Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“It’s been twenty years. Why are you questioning my work on the case?”

“There’s a journalist who says you implanted false memories in those children.”

“Bonnie Sandridge?” Erica snorted. “She calls herself a journalist. She’s nothing but a crackpot.”

“So you’re familiar with her.”

“I do my best to avoid her. She’s spent the last few years writing some book about ritual-abuse trials. She tried to interview me once, and it felt like an ambush. She has a twisted agenda, thinks these trials are all witch hunts.” Erica gave a dismissive wave. “Why should I care what she says?”

“Cassandra Coyle cared, and she wanted Bonnie to correct the record. Cassandra believed the Staneks were innocent all along, and she’d been calling the other children. Asking what they remembered.”

“Bonnie Sandridge told you this?”

“Phone records support her story. Cassandra Coyle did call Sarah Basterash and Timothy McDougal and Billy Sullivan. We needed to go back almost a year to find those phone logs, which is how we missed it the first time. The only person Cassandra didn’t call was Holly Devine, because no one knew how to find her.”

“Twenty years go by, and suddenly Cassandra wants to exonerate the Staneks?” Erica shook her head. “Why?”

“Wouldn’t it bother you if you realized you’d sent an innocent man to prison?”

“Well, I have no doubts. He was guilty, and the jury agreed with me.” Erica rose to her feet, a signal that their meeting was at an end. “Justice was served, and there’s nothing more to say.”

“Another victory for the crime-fighting Rizzoli family!” declared Jane’s father. He popped the cork and prosecco bubbled out of the bottle, dribbling onto Angela’s favorite Tuscan yellow tablecloth.

“Dial it back, Dad,” said Jane. “This is not that big a deal.”

“Of course it is! Whenever our family name makes it into The Boston Globe, it’s always worth celebrating.”

Jane looked at her brother. “Hey, Frankie, you should go rob a bank. That’ll be worth a bottle of real champagne.”

“You just watch, our Frankie here will be in the news one of these days. I can see the headline now: Special Agent Frank Rizzoli, Jr., singlehandedly brings down international crime syndicate! ” Frank, Sr., filled a champagne glass and handed it to his son. “I always knew my kids would make me proud.”

“Our kids,” said Angela. She set the platter of roast beef on the table. “I did have something to do with it.”

“Frankie’s gonna be in the FBI, and Jane’s already in the newspapers. Now, Mikey, well, he still needs to figure out what he’s gonna do with his life, but I know he’ll make me proud someday. Wish he could be here with us on this fine occasion, but having two of my three kids is celebration enough.”

“ Our kids,” repeated Angela. “It’s not like you raised them all on your own.”

“Yeah, yeah. Our kids.” He lifted his glass of prosecco. “Here’s to Detective Jane Rizzoli. For taking down another scumbag.”

As her father and brother downed their glasses of prosecco, Jane glanced at Gabriel, who gave an amused shake of the head and dutifully took a sip. She’d had no inkling that tonight’s Rizzoli family dinner was a victory celebration for her work on “the Eyeball Killer case,” as her brother liked to call it. In truth she felt little sense of victory; how could she celebrate when her suspect was dead and too many questions remained unanswered? She couldn’t shake the feeling that the job was incomplete, that she’d overlooked something. The prosecco tasted bitter, certainly not the flavor of triumph, and after one sip she put it down. She noticed that Angela wasn’t drinking either. Leave it to her dad to buy a bottle of wine so cheap that no one with a functioning taste bud would want to drink it.

That wasn’t stopping Frank and Frank, Jr., from guzzling it down as they toasted the Rizzoli triumph. If this was justice, it had come at a terrible price. Jane thought of Earl Devine’s cancer-ridden corpse lying on the autopsy table, his tragic secret revealed. She thought of Martin Stanek, who had gone to his grave insisting that he was innocent.

What if he was telling the truth?

“Why the long face, Janie? You should get into the spirit of things,” her father said, as he sawed into the slice of beef on his plate. “Tonight’s all about celebrating!”

“It’s not like I achieved world peace or anything.”

“You don’t think a job well done is worth a champagne toast?”

“It’s prosecco,” muttered Angela, but no one seemed to hear her. She sat at the far end of the table, shoulders slumped, the food on her plate untouched. As her husband and son gorged on the meal she’d prepared, Angela had not even picked up her fork.

“It’s just bothering me,” Jane said. “How this case went down.”

“Dead perp, problem solved.” Her brother laughed and punched Jane in the arm.

“He hit Mommy!” protested Regina.

“I didn’t hit her, kid,” said Frankie. “I gave her a victory punch.”

“You hit her. I saw it!”

Jane kissed her outraged daughter on the head. “It’s okay, sweetie. Uncle Frankie’s only playing around with me.”

“’Cause that’s what grown-ups do,” said Frankie.

“You hit people?” Regina scowled at him.

Out of the mouths of babes.

“You’ve gotta learn to defend yourself, kiddo.” Frankie put up his fists and play-boxed with his niece. “C’mon. Show Uncle Frankie you can fight back.”

“Don’t,” said Angela.

“It’s just for fun, Ma.”

“She’s a little girl. She doesn’t have to learn how to fight.”

“Of course she does. She’s a Rizzoli.”

“Technically,” Jane said, looking at her ever-patient husband, “she’s a Dean.”

“But she’s got Rizzoli blood. And all Rizzolis know how to stand up for themselves.”

“No, we don’t,” said Angela. Her face was flushed, and there was a volcanic glow in her eyes. “Some of us don’t fight back. Some Rizzolis are cowards. Like me.”

His mouth stuffed with roast beef, Frankie frowned at his mother. “What you talking about, Ma?”

“You heard me. I’ve been a coward.”

Frank, Sr., set down his fork. “Just what is going on now?”

“You, Frank. Me. It’s all one big fucking mess.”

Regina looked at Gabriel. “Daddy, she said a bad word.”

Red-faced, Angela turned to her granddaughter. “Oh, honey, yes, I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Nonna needs a time-out.”

“You bet she does!” Frank yelled as Angela vanished into the kitchen. He looked around the table. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s so moody these days.”

Jane rose to her feet. “I’ll go talk to her.”

“No, leave her alone. She needs to pull herself together.”

“What she needs is someone to listen to her.”

“Suit yourself,” grunted Frank, and he reached once again for the bottle of prosecco.

Mom definitely needs a time-out. If only to avoid a murder rap.

In the kitchen, Jane found Angela standing by the counter, staring ominously at the block of chef’s knives.

“You know, Ma, poison would be a lot neater,” said Jane.

“What’s the fatal dose for strychnine?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to arrest you.”

“It’s not for him. It’s for me .”

“Ma?”

Angela turned to her daughter with a look of utter misery. “I can’t do this, Jane.”

“I hope to hell you can’t.”