Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“I know they hated each other.”

“Your daughter hated Priscilla?”

“Another woman swoops in and steals your daddy. Try to imagine how that would feel. Wouldn’t you hate her?”

It wasn’t at all hard to imagine. Jane thought of her own father, who’d had a brief fling with a woman they now referred to as the Bimbo. She thought of how that affair had broken Angela’s heart. Now that Frank’s fling had ended and he had returned home, could those broken pieces ever really be put back together?

“If you’re looking for a suspect who hated my daughter,” said Elaine, “you should take a good long look at Priscilla.”

“Is there anyone else we should be focused on?” said Frost. “A lot of people attended the funeral service today. Did you recognize most of them?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because sometimes a killer will insinuate himself into the investigation. He’ll attend the funeral to see the effects on a victim’s family. He’ll ask a lot of questions to find out if the police are on the right track.”

The minister stared at Frost. “You think the killer might have been here ? In my church?”

“It’s always a possibility, sir. That’s why we placed the surveillance camera at the entrance, to record the faces of everyone who walked in. If the killer was here, he could be on video.” Frost looked at Elaine. “Did you see anyone who seemed out of place? Who didn’t belong?”

“Aside from Priscilla’s awful crowd?” Elaine shook her head. “I know most of the people. Cassie’s classmates. A few old friends from Brookline, where she grew up. So many people loved her and came to pay their respects.” She stared down at her cold tea with a frown of distaste. “Thank God I didn’t have to see him .”

“Who?”

“Matthew. I hear he’s in a coma and his prognosis isn’t good.” She set down her teacup with a triumphant clack. “If he does die, that’s one funeral I won’t be attending.”

“There’s nothing as wonderful as a big happy family, hey, Frost?” said Jane as they drove back to Boston PD, Jane at the wheel. “Her daughter’s been murdered, her ex-husband is on life support, and she can’t stop ragging on about the evil second wife. I thought Priscilla was a piece of work, but this lady?”

“Yeah, she’s epic . How do you stay bitter at an ex for so long? I mean, it’s been, what? Nineteen years since their divorce.”

Jane pulled to a stop at a red light and looked at Frost, who had suffered through his own painful divorce, yet he’d never seemed bitter about it. Now he was back to watching movies and eating pizza with his ex-wife. If anyone lacked the gene for holding a grudge, it was Frost, whose legendary congeniality only served to make Jane look bad. The problem with being congenial was that people walked all over you. Growing up with two brothers had taught Jane that a swift kick to the shin generally worked faster than saying pretty please.

“You’re not even a little bit mad at Alice?” she asked.

“Why are we back to talking about Alice?”

“Seeing as we’re on the topic of angry exes.”

“Well, I am mad,” he admitted. “A little.”

“A little?”

“But what good does it do to walk around angry all your life? It’s not healthy. You’ve got to forgive and move on, like your mom did. She bounced back, right?”

“Yeah. The trouble is, my dad bounced back too. Straight back into her life.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, having them together again?”

“Come to the Rizzoli Christmas Eve dinner. You can see for yourself how well it’s working out between them.”

“Is that like a threat or an invitation?”

“My mom keeps asking when you’re coming to dinner again. You’re like the nice son she never had, and she’ll always have a soft spot for you, after you changed her flat tire. You might as well come, because there’s gonna be so much food. I’m talking crazy amounts of food.”

“Geez, I would come, but I’ve got plans Christmas Eve.”

“Don’t tell me.” She looked at him. “Alice?”

“Yeah.”

Jane sighed. “Okay. I guess you can bring her.”

“You see? That’s why I can’t bring Alice to dinner. She’s really sensitive about your attitude toward her.”

“I have an attitude because of what she did to you. I hate seeing you get hurt. And if she does it again, I’m gonna come over and kick her butt.”

“And that’s why I’m not bringing her to dinner. But tell your mom hi for me, okay? She’s a nice lady.”

Jane pulled into the Boston PD parking lot and shut off the engine. “Wish I could find an excuse not to show up. The way things are going between Mom and Dad, it’s not gonna be a fun night.”

“Well, you’ve got no choice. They’re your family, and it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah.” Jane snorted. “Ho ho ho.”

“So what’s the deal with the girl who got her eyeballs scooped out?”

Jane frowned across the dining table at her brother Frankie, who was carving a generous slice off the roast leg of lamb. Their mother had spent all day in the kitchen, laboring over the meal that was now spread out in full glory on the Rizzoli family table. The leg of lamb was studded with garlic cloves and roasted to a perfect medium rare. Surrounding it were bowls of crisp rosemary potatoes, green beans with almonds, three different salads, and homemade dinner rolls. Angela sat at the end of the table, her face shiny with sweat from the kitchen, waiting for her family to compliment the magnificent feast she’d laid out for them.

But, no, Frankie had to go there, straight to murder, and he did it while slicing his meat, releasing a river of blood-tinged juices.

“This isn’t the time or place, Frankie,” Jane muttered.

“Angela, this meal is amazing,” said Gabriel, as always the considerate son-in-law. “Every Christmas you manage to top yourself!”

“It’s been more than a week,” said Frankie, undeterred. “That’s way past the first forty-eight.” He turned to their father, Frank, and said, with an air of authority, “In case you haven’t heard the term, Dad, the first forty-eight hours after a murder is when it’s most likely to get solved. And it sounds like Boston PD doesn’t even have a suspect yet.”

Grimly, Jane cut up potatoes and green beans for her three-year-old daughter, Regina. “You know I can’t talk about the case.”

“Sure you can. We’re all family here. Besides, it’s been all over the news, what the perp did to that girl.”

“First, that particular detail about her eyeballs was not supposed to be made public. Someone leaked it, and I’m trying to find out who the hell it was. Second, she was not a girl. She was twenty-six years old, and that makes her a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah. You keep ragging on about that.”

“And you keep ignoring it.” She turned to Angela. “Ma, this roast turned out perfect. How did you get it to be so tender?”

“It’s all in the marinade, Janie. I gave you the recipe last year, remember?”

“I’ll have to find it. But it’ll never turn out as good as yours.”

“Carving out a girl’s eyeballs, that’s gotta have some deep psychological meaning,” said Frankie, the all-knowing authority about everything. “Makes you wonder what the symbolism is. This guy must have an issue with the way girls — excuse me, women — look at him.”

Jane laughed. “So you think you’re a profiler now?”

“Janie,” Frank, Sr., said, “your brother has every right to his opinion.”