Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

Tam laughed. “We Chinese may have invented it, but Crowe perfected it.”

They emerged into the backyard and she saw the object of their scorn standing with Maura. Everything about Crowe’s body language screamed pissed off , from his rigid neck to his agitated gestures.

“Before you turn this into a three-ring circus,” he said to Maura, “how about giving us a more specific time of death?”

“That’s as specific as I can be,” said Maura. “The rest is up to you. That is your job.”

Crowe noticed Jane approaching and said, “I’m sure the all-powerful Rizzoli has the answers.”

“I’m here at Dr. Isles’s request,” said Jane. “I’ll just take a look and get out of your way.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Maura said, quietly, “She’s over here, Jane.”

Jane followed her across the yard, to where a backhoe was parked. The remains were lying on a blue tarp at the edge of a freshly dug pit.

“Adult female,” said Maura. “About five foot three. No arthritic changes in the spine, epiphyses are closed. I estimate her age as somewhere between twenty and mid-thirties …”

“What the hell did you get me into?” Jane muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m already on his shit list.”

“So am I, but it doesn’t stop me from doing my job.” Maura paused. “Assuming I keep my job”—something that had been in doubt after Maura’s testimony in court had sent a well-liked cop to prison. Maura’s aloofness—some would call it strangeness—had never made her popular among Boston PD’s rank and file, and now cops considered her a traitor to their brotherhood.

“I gotta be honest,” said Jane. “What you told me over the phone didn’t give me much of a tingle.” She looked at the remains, stripped down by decay to nothing more than bones. “To start off with, this is a woman.”

“Her ankles were bound with orange nylon cord. The same cord that was around Gott’s ankles.”

“That type of cord’s common enough. Unlike Gott, this one’s female and someone went to the trouble of burying her.”

“There’s a cut mark at the bottom of her sternum, just like Gott. I think she was quite possibly eviscerated.”

“Possibly?”

“Without any remaining soft tissues and organs, I can’t prove it. But that sternal cut is from a blade. The kind of nick you’d make when you slice open the abdomen. And there’s one more thing.” Maura knelt down to point at the skull. “Look at this.”

“Those three little scratches?”

“Remember Gott’s skull film, where I pointed out the three linear scratches? Like claw marks on the bone.”

“These aren’t linear. They’re just tiny little nicks.”

“They’re spaced precisely apart. They might have been made by the same tool.”

“Or by animals. Or that backhoe.” Jane turned at the sound of voices. The crime scene unit had arrived, and Crowe was leading a trio of criminalists toward the remains.

“So what do you think, Rizzoli?” said Crowe. “You gonna call dibs on this?”

“I’m not fighting you for turf. I’m just checking out some similarities.”

“Your vic was, what? A sixty-four-year-old guy?”

“Yeah.”

“And this is a young female. Does that sound similar to you?”

“No,” Jane admitted, feeling Maura’s gaze on her.

“Your male victim—what did you find on autopsy? The cause of death?”

“There was a skull fracture, as well as crush injuries of the thyroid cartilage,” said Maura.

“There’s no obvious fractures on my gal’s skull,” said Crowe. My gal . As if she belonged to him, this nameless victim. As if he’d already claimed ownership.

“This woman was small and easier to control than a man,” Maura said. “There’d be no need to stun her first with a blow to the head.”

“But it is another difference,” said Crowe. “Another detail that doesn’t line up with the other case.”

“Detective Crowe, I’m looking at the gestalt of these two cases. The overall picture.”

“Which only you seem to be seeing. One vic is an older male, the other a younger female. One has a skull fracture, the other doesn’t. One was killed and displayed in his own garage, the other was buried in a backyard.”

“Both were nude, their ankles bound with cord, and they were very likely eviscerated. The way a hunter—”

“Maura,” cut in Jane. “How ’bout we walk the property?”

“I’ve already walked it.”

“Well, I haven’t. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Maura followed her away from the pit and they moved to the edge of the yard. There were overhanging trees here, which deepened the gloom of an already depressingly gray afternoon.

“You think Crowe’s right, don’t you?” said Maura, her voice tinged with bitterness.

“You know I always respect your opinion, Maura.”

“But in this case, you don’t agree with it.”

“You have to admit, there are differences between these two victims.”

“The cut marks. The nylon cord. Even the knots are similar, and—”

“A double square knot isn’t unique. If I were a perp, it’s probably what I’d use to tie up a victim.”

“The gutting? How many recent cases have you seen of that ?”

“You found a single nick in the sternum. It’s not conclusive. These victims couldn’t be more different. Age, sex, location.”

“Until I ID this female, you can’t say there’s no connection with Gott.”

“Okay,” Jane conceded with a sigh. “True.”

“Why are we arguing? You’re always welcome to prove me wrong. Just do your job.”

Jane stiffened. “When haven’t I?”

That reply, so tight with tension, made Maura go still. Her dark hair, usually so smooth and sleek, was transformed by the chilly dampness into a wiry net that had trapped stray twigs. In the gloom of these trees, with her dirt-streaked pant cuffs and wrinkled blouse, she looked like a feral version of Maura, a stranger whose eyes glowed too brightly. Feverishly.

“What’s really going on here?” Jane asked quietly.

Maura looked away, a sudden avoidance of gaze as if the answer was too painful to share. Over the years they had been privy to each other’s miseries and missteps. They knew the worst of each other. Why now did Maura suddenly shrink from answering a simple question?

“Maura?” Jane prodded. “What’s happened?”

Maura sighed. “I got a letter.”

THEY SAT IN A BOOTH AT J. P. DOYLE’S, A FAVORITE BOSTON PD WATERING hole where, come five P.M., there would almost certainly be at least half a dozen cops at the bar, trading war stories. But three P.M. was a restaurant’s witching hour, and that afternoon only two other booths were occupied. Although Jane had eaten countless lunches at Doyle’s, this was Maura’s first meal here, yet another reminder that despite their years together as colleagues and friends, a gulf remained between them. Cop versus doc, community college versus Stanford University, Adams Ale versus Sauvignon Blanc. As the waitress stood waiting, Maura scanned the menu with an expression of What’s the least disgusting thing I can order?

“The fish-and-chips are good,” suggested Jane.

“I’ll take the Caesar salad,” said Maura. “Dressing on the side.”

The waitress left, and they sat for a moment in uneasy silence. In the booth across from them sat a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Older man, younger woman. Sex in the afternoon, thought Jane, and no doubt illicit as hell. It made her think of her own father, Frank, and his blond chickie, the affair that had fractured his marriage and sent heartbroken Angela into Vince Korsak’s arms. Jane wanted to yell: Hey, mister, go back to your wife now, before you fuck up everyone’s lives .