Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

“It’s definitely her hand,” Maura confirmed.

“Not that I ever doubted it,” said Jane.

Maura next focused on the neck X-rays, on the gap in the soft tissues where the flesh had been so cleanly divided. Her gaze instantly fixed on a bright sliver in the cervical vertebra. “Did you do a lateral on this C-spine?” she asked.

Yoshima had clearly anticipated her request, because he immediately pulled down the hand and wrist films and clipped up a new radiograph, this one a side view of the neck. “I saw that thing earlier. Thought you’d want to see more detail on it.”

Maura stared at the lateral view of the fifth cervical vertebra. The object, razor-thin, was visible on this X-ray as well.

“What is that?” asked Jane, moving close beside her.

“It’s something metallic, and it’s embedded in the anterior fifth vertebra.” She turned to the autopsy table. “I think part of the blade sheared off when the killer made his cut, and a chip is lodged in her neck bone.”

“Which means we might be able to analyze the metal,” said Jane. “Identify who manufactured the knife.”

“I don’t think it was a knife,” said Maura.

“An ax?”

“An ax would leave a cleft, and we’d see crush changes on the soft tissues. She has neither. This incision is fine and linear. It was made by a blade that’s razor-sharp, and long enough to practically transect the neck with one sweep.”

“Like a machete?” asked Jane.

“Or a sword.”

Jane looked at Tam. “We’re looking for Zorro.” Her laugh was interrupted by the sound of her ringing cell phone. She stripped off her gloves and reached for the phone clipped to her belt. “Rizzoli.”

“Have you seen any sword injuries before, Dr. Isles?” Tam asked, still studying the X-ray.

“One, in San Francisco. A man hacked his girlfriend to death with a samurai sword.”

“Would metal analysis tell you if this was a samurai sword?”

“They’re mass-produced these days, so it probably wouldn’t help us unless we could find the weapon itself. Still, you never know when trace evidence like this ends up being just the puzzle piece needed to convict.” She looked at Tam, whose face was bathed in the glow from the viewing box. Even though a bouffant paper cap covered his hair, she was once again struck by his intensity. And lack of humor. “You ask good questions,” she said.

“Just trying to learn.”

“Rizzoli’s a smart cop. Keep up with her, and you’ll do fine.”

“Tam,” said Jane, hanging up her phone. “You stay and finish up here. I have to go.”

“What’s happened?”

“That was Frost. We found the victim’s car.”

THE FOURTH FLOOR of the Tyler Street parking garage was nearly empty, but the blue Honda Civic sat all by itself in a remote corner space. It was a dim and isolated spot, the sort of place you would choose if you did not want anyone to see you walking to your car. As Jane and Frost inspected the vehicle, their only audience was a lone garage employee and the two Boston PD officers who’d spotted the car earlier that morning.

“The entry ticket on the dashboard has a time stamp of eight fifteen PM Wednesday,” said Frost. “I checked the security tape, and it shows the Honda driving in at that time. Five minutes later, a woman walks out of the garage. Her hoodie’s up, so you can’t see her face on the camera, but it looks like her. Car hasn’t left the garage since.”

As Frost spoke, Jane did a slow walk-around of the Honda. It was a three-year-old model with no major dings or scratches. The tires were in good condition. The trunk was open, the hatch lifted for her to inspect the interior.

“License plates were reported stolen five days ago in Springfield,” said Frost. “Vehicle was stolen a week ago, also in Springfield.”

Jane frowned into the trunk, which was empty except for the spare tire. “Geez, it’s a lot cleaner than mine.”

Frost laughed. “You could say that about a lot of cars.”

“Says the guy with OCD.”

“Looks like it’s been recently detailed. Glove compartment’s got the real owner’s registration and insurance card. And you’re gonna love what was left on the front seat.” He pulled on gloves and opened the driver’s door. “Handheld GPS.”

“Why do you always get to find the fun stuff?”

“I’m guessing it’s a brand-new unit, because she’d plugged in only two addresses. Both in Boston.”

“Where?”

“The first is a private residence in Roxbury Crossing, owned by a Louis Ingersoll.”

Jane glanced at him in surprise. “Would that be Detective Lou Ingersoll?”

“One and the same. It’s the address Boston PD has listed for him.”

“He retired from homicide, what? Sixteen, seventeen years ago?”

“Sixteen. Can’t get hold of him right now. I called his daughter, and she says Lou took off up north to go fishing for the week. There may not be cell coverage wherever he is. Or he turned off his phone and doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“What about the second address on the GPS?”

“It’s a business, right here in Chinatown. Someplace called the Dragon and Stars Martial Arts Academy. Their answering machine said they open at noon.” Frost glanced at his watch. “Which would be ten minutes ago.”

THE DRAGON AND STARS ACADEMY OF MARTIAL ARTS WAS LOCATED on the second floor of a tired brick building on Harrison Avenue, and as Jane and Frost climbed the narrow stairway, they could hear chants and grunts and thumping feet, and could already smell the sweaty locker-room odor. Inside the studio, a dozen students garbed in black pajama-like costumes moved with such total focus that not a single one seemed to notice the two detectives’ entrance. Except for a faded martial arts poster, it was a starkly empty room with bare walls and a scuffed wood floor. For a moment Jane and Frost stood ignored near the door, watching the class leap and kick.

Suddenly a young Asian woman stepped out of formation and ordered: “Complete the exercise!” Then she crossed the room to meet the two visitors. She was slender as a dancer, her skin aglow with sweat, but despite her exertions she did not seem at all out of breath. “May I help you?” she asked.

“We’re from Boston PD. I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, and this is Detective Frost. We’d like to speak to the owner of this studio.”

“May I see identification?” The request was brusque and not at all what Jane expected from someone who looked like she was barely out of high school. As the girl studied Jane’s ID, Jane studied the girl. Maybe not as young as she appeared, Jane decided. Early twenties and American Chinese, by the sound of her voice, with a tattoo of a tiger on her left forearm. With her short, spiky hair and her sullen gaze, she looked like an Asian version of a Goth girl, small but dangerous.

The girl handed back the ID. “I see you’re with homicide. Why are you here?”

“First, may I ask your name?” said Jane, pulling out a notebook.

“Bella Li. I teach the beginning and intermediate classes.”

“Your students are amazing,” Frost marveled, still watching the class as they leaped and whirled.

“This is the intermediate class. They’re rehearsing for a martial arts demonstration next month in New York. They’re now practicing the leopard moves.”

“Leopard?”

“It’s one of the ancient animal techniques from northern China. The leopard relies on speed and aggression, which is what you see in this exercise. Each animal technique is a reflection of that animal’s nature. The snake is sly and sleek. The stork excels in balance and evasion. The monkey is quick and clever. Students choose which animal best suits their own personality, and that’s the form they master.”