Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“If you don’t want to do this,” said Frost, “I can talk to her.”

“You think I can’t handle this?”

“I think this has gotta be hard for you.”

“What’ll be hard is keeping my hands off her throat.”

“You see? That’s what I mean. Your attitude’s going to get in the way. You two have a history, and that colors everything. You can’t be neutral.”

“No one could be neutral, knowing who she is. What she does.”

“Rizzoli, she just does what she’s paid to do.”

“So do whores.” Except whores don’t hurt anyone, thought Jane, staring at Joyce O’Donnell’s house. A house paid for with the blood of murder victims. Whores don’t waltz into courtrooms in sleek St. John suits and take the witness stand in defense of butchers.

“All I’m saying is, try to keep your cool, okay?” said Frost. “We don’t have to like her. But we can’t afford to piss her off.”

“You think that’s my plan?”

“Look at you. Your claws are already out.”

“Purely in self-defense.” Jane shoved open the car door. “Because I know this bitch is going to try to sink hers in me.” She stepped out, sinking calf-deep into snow, but she scarcely felt the cold seeping through her socks; her deepest chill was not physical. Her focus was on the house, on the encounter to come, with a woman who knew Jane’s secret fears only too well. Who also knew how to exploit those fears.

Frost swung open the gate, and they walked up the shoveled path. The flagstones were icy, and Jane was trying so hard not to slip that by the time she reached the porch steps, she already felt off balance and unsure of her footing. Not the best way to face Joyce O’Donnell. Nor did it help that when the front door opened, O’Donnell was looking her usual elegant self, blond hair cut in a sleek bob, her pink button-down shirt and khaki slacks perfectly tailored to her athletic frame. Jane, in her tired black pantsuit, with her trouser cuffs damp from melted snow, felt like the supplicant at the manor house door. Exactly how she wants me to feel.

O’Donnell gave a cool nod. “Detectives.” She did not immediately step aside, a pause intended to demonstrate that here, on her own territory, she was in command.

“May we come in?” Jane finally asked. Knowing that, of course, they would be allowed in. That the game had already begun.

O’Donnell waved them into the house. “This isn’t how I care to spend Christmas day,” she said.

“It’s not exactly how we want to spend it either,” Jane countered. “And I’m sure it’s not what the victim wanted.”

“As I told you, the recording’s already been erased,” said O’Donnell, leading the way into her living room. “You can listen to it, but there’s nothing to hear.”

Not much had changed since the last time Jane had visited this house. She saw the same abstract paintings on the walls, the same richly hued Oriental carpets. The only new feature was the Christmas tree. The trees of Jane’s childhood had been decorated with haphazard taste, the branches hung with the mismatched assortment of ornaments hardy enough to have survived earlier Rizzoli Christmases. And there’d been tinsel-lots and lots of it. Vegas trees, Jane used to call them.

But on this tree, there was not a single strand of tinsel. No Vegas in this house. Instead, the branches were hung with crystal prisms and silver teardrops, reflecting wintry sunshine on the walls, like dancing chips of light. Even her damn Christmas tree makes me feel inadequate.

O’Donnell crossed to her answering machine. “This is all I have now,” she said, and pressed Play. The digital voice announced: “You have no new messages.” She looked at the detectives. “I’m afraid the recording you asked about is gone. As soon as I got home last night, I played all my messages. Erased them as I went. By the time I got to your message, about preserving the recording, it was too late.”

“How many messages were there?” asked Jane.

“Four. Yours was the last.”

“The call we’re interested in would have come in around twelve-ten.”

“Yes, and the number’s still there, in the electronic log.” O’Donnell pressed a button, cycling back to the 12:10 call. “But whoever called at that time didn’t say anything.” She looked at Jane. “There was no message at all.”

“What did you hear?”

“I told you. There was nothing.”

“Extraneous noises? TV, traffic?”

“Not even heavy breathing. Just a few seconds of silence, and then the hang-up click. That’s why I immediately erased it. There was nothing to hear.”

“Is the caller’s number familiar to you?” asked Frost.

“Should it be?”

“That’s what we’re asking you,” Jane said, the bite in her voice unmistakable.

O’Donnell’s gaze met hers and Jane saw, in those eyes, a flash of disdain. As though I’m not even worth her attention. “No, I didn’t recognize the phone number,” said O’Donnell.

“Do you know the name Lori-Ann Tucker?”

“No. Who’s that?”

“She was murdered last night, in her own home. That call was made from her telephone.”

O’Donnell paused and said, reasonably, “It could have been a wrong number.”

“I don’t think so, Dr. O’Donnell. I think the call was meant to reach you. ”

“Why call me and then say nothing? It’s more likely that she heard the recording on my answering machine, realized she’d made a mistake, and simply hung up.”

“I don’t believe it was the victim who called you.”

Again, O’Donnell paused, this time longer. “I see,” she said. She moved to an armchair and sat down, but not because she was shaken. She looked perfectly unruffled sitting in that chair, an empress holding court. “You think it was the killer who called me.”

“You don’t sound at all worried by that possibility.”

“I don’t know enough yet to be worried. I don’t know anything about this case. So why don’t you tell me more?” She gestured to the couch, an invitation for her visitors to sit down. It was the first hint of hospitality that she’d offered.

Because now we have something interesting to offer her, thought Jane. She’s caught a whiff of blood. It’s exactly what this woman craves.

The couch was a pristine white, and Frost paused before settling onto it, as though afraid to smudge the fabric. But Jane didn’t give it a second glance. She sat down in her snow-dampened slacks, her focus on O’Donnell.

“The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman,” said Jane. “She was killed last night, around midnight.”

“Suspects?”

“We’ve made no arrests.”

“So you have no idea who the killer is.”

“I’m only saying that we’ve made no arrests. What we’re doing is following leads.”

“And I’m one of them.”

“Someone called you from the victim’s home. It could well have been the perp.”

“And why would he-assuming it’s a he-want to talk to me?”

Jane leaned forward. “We both know why, Doctor. It’s what you do for a living. You probably have a nice little fan club out there, all the killers who consider you their friend. You’re famous, you know, among the murderer set. You’re the lady shrink who talks to monsters.”

“I try to understand them, that’s all. Study them.”

“You defend them.”

“I’m a neuropsychiatrist. I’m far more qualified to testify in court than most expert witnesses. Not every killer belongs in prison. Some of them are seriously damaged people.”

“Yeah, I know your theory. Bonk a kid on the head, screw up his frontal lobes, and he’s absolved of all responsibility for anything he does from then on. He can kill a woman, chop her up into pieces, and you’ll still defend him in court.”