisoner stay handcuffed to the bed rail, which seems pretty barbaric to me.”
“That’s simply their protocol for hospitalized prisoners.”
“She’s dying of pancreatic cancer, and anyone can see how frail she is. She’s certainly not going to jump up and escape. But the guard told us she’s far more dangerous than she looks.”
“She is,” said Maura.
“Why was she sent to prison?”
“Homicides. Multiple.”
He stared through the window at Amalthea. “That lady?”
“Now you understand the reason for the handcuffs. And for the guard stationed outside her cubicle.” Maura glanced at the uniformed officer who sat by the doorway, monitoring their conversation.
“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Wang. “This must be difficult for you, knowing that your mother—”
“Is a murderer? Yes.” And you don’t know the worst of it. You don’t know about the rest of the family.
Through the cubicle window, Maura saw Amalthea’s eyes slowly open. One bony finger beckoned to her, a gesture as chilling as the command of Satan’s claw. I should turn and leave now, she thought. Amalthea did not deserve anyone’s pity or kindness. But Maura did share a bond with this woman, a bond that went as deep as their molecules. If only by DNA, Amalthea Lank was her mother.
The male guard kept a close eye on Maura as she donned an isolation gown and mask. This would be no private visit; the guard would be observing their every look, every gesture, and the inevitable gossip would surely make the rounds of this hospital. Dr. Maura Isles, the Boston medical examiner whose scalpel had sliced open countless cadavers, who regularly followed in the wake of the Grim Reaper, was the daughter of a serial killer. Death was their family business.
Amalthea looked up at Maura with eyes as black as chips of obsidian. Oxygen hissed softly through her nasal prongs, and on the monitor above the bed, a cardiac rhythm blipped across the screen. Proof that even someone as soulless as Amalthea possessed a heart.
“You came to see me after all,” whispered Amalthea. “After you swore you never would.”
“They told me you’re critically ill. This may be our last chance to talk, and I wanted to see you while I still could.”
“Because you need something from me?”
Maura gave a disbelieving shake of the head. “What would I need from you?”
“It’s how the world works, Maura. All sensible creatures seek an advantage. Everything we do is out of self-interest.”
“That may be how it is for you. Not for me.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Because you’re dying. Because you keep writing me, asking me to visit. Because I like to think I have some sense of compassion.”
“Which I don’t have.”
“Why do you think you’re handcuffed to that bed?”
Amalthea grimaced and closed her eyes, her mouth suddenly tightening in pain. “I suppose I deserved that,” she murmured. Sweat glistened on her upper lip and for a moment she lay perfectly still, as though any movement, even drawing a breath, was excruciating. The last time Maura had seen her, Amalthea’s black hair was thick and generously streaked with silver. Now only a few wisps clung to her scalp, the last survivors of a brutal round of chemotherapy. The flesh of her temples had wasted away, and her skin sagged like a collapsing tent over the jutting bones of her face.
“You look like you’re in pain. Do you need morphine?” Maura asked. “I’ll call the nurse.”
“No.” Amalthea slowly released a breath. “Not yet. I need to be awake. I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About you, Maura. Who you are.”
“I know who I am.”
“Do you, really?” Amalthea’s eyes were dark and fathomless. “You’re my daughter. You can’t deny it.”
“But I’m nothing like you.”
“Because you were raised by the kind and respectable Mr. and Mrs. Isles in San Francisco? Because you went to the best schools, had the finest education? Because you work on behalf of truth and justice?”
“Because I didn’t slaughter two dozen women. Or were there more? Were there other victims that didn’t show up in your final tally?”
“That all happened in the past. I want to talk about the future.”
“Why bother? You won’t be here.” It was a heartless thing to say, but Maura was not in the mood to be charitable. Suddenly she felt manipulated, lured here by a woman who knew exactly which puppet strings to pull. For months, Amalthea had been sending her letters. I’m dying of cancer. I’m your only blood relative. This will be your last chance to say goodbye. Few words held more power than last chance. Let that opportunity pass, and what followed might be a lifetime of regret.
“Yes, I’ll be dead,” said Amalthea matter-of-factly. “And you’ll be left to wonder who your people are.”
“My people?” Maura laughed. “As if we’re some sort of tribe?”
“We are. We belong to a tribe that profits from the dead. Your father and I did. Your brother did. And isn’t it ironic that you do as well? Ask yourself, Maura, why did you choose your profession? Such a strange one to pursue. Why aren’t you a teacher or a banker? What compels you to slice open the dead?”
“It’s about the science. I want to understand why they died.”
“Of course. The intellectual answer.”
“Is there a better one?”
“It’s because of the darkness. We both share it. The difference is, I’m not afraid of it, but you are. You deal with your fear by cutting it open with your scalpels, hoping to reveal its secrets. But that doesn’t work, does it? It doesn’t solve your fundamental problem.”
“Which is?”
“That it’s inside you. The darkness is part of you.”
Maura looked into her mother’s eyes, and what she saw there made her throat suddenly go dry. Dear God, I see myself. She backed away. “I’m done here. You asked me to come and I did. Don’t send me any more letters, because I won’t answer them.” She turned. “Goodbye, Amalthea.”
“You’re not the only one I write to.”
Maura paused, about to open the cubicle door.
“I hear things. Things you might want to know.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “You don’t seem interested, but you will be. Because you’ll find another one soon.”
Another what?
Maura hovered on the verge of walking out, struggling not to be sucked back into the conversation. Don’t respond, she thought. Don’t let her trap you here.
It was her cell phone that saved her, its deep-throated buzz trembling in her pocket. Without a backward glance, she stepped out of the cubicle, yanked off the face mask, and fumbled under the isolation gown for the phone. “Dr. Isles,” she answered.
“Got an early Christmas present for you,” said Detective Jane Rizzoli, sounding far too breezy for the news she was about to deliver. “Twenty-six-year-old white female. Dead in bed, fully dressed.”
“Where?”
“We’re in the Leather District. It’s a loft apartment on Utica Street. I can’t wait to hear what you think about this one.”
“You said she’s in bed? Her own?”
“Yeah. Her father found her.”
“And is this clearly a homicide?”
“No doubt about it. But it’s what happened to her afterward that’s making Frost freak out over here.” Jane paused and added quietly, “At least, I hope she was dead when it happened.”
Through the cubicle window, Maura saw that Amalthea was watching the conversation, eyes sharp with interest. Of course she would be interested; death was their family trade.
“How soon can you get here?” said Jane.
“I’m in Framingham at the moment. It might take me a while, depending on traffic.”
“Framingham? What’re you doing out there?”
It was not a subject Maura wanted to discuss, certainly not with Jane. “I’m leaving now” was all she said. She hung up and looked at her dying mother. I’m done here, she thought. Now I never have to see you again.
Amalthea’s lips slowly curved into a smile.
BY THE TIME Maura arrived in Boston, darkness had fallen and a bone-chilling wind had driven most pedestrians indoors. Utica Street was narrow and already crowded with official vehicles, so she parked around the corner and paused to survey the deserted street. Over the last few days there’d been snow followed by a thaw followed by this bitter cold, and the sidewalk had the treacherous gleam of ice. Time to go to work. Time to put Amalthea behind me, she thought. Which was exactly what Jane had advised her to do months ago: Don’t visit Amalthea; don’t even think about her. Let the woman rot in jail.
Now it’s over and done with, thought Maura. I’ve said my goodbyes and she is finally out of my life.
She stepped out of her Lexus and the wind whipped the hem of her long black coat, piercing straight through the fabric of her woolen trousers. She walked as quickly as she dared to on the slick sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a shuttered travel agency, and turned the corner onto Utica Street, which cut like a narrow canyon between red-brick warehouses. Once this had been a district of leather workers and wholesalers. Many of those nineteenth-century buildings had been converted to loft apartments, and what had once been an industrial part of the city was now a trendy neighborhood for artists.
Maura stepped around construction rubbish, which partially blocked the street, and spied blue cruiser lights ahead, flashing like a grim homing beacon. Through the windshield she could see the silhouettes of two patrolmen sitting inside, their engine running to keep the vehicle warm. A cruiser window rolled down as she approached.
“Hey, Doc!” The patrolman grinned out at her. “You missed the excitement. The ambulance just left.” Though he looked familiar, and he clearly recognized her, she had no idea what his name was, something that happened all too frequently.
“What excitement?” she asked.
“Rizzoli was inside talking to some guy when he clutches his chest and keels over. Probably a heart attack.”
“Is he still alive?”
“He was when they drove off with him. You should’ve been here. They could’ve used a doctor.”
“Wrong specialty.” She glanced at the building. “Rizzoli still inside?”
“Yeah. Just go up the stairs. It’s a real nice apartment up there. Cool place to live, if you’re not dead.” As the window rolled up, she could hear the cops chuckling at their own humor. Ha-ha, death-scene joke. Never funny.
She paused in the biting wind to pull on shoe covers and gloves, then pushed into the building. As the door slammed shut with a bang behind her, she stopped dead in her tracks, confronted by the image of a blood-spattered girl. Hanging on the foyer wall like a macabre welcome sign was a poster for the horror film Carrie, a splash of Technicolor gore that would startle every visitor who walked in the door. A whole gallery of other movie posters adorned the red-brick wall along the stairway. As she climbed the steps she passed Day of the Triffids, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Birds, and Night of the Living Dead.
“You finally got here,” Jane called down from the second-floor landing. She pointed to Night of the Living Dead. “Imagine coming home to that happy image every night.”
“These posters all look like originals. They’re not to my taste, but they’re probably pretty valuable.”
“Come in and get a load of something else that’s not to your taste. Sure as hell not my taste anyway.”
Maura followed Jane into the apartment and paused to admire the massive wood beams overhead. The floor still had its original wide oak planks, now polished to a high gloss. Tasteful renovations had transformed what was once a warehouse into a stunning brick-walled loft that was certainly unaffordable for any starving artist.
“Way nicer than my apartment,” said Jane. “I could move right in here, but first I’d get rid of that creepy thing on the wall.” She pointed to the monstrous red eye that stared from yet another horror-movie poster. “Notice the name of the movie?”
“I See You?” said Maura.
“Remember that title. It could be significant,” Jane said ominously. She led Maura through an open kitchen, past a vase filled with fresh roses and lilies, a lavish touch of spring on this December night. On the black granite countertop was a florist’s card with Happy Birthday! Love, Dad written in purple ink.
“You said she was found by her father?” said Maura.
“Yeah, he owns this building. Lets her live here rent-free. She was supposed to meet Dad for lunch today at the Four Seasons to celebrate her birthday. When she didn’t show up and she didn’t answer her cell phone, Dad drove here to check on her. Says he found the entrance unlocked, but everything else looked fine to him. Until he got to the bedroom.” Jane paused. “About this point in his story, he turned white, clutched his chest, and we had to call the ambulance.”
“The patrolman downstairs said the man was still alive when the ambulance left.”
“But he wasn’t looking good. After what we found in the bedroom, I was worried that Frost might need an ambulance too.”
Detective Barry Frost was standing in the far corner of the bedroom, determinedly focused on what he was jotting in a notebook. His wintry pallor was more pronounced than usual, and he managed only a feeble nod as Maura entered. She gave Frost scarcely a glance; her attention was fixed on the bed, where the victim was lying. The young woman lay in a strangely serene pose, her arms at her sides, as if she’d simply settled on top of the bedspread, fully dressed, for a nap. She was all in black, in leggings and a turtleneck, which emphasized the ghostly whiteness of her face. Her hair was black as well, but the blond roots betrayed the fact that her raven color was merely a dye job. Multiple gold studs pierced her ears, and a gold hoop gleamed on her right eyebrow. But it was what gaped beneath the eyebrows that drew Maura’s shocked attention.
Both eye sockets were empty. The contents had been scooped out, leaving behind only bloody hollows.
Stunned, Maura glanced down at the woman’s left hand. At what were nestled like two gruesome marbles in her open palm.
“And that’s what makes this a fun night, boys and girls,” Jane said.
“Bilateral globe enucleation,” said Maura softly.
“Is that some kind of fancy medical talk for someone cut out her eyeballs?”
“Yes.”
“I love how you give everything a nice dry clinical spin. It makes the fact she’s holding her own eyeballs somehow seem less, oh, totally fucked up.”
“Tell me about this victim,” said Maura.
Frost looked up reluctantly from his notebook. “Cassandra Coyle, twenty-six years old. Lives—lived here alone; no current boyfriend. She’s an independent filmmaker, has her own production company called Crazy Ruby Films. Works out of a small studio on South Street.”
“That’s another building that her dad owns,” added Jane. “Obviously there’s money in the family.”
Frost continued. “Her father says he last spoke to the victim yesterday afternoon, around five or six P.M., just as she was leaving her film studio. We’re gonna head over there next to interview her colleagues, try to nail down the exact time they last saw her.”
“What kind of films do they make?” asked Maura, although the answer had already been apparent, based on the movie posters she’d seen hanging in the loft.
“Horror flicks,” said Frost. “Her dad said they’d just finished filming their second one.”
“And that goes along with her sense of fashion,” said Jane, eyeing the victim’s multiple piercings and raven-black hair. “I thought Goth had gone out of style, but this gal totally rocked the look.”
Reluctantly, Maura focused again on what was cradled in the victim’s hand. Exposure to air had dried the corneas, and blue eyes that once glistened were now dull and clouded. Although the severed muscles had shriveled, she could identify the recti and oblique muscles that so precisely control the movements of the human eye. Those six muscles, working in intricate collaboration, allowed a hunter to track a duck through the sky, a student to scan a textbook.
“Please tell us she was already dead when he did … that,” said Jane.
“These enucleations appear to be postmortem, judging by the condition of the palpebrae.”
“The what?”
“The eyelids. Do you see how there’s almost no extraneous damage to the tissues? Whoever removed the globes took his time doing it, and that would be difficult if she were conscious and struggling. Also there’s minimal blood loss, which indicates to me that she had no pulse. Her circulation was already shut down when the first cut was made.” Maura paused, studying the hollowed-out sockets. “The symbolism is fascinating.”
Jane turned to Frost. “Didn’t I tell you she’d say that?”
“The eyes are considered the windows to the soul. Maybe this killer didn’t like what he saw in hers. Or he didn’t like the way she looked at him. Maybe he felt threatened by her gaze and reacted by cutting out the eyes.”
“Or maybe her last movie had something to do with it,” said Frost. “I See You.”
Maura looked at him. “That poster was for her movie?”
“She wrote and produced it. According to Dad, it was her first feature film. You never know who might have watched it. Maybe some weirdo.”
“Who might have been inspired by it,” said Maura, staring at the two eyes cupped in the victim’s hand.
“You ever seen a case like this, Doc?” asked Frost. “A victim with the eyes cut out?”
“Dallas,” Maura said. “It wasn’t my case, but I heard about it from a colleague. Three women were shot to death and their eyes excised postmortem. The killer’s first excision was surgically precise, like this one. But by the third victim, he’d gotten sloppy. Which was how they caught him.”
“So … a serial killer.”
“Who also happened to be skilled in taxidermy. After he was arrested, police found dozens of women’s photos in his apartment, and he’d snipped out all the eyes of the photos. He hated women and was sexually aroused when he hurt them.” She glanced at Frost. “But that’s the only case I’ve heard of. This sort of mutilation is unusual.”
“It’s a first for us,” said Jane.
“Let’s hope it’s your first and only.” Maura grasped the right arm, tried to flex the elbow, and found the joint immovable. “The skin is cold and she’s in full rigor mortis. Based on the phone call with her father, we know she was still alive around five P.M. yesterday. That narrows the postmortem interval to somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours.” She looked up. “Any witnesses who can help us narrow down time of death? Security cameras in the area?”
“Not on this block,” said Frost. “But I spotted a camera on the building around the corner, and it looks like it’s pointed right at the entrance to Utica Street. Maybe it caught her as she was walking home. And, if we’re lucky, it recorded someone else too.”
Maura peeled down the turtleneck collar to check for bruises or ligature marks, but she saw neither. Next she pulled up the victim’s black turtleneck to expose the torso and, with Jane’s help, rolled the body onto its side. The back was a deep purple, where blood had pooled after death. She pressed a gloved finger against the discolored flesh and found that livor mortis was fixed, which confirmed that the victim had been dead for at least twelve hours.
But what had caused this death? Except for the mutilated eyes, Maura saw no evidence of trauma. “No bullet wounds, no blood, no evidence of strangulation,” she said. “I see no other injuries.”
“He cuts out the eyeballs, but he doesn’t take them,” Jane said, frowning. “Instead, he leaves them in her hand, like some sick parting gift. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s a question for a psychologist.” Maura straightened. “I can’t determine the cause of death here. Let’s see what turns up at autopsy.”
“Maybe it was an OD,” suggested Frost.
“That’s certainly high on the list. The drug and tox screen will give us that answer.” Maura stripped off her gloves. “She’ll be first on my schedule tomorrow.”
Jane followed Maura out of the bedroom. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Maura?”
“I can’t tell you more until the autopsy.”
“I don’t mean about this case.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“On the phone, you said you were in Framingham. Please tell me you didn’t go to see that woman.”
Calmly, Maura buttoned up her coat. “You make it sound like I’ve committed a crime.”
“So you were there. I thought we both agreed you should stay away from her.”
“Amalthea’s been admitted to the ICU, Jane. She had complications from her chemotherapy, and I have no idea how much longer she’ll be alive.”
“She’s using you, playing on your sympathy. Geez, Maura, you’re just going to get hurt again.”
“You know, I really don’t want to talk about this.” Without a backward glance, Maura headed down the stairs and walked out of the building. Outside, a frigid wind funneled down the street, lashing her hair and face. As she walked toward her car, she heard the building door slam shut again. Glancing back, she saw that Jane had followed her outside.
“What does she want from you?” Jane asked.
“She’s dying of cancer. What do you think she wants? Maybe a little sympathy?”
“She’s messing with your head. She knows how to get to you. Look how she twisted her son.”
“You think I’d ever be like him?”
“Of course not! But you said it yourself once. You said you were born with the same streak of darkness that runs in the Lank family. Somehow she’ll find a way to use that to her advantage.”
Maura unlocked her Lexus. “I’ve got enough problems on my plate. I don’t need a lecture from you.”
“Okay, okay.” Jane held up both hands, a gesture of surrender. “I’m just looking out for you. You’re usually so smart. Please don’t do something stupid.”
Maura watched as Jane strode back to the crime scene. Back to the bedroom where a dead woman lay, her body frozen in rigor mortis. A woman with no eyes.
Suddenly Amalthea’s words came back to her: You’ll find another one soon.
Turning, she quickly scanned the street, surveying every doorway, every window. Was that a face watching her from the second floor? Did someone move in that alleyway? Everywhere she looked, she imagined ominous silhouettes. This was what Jane had warned her about. This was Amalthea’s power; she’d parted the curtain to reveal a nightmarish landscape where everything was painted in shadows.
Shivering, Maura climbed into her car and started the engine. Icy air blasted from the heater vent. It was time to go home.
Time to flee the darkness.
FROM THE COFFEE shop where I’m sitting, I watch the two women talking just outside the window. I recognize both of them, because I’ve seen them interviewed on television and have read about them in the news, usually in connection to murder. The one with the unruly dark hair is a homicide detective, and the tall woman in the long, elegant coat is the medical examiner. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can read their body language, the cop aggressively gesticulating, the doctor trying to retreat.
Abruptly the detective turns and walks away. The doctor stands very still for a moment, as if not certain whether to pursue her. Then she shakes her head in resignation, climbs into a sleek black Lexus, and drives away.
I wonder what that was all about?
I already know what drew them here on this bitterly cold night. An hour ago, I heard it on the news: A young woman has been murdered on Utica Street. The same street where Cassandra Coyle lives.
I peer down the entrance to Utica, but there’s nothing to see except the flashing lights of police cruisers. Does Cassandra now lie dead, or is it some other unlucky woman? I haven’t seen Cassie since middle school, and I wonder if I’d even recognize her. Certainly she would not recognize the new me, the Holly who now stands straight and looks you in the eye, who no longer lurks on the periphery, envying the golden girls. The years have polished my confidence and my sense of fashion. My black hair is now cut in a sleek bob, I’ve learned to walk in stilettos, and I’m wearing a two-hundred-dollar blouse that I shrewdly bought from the 75 percent–off rack. When you work as a publicist, you learn that appearances count, so I’ve adapted.
“What’s going on out there? Do you know?” a voice asks.
The man has materialized beside me so suddenly that I flinch in surprise. Usually I’m aware of everyone in my proximity, but I was focused on the police activity outside the coffee shop and I didn’t notice his approach. Hot guy is the first thing I think when I look at him. He’s a few years older than I am, in his mid-thirties, with a lean athletic build, blue eyes, and wheat-colored hair. I deduct a few points because he’s drinking a latte, and at this time of night, real men drink espresso. I’m willing to overlook that flaw because of those gorgeous blue eyes. They aren’t focused on me right now but on the activity outside the window. On all the official vehicles that have converged on the street where Cassandra Coyle lives.
Or lived.
“All those police cars out there,” he says. “I wonder what happened.”
“Something bad.”
He points. “Look, there’s the Channel Six van.”
We both sit for a moment sipping our drinks, watching the action on the street. Now another TV news van arrives, and several other patrons in the coffee shop gravitate to the window. I feel them pressing in around me, jostling for a better view. The sight of a mere police car isn’t enough to excite most jaded Bostonians, but when the TV cameras show up, our antennae perk up, because now we know that this is more than a fender bender or a double-parked car. Something newsworthy has happened.
As if to confirm our instincts, the white van from the medical examiner’s office rolls into view. Is it here to fetch Cassandra or some other unlucky victim? The sight of that van makes my pulse suddenly kick into a gallop. Don’t let it be her, I think. Let it be someone else, someone I don’t know.
“Uh-oh, medical examiner’s van,” says Blue Eyes. “That’s not good.”
“Did anyone see what happened?” a woman asks.
“Just a lot of police showing up.”
“Anyone hear gunshots or anything?”
“You were here first,” Blue Eyes says to me. “What did you see?”
Everyone looks in my direction. “The police cars were already here when I walked in. It must have happened some time ago.”
The others stand watching, hypnotized by the flashing lights. Blue Eyes settles onto the stool right beside me and tips sugar into his inappropriate-for-the-evening latte. I wonder if he chose that seat because he wants a ringside view of the action outside or if he’s trying to be friendly. The latter would be fine with me. In fact, I’m feeling an electric tingle up my thigh as my body automatically responds to his. I haven’t come here looking for company, but it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed a man’s intimate attentions. More than a month, if you don’t count the quickie hand job last week with the valet at the Colonnade Hotel.
“So. Do you live around here?” he asks. A promising opening, though unimaginative.
“No. Do you?”
“I live in the Back Bay. I was supposed to meet friends at the Italian restaurant down the street, but I’m way too early. Thought I’d stop in for coffee.”
“I live in the North End. I was here to meet friends too, but they canceled at the last minute.” How easily the lie slips off my lips, and he has no reason to doubt me. Most people automatically assume that you’re telling the truth, which makes life so much easier for people like me. I hold out my hand to shake his, a gesture that men find unnerving when a woman does it, but I want to set the parameters early. I want to make it clear that this is a meeting of equals.
We sit for a moment companionably sipping our coffees, watching the action. Police investigations are, for the most part, unexciting to watch. All you see are vehicles coming and going and people in uniforms walking in and out of buildings. You don’t get a view of what’s going on inside; you can only surmise, based on which personnel shows up, what the situation might be. There’s a calmness, even boredom, on all the cops’ faces. Whatever happened on Utica Street took place some hours ago, and investigators are simply assembling the pieces of the puzzle.
With nothing very interesting to watch, the other customers in the coffee shop drift away, leaving Blue Eyes and me alone at the window counter.
“I guess we’ll have to check the news to see what happened,” he says.
“It’s a murder.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw a homicide detective out there a few minutes ago.”
“Did he come over and introduce himself?”
“It’s a she. I don’t remember her name, but I’ve seen her on TV. The fact she’s a woman interests me. It makes me wonder why she chose that sort of job.”
He eyes me more closely. “Do you, uh, follow this sort of thing? Murders?”
“No, I’m just good at remembering faces. But I’m lousy at remembering names.”
“While we’re on that subject of names, mine is Everett.” He smiles, and charming laugh lines crease his eyes. “Now you’re free to forget it.”
“What if I don’t want to forget it?”
“I hope that means you think I’m memorable.”
I consider what might happen between us. Looking into his eyes, I suddenly know exactly what I want to happen: We go to his place in the Back Bay. We chase our coffees with a few glasses of wine. And then we rut all night like hot bunnies. What a shame he’s supposed to meet his friends for dinner in the neighborhood. I’m not at all interested in meeting his friends, and I’m not going to waste any time waiting by the phone for him to call me, so I guess this is hello and goodbye. Some things aren’t meant to happen, even if you want them to.
I drain my coffee cup and rise from my seat. “It was good to meet you, Everett.”
“Ah. You remembered my name.”
“Hope you have a nice dinner with your friends.”
“What if I don’t want to have dinner with them?”
“Isn’t that why you’re in the neighborhood?”
“Plans can change. I can call my friends and tell them I suddenly need to be somewhere else.”
“And where might that be?”
He stands up too, and we’re now eye-to-eye. That tingle in my leg spreads to my pelvis in warm, delicious waves, and all at once I forget about Cassandra and what her death might mean. My attention is only on this man and what’s about to happen between us.
“My place or yours?” he asks.
AMBER VOORHEES HAD violet-streaked blond hair and polished black fingernails, but it was the nose ring that most unsettled Jane. As Amber sobbed, threads of snot hung from that gold hoop, and she kept dabbing at it delicately with tissue to catch the drips. Her colleagues Travis Chang and Ben Farney weren’t crying, but they seemed just as shocked and devastated by the news of Cassandra Coyle’s death. All three filmmakers wore T-shirts and hoodies and ripped jeans, the uniform of young hipsters, and none of them looked as if they’d combed their hair in days. Judging by the locker-room smell of the studio, they hadn’t showered in days either. Every horizontal surface in the room was covered by pizza boxes, empty cans of Red Bull, and scattered pages from their film script. On the video monitor, a scene from their work-in-progress was playing: a blond teenager, sobbing and stumbling through dark woods, fleeing from some relentless and shadowy killer.
Travis abruptly turned to the computer and paused the video. The image of the killer froze onscreen, an ominous shadow framed between trees. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this.”
Amber wrapped her arms around Travis, and the young man gave a sob. Now Ben joined the hug and the three filmmakers clung to one another for a moment, their three-way embrace backlit by the glow from the computer monitor.
Jane glanced at Frost and saw him blink away a brief sheen of tears. Grief was contagious, and Frost had no immunity to it, even after years of delivering bad news and watching the recipients crumble. Cops were like terrorists. They tossed devastating bombs into the lives of victims’ friends and families, and then they stood around to watch the damage they’d done.
Travis was first to pull away from the hug. He crossed to a sagging sofa, sank onto the cushions, and dropped his head in his hands. “God, just yesterday she was here. She was sitting right here.”
“I knew there was a reason she stopped answering my texts,” said Amber, sniffling into her tissue. “When she went silent, I figured it was ’cause she was stressing out over her dad.”
“When did she stop answering texts?” Jane asked. “Can you check your phone?”
Amber hunted around under the scattered script pages and finally uncovered her cell phone. She scrolled back through her messages. “I texted her last night, around two A.M. She didn’t answer.”
“Would you expect her to, at two A.M.?”
“Yeah, actually. At this stage of the project.”
“We’ve been pulling all-nighters,” said Ben. He too dropped onto the sofa and rubbed his face. “We were up till three, editing the film. None of us even bothered to go home, just crashed right here.” He nodded at the sleeping bags wadded up in the corner.
“All three of you spent the night here?”
Ben nodded again. “We’re under the gun because of deadlines. Cassie would’ve been working with us too, except she needed to pull herself together before she met her dad. Something she was definitely not looking forward to.”
“What time did she leave here yesterday?” Jane asked.
“Around six, maybe?” Ben asked his colleagues, who both nodded.
“The pizzas had just been delivered,” said Amber. “Cassie didn’t stay to eat. Said she was going to get something on her own, so the three of us kept working.” She wiped a hand across her eyes, leaving a thick smear of mascara on her cheek. “I can’t believe that’s the last time we’ll ever see her. When she walked out the door, she was talking about the party we’d have for picture lock.”
“Picture lock?” asked Frost.
“That’s when all the edits are done,” said Ben. “Basically, it’s the finished movie but without sound effects or music. We’re almost there, maybe another week or two.”