Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

Chapter Nine. The Story of Chen O .

The great city of Ch’ang-an had long been the capital of all China. At this time, Tai Tsing of the dynasty of Tang was on the throne. The whole land was at peace .

It was a disarmingly pleasant beginning to a tale about a virtuous and scholarly young man named Chen O. After marrying a great beauty, he was appointed governor of a distant region. Together with his pregnant bride and their servants, he journeyed through the lush and flowering countryside toward his new post. But when they reached a river crossing, the charming fable suddenly transformed to a blood-splattered story of massacre when armed bandits attacked. This was not a sweet fable after all, but a tale of shrieks and terror, of butchered bodies thrown into the raging river. Only one person was not slaughtered that night: the pregnant wife, abducted for her beauty, imprisoned by the killers while she awaited the birth of her doomed child.

The scream of the teakettle wrenched Jane from the story. She looked up to see Gabriel shut off the flame and pour hot water into the teapot. She had not even heard him come into the kitchen.

“Fascinating reading?” he said.

“Jesus, this is a creepy book,” she said with a shudder. “I sure wouldn’t read these stories to my kid. Take this one, ‘The Story of Chen O.’ It’s about a massacre at a ferry crossing, and the only survivor is a pregnant woman who’s captured by the killers.”

He brought the teapot to the table and sat down across from her. All night he had been subdued, and she noticed the telltale crease between his eyebrows. A hint of a frown that she noticed only now, in the bright light of their kitchen.

“I know I can’t change your mind about this case,” he said. “I just want to register my concern again.”

She sighed. “Noted.”

“Jane, I can’t get it out of my head. The way you looked when you came home the other night. Shell-shocked. The blood all over your clothes. I haven’t seen you look so shaken up since…”

He didn’t say the name, but they both knew he was thinking of the monster who had brought them together. The man who had carved the scars on her hands, whose bloody footprints still tracked through her nightmares.

“You do remember what I do for a living?” she said.

He nodded. “And I knew there’d be days like this. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to live with.”

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked softly.

“Marrying a cop?”

“Marrying me.”

“Well, now.” Rubbing his chin, he gave an exaggerated hmmmm . “Let me think about that.”

“Gabriel.”

He turned as the phone rang. “Why do you have to ask that question?” he said, crossing the kitchen to answer the phone. “I’m not regretting a thing. I’m just telling you I don’t like what’s happening and what you’re up against.”

“I don’t much like it, either,” she said and looked at the book again. At the story of Chen O. Like the Red Phoenix, it was a tale of slaughter. And an abducted woman, she thought, remembering Charlotte Dion.

“Jane, it’s for you.” Gabriel stood with the phone in his hand and a look of concern in his eye. “He won’t give me his name.”

She took the phone. Felt her husband watching her as she answered, “Detective Rizzoli.”

“I know you’ve been asking about me, so I figured I’d cut to the chase. Let’s you and me talk, face-to-face. Four PM tomorrow, my house. Just you and no one else. You can tell your husband he has nothing to worry about.”

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“Kevin Donohue.”

She looked up sharply at Gabriel. Barely managed to keep her voice even as she said: “What is this about, Mr. Donohue?”

“The Red Phoenix. Your investigation’s going way off the rails. I think it’s time to set a few things straight.”

ALTHOUGH BOTH FROST AND TAM SAT WATCHING HER FROM THEIR parked cars, Jane felt dangerously alone and exposed as she rang the bell at Kevin Donohue’s front gate. A moment later two beefy men strode toward her down the driveway, both of them sporting the conspicuous bulges of sidearms under their jackets. They asked her no questions, merely admitted her through the gate and locked it again behind her. As she passed under the arch, she spotted a surveillance camera mounted overhead. Every move she made was being monitored.

Following the men up the driveway, she noted the absence of trees and shrubbery. There was only a broad lawn and a concrete driveway lined with ugly lampposts, where yet more security cameras were mounted. Here was the stark evidence that being a prince of the Irish mob had its downside. You could never stop looking over your shoulder because you knew that somewhere, a bullet had your name on it.

As wealthy as he was, Donohue had depressingly pedestrian taste, something that was apparent as soon as Jane walked into the house and saw the bland pastel paintings hanging on the wall. They looked like the mass-produced landscapes for sale at every local shopping mall. Her escorts led her into the living room where an enormous man, bloated as a toad, sat in an extra-large armchair. He was in his sixties, clean-shaven and balding, with blue eyes that glared from beneath heavy lids. She didn’t need to be introduced; she already knew that this Jabba the Hutt character was Kevin Donohue, known for his impressive appetites and his equally impressive bad temper.

“Scan her, Sean,” someone said. She hadn’t noticed there was another man in the room, a skinny and nervous-looking fellow in a business suit.

One of her escorts moved toward her, holding a radio frequency scanner, and Jane snapped, “What the hell’s this all about?”

“I’m Mr. Donohue’s attorney,” the skinny man said. “Before he talks to you, we need to make sure you’re not bugged. And you’ll have to hand us your cell phone.”

“This wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“Detective Rizzoli,” rumbled Donohue, “I’m granting you the privilege of keeping your weapon, on account of your voluntarily coming here. But I don’t want any recording of this conversation. If you’re worried about your safety, I’m sure your associates parked outside will come running to your rescue at the first sign of trouble.”

For a moment Jane and Donohue traded stares. Then she handed her cell phone to the attorney and stood motionless while the bodyguard scanned her for radio signals. Only when Sean pronounced her clean did Donohue wave her toward the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose an armchair instead, so that she would be at his eye level.

“Your reputation precedes you,” said Donohue.

“So does yours.”

He laughed. “I see the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?”

He folded his hands on his bulging belly. “Detective Jane Rizzoli. Smart-ass tongue. Fucking bulldog.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to dig somewhere else for your bones. You’re wasting your time on me.”

“Am I?”

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about me. So has your husband. Oh yeah, I know all about your husband, Mr. Special Agent Gabriel Dean. Quite the law enforcement couple. I’m not worried that you’re gonna find anything useful, mind you. But with all these questions going around, it makes me look weak to my rivals. Like I’m about to topple. And if I look weak, that brings the vultures out.” He leaned forward, his belly flopping over his belt. “There is nothing you’re going to find, okay? Nothing that can link me to the Red Phoenix.”