Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

So the ATM transaction had already been followed up on, not by Boston PD but by the staties. Shit, she was wasting her time here.

Mr. Hobbs’s gaze suddenly shot to a teenage boy studying the candy selection. “Hey, you gonna pay for that Snickers bar?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Then take it outta your pocket, why don’t ya?”

The boy put the candy bar back on the shelf and slunk out of the store.

Dean Hobbs grunted. “That one’s always been trouble.”

“You know that kid?” asked Rizzoli.

“Know his folks.”

“How about the rest of your customers? You know most of them?”

“You had a look around town?”

“A quick one.”

“Yeah, well, a quick one’s all it takes to see Lithia. Twelve hundred people. Nothing much to see.”

Rizzoli took out Warren Hoyt’s photo. It was the best they could come up with, a two-year-old image from his driver’s license. He was looking straight at the camera, a thin-faced man with trim hair and a strangely generic smile. Though Dean Hobbs had already seen it, she held it out to him anyway. “His name is Warren Hoyt.”

“Yeah, I seen it. The state police showed me.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Didn’t recognize him this morning. Don’t recognize him now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t I sound sure?”

Yes, he did. He sounded like a man who never changed his mind about anything.

Bells chimed as the door opened, and two teenage girls walked in, summer blondes with long legs bare and tanned in their short shorts. Dean Hobbs was momentarily distracted as they strolled by, giggling, and wandered toward the gloomy back end of the store.

“They sure have grown,” he murmured in wonder.

“Mr. Hobbs.”

“Huh?”

“If you see the man in that photo, I want you to call me immediately.” She handed him her card. “I can be reached twenty-four hours a day. Pager or cell phone.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The girls, now carrying a bag of potato chips and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, came back to the register. They stood in all their braless teenage magnificence, nipples poking against sleeveless tee shirts. Dean Hobbs was getting an eyeful, and Rizzoli wondered if he’d already forgotten she was there.

The story of my life. Pretty girl walks in; I turn invisible.

She left the grocery store and went back to her car. Just that short time in the sun had baked the interior, so she opened the door and waited for the car to air out. On Lithia’s main street, nothing moved. She saw a gas station, a hardware store, and a cafe, but no people. The heat had driven everyone indoors, and she could hear the rattle of air conditioners up and down the street. Even in small-town America, no one sat outside fanning themselves anymore. The miracle of air conditioning had made the front porch irrelevant.

She heard the grocery store door tinkle shut and saw the two girls stroll lazily out into the sun, the only creatures moving. As they walked up the street, Rizzoli saw curtains flick aside in a window. People noticed things in small towns. They certainly noticed pretty young women.

Would they notice if one had gone missing?

She shut the car door and went back into the grocery store.

Mr. Hobbs was in the vegetable aisle, cunningly burying the fresh lettuce heads at the back of the cooler bin, moving the wilted heads to the front.

“Mr. Hobbs?”

He turned. “You back again?”

“Another question.”

“Don’t mean I have an answer.”

“Do any Asian women live in this town?”

This was a question he had not anticipated, and he just looked at her in bafflement. “What?”

“A Chinese or Japanese woman. Or maybe a Native American.”

“We got a coupla black families,” he offered, as though they might do instead.

“There’s a woman who may be missing. Long black hair, very straight, past her shoulders.”

“And you say she’s Oriental?”

“Or possibly Native American.”

He laughed. “Hell, I don’t think she’s any of those.”

Rizzoli’s attention perked up. He had turned back to the vegetable bin and began layering old zucchinis on top of the fresh shipment.

“Who’s she , Mr. Hobbs?”

“Not Oriental, that’s for sure. Not Indian, either.”

“You know her?”

“Seen her in here, once or twice. She’s renting the old Sturdee Farm for the summer. Tall girl. Not all that pretty.”

Yes, he would notice that last fact.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He turned and yelled: “Hey, Margaret!”

The door to a back room swung open and Mrs. Hobbs came out. “What?”

“Didn’t you drop off a delivery at the Sturdee place last week?”

“Yeah.”

“That gal out there look okay to you?”

“She paid me.”

Rizzoli asked, “Have you seen her since, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“Haven’t had a reason to.”

“Where is this Sturdee Farm?”

“Out on West Fork. Last place on the road.”

Rizzoli looked down as her beeper went off. “Can I use your telephone?” she asked. “My cell phone just died.”

“It’s not a long-distance call, is it?”

“Boston.”

He grunted and turned back to his zucchini display. “Pay phone’s outside.”

Cursing under her breath, Rizzoli stalked out again into the heat, found the pay phone, and thrust coins into the slot.

“Detective Frost.”

“You just paged me.”

“Rizzoli? What’re you doing out in Western Mass?”

To her dismay, she realized he knew her location, thanks to caller ID. “I took a little drive.”

“You’re still working the case, aren’t you?”

“I’m just asking a few questions. Not a big deal.”

“Shit, if—” Frost abruptly lowered his voice. “If Marquette finds out—”

“You’re not gonna tell him, are you?”

“No way. But get back in here. He’s looking for you and he’s pissed.”

“I’ve got one more place to check out here.”

“Listen to me, Rizzoli. Let it go, or you’ll blow whatever chance you’ve still got in the unit.”

“Don’t you see? I’ve already blown it! I’m already fucked!” Blinking away tears, she turned and stared bitterly up the empty street, where dust blew like hot ash. “He’s all I’ve got now. The Surgeon. There’s nothing left for me except to nail him.”

“The staties have already been out there. They came up empty-handed.”

“I know.”

“So what are you doing there?”

“Asking the questions they didn’t ask.” She hung up.

Then she got in her car and drove off to find the black-haired woman.

The Sturdee Farm was the only house at the end of a long dirt road. It was an old Cape with chipping white paint and a porch that sagged in the middle beneath a burden of stacked firewood.

Rizzoli sat in her car for a moment, too tired to step out. And too demoralized by what her once-promising career had come down to: sitting alone on this dirt road, contemplating the uselessness of walking up those steps and knocking on that door. Talking to some bewildered woman who just happened to have black hair. She thought of Ed Geiger, another Boston cop who’d also parked his car on a dirt road one day, and had decided, at the age of forty-nine, that it really was the end of the road for him. Rizzoli had been the first detective to arrive on the scene. While all the other cops had stood around that car with its blood-splattered windshield, shaking their heads and murmuring sadly about poor Ed, Rizzoli had felt little sympathy for a cop pathetic enough to blow his own brains out.

It’s so easy, she thought, suddenly aware of the weapon on her hip. Not her service weapon, which she’d turned over to Marquette, but her own, from home. A gun could be your best friend or your worst enemy. Sometimes both at once.