Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

Zucker asked, “Are we absolutely sure about that?” He directed his question at Jane, not Kassovitz, a snub that made Kassovitz flush. It was yet another blow to her already battered self-esteem.

“Detective Kassovitz just told you what we know,” said Jane, backing up her teammate.

“Okay,” said Zucker. “Then why was this woman killed? Why stage it to look like Satanism, if it really isn’t?”

“To make it interesting. To draw attention.”

Zucker laughed. “As if it wouldn’t already draw our attention?”

“Not ours. The attention of someone who’s much more important to this perp.”

“You’re talking about Dr. O’Donnell, aren’t you?”

“We know the killer called O’Donnell, but she claims she wasn’t home.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“We can’t confirm it, since she erased any phone message. She said it was a hang-up call.”

“What makes you think that’s not the truth?”

“You know who she is, don’t you?”

He regarded her for a moment. “I know you two have had conflicts. That her friendship with Warren Hoyt bothers you.”

“This isn’t about me and O’Donnell-”

“But it is. She maintains a friendship with the man who almost killed you, the man whose most deeply held fantasy is to complete that job.”

Jane leaned forward, every muscle suddenly taut. “Don’t go there, Dr. Zucker,” she said quietly.

He stared at her, and something he saw in her eyes made him slowly lean back in retreat. “You consider O’Donnell a suspect?” he said.

“I don’t trust her. She’s a gunslinger for the bad guys. Pay her enough to testify, and she’ll walk into court and defend just about any killer. She’ll claim he’s neurologically damaged and not responsible for his actions. That he belongs in a hospital, not a jail.”

Marquette added, “She’s not popular with law enforcement, Dr. Zucker. Anywhere.”

“Look, even if we loved her,” said Jane, “we’re still left with unanswered questions. Why did the killer call her from the crime scene? Why wasn’t she at home? Why won’t she tell us where she was?”

“Because she knows you’re already hostile.”

She has no idea how hostile I can get.

“Detective Rizzoli, are you implying that Dr. O’Donnell had something to do with this crime?”

“No. But she’s not above exploiting it. Feeding off it. Whether she meant to or not, she inspired it.”

“How?”

“You know how a pet cat will sometimes kill a mouse and bring it home to its master as sort of an offering? A token of affection?”

“You think our killer is trying to impress O’Donnell.”

“That’s why he called her. That’s why he set up this elaborate death scene, to pique her interest. Then, to make sure his work gets noticed, he calls nine-one-one. And a few hours later, while we’re standing in the kitchen, he calls the victim’s house from a pay phone, just to make sure we’re there. This perp is reeling us all in. Law enforcement. And O’Donnell.”

Marquette said, “Does she realize how much danger she could be in? Being the focus of a killer’s attention?”

“She didn’t seem too impressed.”

“What does it take to scare that woman?”

“Maybe when he sends her that little token of affection. The equivalent of a dead mouse.” Jane paused. “Let’s not forget. Lori-Ann Tucker’s hand is still missing.”

Jane could not stop thinking about that hand as she stood in her kitchen, slicing cold chicken for a late-night snack. She carried it to the table, where her usually impeccably groomed husband was sitting with his sleeves rolled up, baby drool on his collar. Was there anything sexier than a man patiently burping his daughter? Regina gave a lusty belch and Gabriel laughed. What a sweet and perfect moment this was. All of them together and safe and healthy.

Then she looked down at the sliced chicken and she thought of what had rested on another dinner plate, on another woman’s dining table. She pushed the plate aside.

We are just meat. Like chicken. Like beef.

“I thought you were hungry,” said Gabriel.

“I guess I changed my mind. It suddenly doesn’t look so appetizing.”

“It’s the case, isn’t it?”

“I wish I could stop thinking about it.”

“I saw the files you brought home tonight. Couldn’t help looking through them. I’d be preoccupied, too.”

Jane shook her head. “You’re supposed to be on vacation. What are you doing, checking out autopsy photos?”

“They were lying right there on the counter.” He set Regina in her infant carrier. “You want to talk about it? Bounce it off me, if you’d like. If you think it’ll help.”

She glanced at Regina, who was watching them with alert eyes, and suddenly she gave a laugh. “Geez, when she’s old enough to understand, this is gonna be really appropriate family conversation. So, honey, how many headless corpses have you seen today? ”

“She can’t understand us. So talk to me.”

Jane got up and went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Adam’s Ale, and popped off the top.

“Jane?”

“You really want to hear the details?”

“I want to know what’s bothering you so much.”

“You saw the photos. You know what’s bothering me.” She sat down again and took a gulp of beer. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, looking down at the sweating bottle, “I think it’s crazy to have children. You love them, raise them. Then you watch them walk into a world where they just get hurt. Where they meet up with people like…” Like Warren Hoyt was what she was thinking, but she didn’t say his name; she almost never said his name. It was as if saying it aloud was to summon the Devil himself.

The sudden buzz of the intercom made her snap straight. She looked up at the wall clock. “It’s ten-thirty.”

“Let me see who it is.” Gabriel walked into the living room and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

An unexpected voice responded over the speaker. “It’s me,” said Jane’s mother.

“Come on up, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel, and buzzed her in. He shot a surprised look at Jane.

“It’s so late. What’s she doing here?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

They heard Angela’s footsteps on the stairs, slower and more ponderous than usual, accompanied by an intermittent thumping, as though she were hauling something behind her. Only when she reached the second-floor landing did they see what it was.

A suitcase.

“Mom?” said Jane, but even as she said it, she could not quite believe that this woman with the wild hair and even wilder eyes was her mother. Angela’s coat was unbuttoned, the flap of her collar was turned under, and her slacks were soaked to the knees, as though she’d trudged through a snowbank to reach their building. She gripped the suitcase with both hands and looked ready to fling it at someone. Anyone.

She looked dangerous.

“I need to stay with you tonight,” said Angela.

“What?”

“Well, can I come in or not?”

“Of course, Mom.”

“Here, let me get that for you, Mrs. Rizzoli,” Gabriel said, taking the suitcase.

“You see?” said Angela, pointing to Gabriel. “ That’s how a man’s supposed to behave! He sees that a woman needs help, and he steps right up to the plate. That’s what a gentleman’s supposed to do.”

“Mom, what happened?”

“What happened? What happened ? I don’t know where to begin!”

Regina gave a wail of protest at being ignored for too long.

At once, Angela scurried into the kitchen and lifted her granddaughter from the infant seat. “Oh baby, poor little girl! You have no idea what you’re in for when you grow up.” She sat down at the table and rocked the baby, hugging her so tightly that Regina squirmed, trying to free herself from this suffocating madwoman.