Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

“What about Joey Gilmore?”

He sighed. “You’ve been talking to his old hag of a mother.”

“She says you and Joey had a falling-out nineteen years ago.”

“Small stuff. Not worth the price of a bullet.”

“Can’t be all that small if you’re bringing in outside people to mop up now.”

“What?”

Jane glanced at Donohue’s two bodyguards. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for some pictures, okay? Don’t freak out, boys.” She pulled out two morgue photos and slid them across the coffee table toward Donohue. “Your hired help just can’t keep their heads on straight.”

Donohue stared. Of all the morgue photos Jane could have brought, she’d chosen the two that were most graphically grotesque. Jane Doe with her slashed throat gaping open. John Doe’s severed head lying beside his torso on the autopsy table. The images had their desired effect: Donohue’s face had turned as pasty as the corpses.

“Why the fuck are you showing me this?” he demanded.

“Why did you hire these two killers?”

The lawyer cut in. “This conversation has come to an end. Sean, Colin. Escort Detective Rizzoli out of the house.”

“Shut up,” said Donohue.

“Mr. Donohue, it’s not in your best interests to-”

“I’m gonna answer her question, okay?” Donohue looked at Jane. “I didn’t hire ’em. I don’t even know who that woman is.” He eyed Jane Doe’s morgue photo with new interest and grunted. “Nice-looking gal. What a waste.”

“And the man? Do you recognize him?”

“Maybe. Looks a little familiar. What do you think, Sean?”

His man Sean eyed the photo. “I think I seen him around. Don’t know his name, but he’s local. Ukrainian or Russian.”

Donohue shook his head. “Bad news, those boys. Completely lacking any moral conscience. I can tell you, this guy never worked for me.” He looked up at Jane. “Now I guess he never will.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” she said.

“Because you’ve already decided I’m guilty. Even though I’ll swear on my mother’s Bible that I didn’t hire these two.” After the initial shock of seeing the morgue photos, his color and his cockiness had returned. “So you might wanna think of backing off.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Donohue?”

“You’re a smart girl. What do you think?”

“I think you’re scared. I think you know you’re cornered.”

“By you?” He laughed. “ You are the least of my worries.”

“You called me a bulldog, remember? Well, I’m going to keep on digging in your backyard because that’s where I’ll find Joey Gilmore’s bones.”

“Come on. The cook killed those people and pulled a chuck. Everyone knows it was suicide, but Joey’s old hag of a mother just can’t let it go. That’s why she sent me that fucking note.”

Jane went very still. “You got one?”

“Few weeks ago, got a copy of Joey’s obit. Plus some stupid message that she wrote on the back. I know what really happened . What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“If Mrs. Gilmore is the reason you’re investigating Mr. Donohue,” said the attorney, “don’t waste your time.”

“How do you know Mary Gilmore’s sending these notes?” Jane asked. “Did she sign yours? Was there a return address?”

The attorney frowned as he suddenly registered what Jane had said. “Notes, as in plural? Are you saying she’s sent more than one?”

“There have been others. Mailings sent to all the family members of the Red Phoenix victims. The notes are similar to what Mr. Donohue received.”

The attorney looked confused. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would Mrs. Gilmore harass other people with these mailings?”

“Maybe she’s not the one sending them,” said Jane.

The attorney and Donohue looked at each other. “We need to rethink this,” said the attorney. “Obviously, something else is going on. If Mary Gilmore isn’t doing this…”

Donohue’s fingers rolled into two plump fists. “I want to know who the hell is.”

MAURA AWAKENED JUST AFTER DAWN, AND WAS HAPPY TO SEE that the sun was shining. She’d cook pancakes and sausages for the boy, and then they’d set off to tour Boston. First on the schedule was the Freedom Trail and the North End, then they’d go for a picnic and a run with the dog at Blue Hills Reservation. She’d planned a day packed with so many activities that there would be little time for awkward silences, for all the reminders that they were still very much strangers. Six months ago, in the Wyoming mountains, she had trusted Julian “Rat” Perkins with her life. Now she had to acknowledge that this hulking teenager with the enormous feet was still a mystery to her. She wondered if he felt the same way about her. Did he worry that she would abandon him, the way everyone else in his life had?

She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, appropriate attire for a romp with the dog. Thought about the chicken-and-avocado sandwiches she planned to make, and wondered if Rat liked avocados. Had he ever tasted an avocado or alfalfa sprouts or tarragon? I know so little about him, she thought. Yet here he is, a part of my life.

She walked down the hall and noticed that his bedroom door was open. “Rat?” she said. Peeking in, she did not see him.

In the kitchen, she found him sitting in front of the laptop computer that she’d left on the table the night before. The dog lay at his feet and his ears pricked up at the sight of Maura, as if here at last was someone who’d pay attention to him. Looking over the boy’s shoulder, she was startled to see an autopsy image on the screen.

“Don’t look at that,” she said. “I should have put this all away last night.” She punched the Exit key, and the morgue photo swooshed out of sight. Quickly she scooped up all the Red Phoenix files and set them on the counter. “Why don’t you help me make breakfast?”

“Why did he do it?” the boy asked. “Why would he kill people he didn’t even know?”

Maura looked into his troubled eyes. “Did you read the police report?”

“It was lying here on the table, and I couldn’t help looking at it. But it doesn’t make sense to me. Why someone would do that.”

She pulled over a chair and sat down across from him. “Sometimes, Rat, there’s no way to explain these things. I’m sorry to say that too often, I haven’t a clue why people do things like this. Why they drown their babies or strangle their wives or shoot their co-workers. I see the results of their actions, but I can’t tell you what sets them off. I just know that it happens. And people are capable of doing terrible things.”

“I know,” he murmured and looked down at the dog, who rested his enormous head in Rat’s lap as though knowing that comfort was what the boy needed at that moment. “So this is what you do?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you like your work?”

“I don’t think like is the right word.”

“What is the right word?”

“It’s challenging. Interesting.”

“And it doesn’t bother you, seeing things like this?”

“Someone has to speak for the dead. I know how to do it. They tell me-their bodies tell me-how they died. If it was a natural death, or if it was violent. Yes, it can be upsetting. It can make you question what it means to be human when you see what people do to each other. But this is the job I feel I was always meant to do, to be their voice.”

“Do you think I could do it?” He looked at the stack of files. “Your kind of work?”