Tess Gerritsen - The Keepsake

“It’s bothered me, too,” Jane admitted.

“Do you know how Josephine got that job?”

“I asked her that question. She said the position was advertised on an employment website for Egyptologists. She applied, and a few weeks later, she received a call offering her the job. She admits that she was surprised that he chose her.”

“Who made that call?”

“Simon Crispin.”

Zucker’s eyebrow lifted at that detail. “Who now happens to be dead,” he said softly.

There was a knock on the door, and a detective stuck his head into the conference room. “Rizzoli, we’ve got a situation. You’d better come out and deal with it.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“A certain Texas tycoon just blew into town.”

Jane swiveled around in surprise. “Kimball Rose is here?”

“He’s in Marquette’s office. You need to get over there.”

“Maybe he decided to cooperate after all.”

“I don’t think so. He’s out for your head, and he’s letting everyone know it.”

“Oh, man,” muttered Tripp. “Better you than me.”

“Rizzoli, you want us to come?” said Crowe, conspicuously cracking his knuckles. “Little psychological backup?”

“No.” Tight-lipped, she gathered up her files and stood. “I’ll deal with him.” He may want my head. But I’m damn well going to have his son’s.

She walked through the homicide unit and knocked on Lieutenant Marquette’s door. Stepping inside, she found Marquette at his desk, his face unreadable. The same could not be said for his visitor, who stared at Jane with unmistakable contempt. By merely performing her job, she had dared to defy him, and in the eyes of a man as powerful as Kimball Rose, that was clearly an unforgivable offense.

“I believe you two have met,” said Marquette.

“We have,” said Jane. “I’m surprised Mr. Rose is here. Since he’s refused to take any of my phone calls.”

“You have no right,” said Kimball. “Telling lies about my boy when he isn’t here to defend himself.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” said Jane. “I’m not sure what you mean by telling lies. ”

“Do you think I’m an imbecile? I didn’t get where I am by just being lucky. I ask questions. I got my sources. I know what your investigation’s all about. This nutty case you’re trying to build against Bradley.”

“I admit, the case is certainly bizarre. But let’s be clear about one thing: I don’t make a case. I follow the evidence where it leads me. At the moment, it’s pointing straight at your son.”

“Oh, I’ve learned all about you, Detective Rizzoli. You have a history of making snap judgments. Like shooting to death an unarmed man on that rooftop a few years ago.”

At the mention of that painful incident, Jane stiffened. Kimball saw it and drove the knife deeper.

“Did you give that man a chance to defend himself? Or did you play judge and jury and just pull the trigger, the way you’re doing to Bradley?”

Marquette said, “Mr. Rose, that shooting isn’t relevant to this situation.”

“Isn’t it? It’s all about this woman, who’s some kind of loose cannon. My son is innocent. He had nothing to do with this kidnapping.”

“How can you be so certain of that?” asked Marquette. “You can’t even tell us where your son is.”

“Bradley’s not capable of violence. If anything, violence is more likely to be done against him. I know my boy.”

“Do you?” asked Jane. She opened the file she’d brought into the room and pulled out a photo, which she slapped down in front of him. He stared at the grotesque image of the tsantsa, its eyelids stitched shut, its lips pierced by braided threads.

“You do know what this thing is called, don’t you, Mr. Rose?” she asked.

He said nothing. Through the closed door they could hear phones ringing and detectives’ voices in the homicide unit, but in Marquette’s office, the silence stretched on.

“I’m sure you’ve seen one of these before,” said Jane. “A well-traveled archaeology buff like you has certainly been to South America.”

“It’s a tsantsa, ” he finally said.

“Very good. Your son would know that, too, wouldn’t he? Since I assume he’s traveled all over the world with you.”

“And that’s all you got against him? That my son is an archaeologist?” He snorted. “You’ll have to do better than that in a courtroom.”

“What about the woman he stalked? Medea Sommer filed a complaint against him in Indio.”

“So what? She dropped those charges.”

“And tell us about that private treatment program he attended in Maine. The Hilzbrich Institute. I understand they specialize in a certain class of troubled young men.”

He stared at her. “How the hell did you-”

“I’m not an imbecile, either. I ask questions, too. I hear the institute was very exclusive, very specialized. Very discreet. I guess it had to be, considering the clientele. So tell me, did the program work for Bradley? Or did it just introduce him to some equally perverted friends?”

He looked at Marquette. “I want her off this case or you’re gonna hear from my lawyers.”

“Friends like Jimmy Otto,” continued Jane. “You do remember the name Jimmy Otto?”

Kimball ignored her and kept his attention on Marquette. “Do I have to go to your police commissioner? ’Cause I’ll do that. I’ll do whatever it takes, bring in everyone I know. Lieutenant?”

Marquette was silent for a moment. A long moment during which Jane came to appreciate just how overwhelming Kimball Rose could be-not just his physical presence, but his unstated power. She understood the pressure Marquette was under, and she braced herself for the outcome.

But Marquette did not disappoint her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” he said. “Detective Rizzoli is the lead investigator and she calls the shots.”

Kimball glared at him, as though unable to believe that two mere public servants would defy him. Flushing dangerously red, he turned to Jane. “Because of your investigation, my wife is in the hospital. Three days after you came asking about Bradley, she collapsed. I had her flown here yesterday, to Dana-Farber hospital. She may not survive this, and I blame you. I will be watching you, Detective. You won’t be able to turn over a single rock without my knowing about it.”

“That’s probably where I’ll find Bradley,” said Jane. “Under a rock.”

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

“That,” said Marquette, “was not a smart thing to say.”

She sighed and picked up the photo from his desk. “I know,” she admitted.

“How certain are you that Bradley Rose is our man?”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“You’d better be ninety-nine point nine percent certain. Because you just saw who we’re dealing with. Now his wife’s in the hospital and he’s gone ballistic. He has the money-and the connections-to permanently make our lives miserable.”

“Then let him make our lives miserable. It doesn’t change the fact that his son is guilty.”

“We can’t afford any more screwups, Rizzoli. Your team’s already made one huge mistake, and that young woman paid for it.”

If he’d intended to wound her, he couldn’t have done a better job. She felt her stomach clench as she stood gripping the file, as though that bundle of papers could salve her guilty conscience about Josephine’s abduction.

“But you know that,” he said quietly.

“Yes. I know that,” she said. And that mistake will haunt me until the day I die.

The house where Nicholas Robinson lived was in Chelsea, not far from the blue-collar Revere neighborhood, where Jane had grown up. Like Jane’s childhood home, Robinson’s was a modest house with a covered front porch and a tiny patch of a yard. In the front garden grew the biggest tomato plants that Jane had ever seen, but the recent heavy rains had cracked the fruit, and a number of overripe globes hung rotting on the vines. The neglected plants should have warned her about Robinson’s state of mind. When he opened the door, she was startled by how drained and haggard he looked, his hair uncombed, his shirt wrinkled as though he’d been sleeping in it for days.