By Tess Gerritsen

Rizzoli & Isles Novels

The Surgeon

The Apprentice

The Sinner

Body Double

Vanish

The Mephisto Club

The Keepsake

Ice Cold

The Silent Girl

Last to Die

Other Novels

Harvest

Life Support

Bloodstream

Gravity

The Bone Garden

John Doe: A Rizzoli & Isles Short Story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Tess Gerritsen

Excerpt from Last to Die copyright © 2012 by Tess Gerritsen

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53815-4

www.ballantinebooks.com

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Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Excerpt from Last to Die

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

Dr. Maura Isles did not enjoy cocktail parties. Circulating in a room filled with strangers was her idea of an excruciating evening, yet here she was, glass of champagne in hand, standing beneath Tyrannosaurus rex. Dinosaur bones did not expect her to smile and come up with small talk, something Maura was singularly bad at. Sheltered in the undemanding company of T. rex, she read the informational plaque for the tenth time, glad that for once she wasn’t competing with the hordes of children who always gathered at the feet of dinosaurs. Tonight was an adults-only affair, a formal reception to thank the donors to Boston’s Museum of Science, and as a member of the benefit committee, Maura could hardly slip away before the speeches started. She smiled stoically and sipped champagne as men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns glided past, chatting and crowd-hopping with an ease that Maura had never acquired.

“You and T. rex seem awfully chummy,” a male voice said.

Maura turned to see an attractive dark-haired man smiling at her. Although she was wearing four-inch high heels, he was taller than her, fit and trim in a well-tailored tuxedo. She glanced at his name tag and saw his name was Eli Kilgour. The gold dot pasted above his name told her Mr. Kilgour was a high-level donor to the museum.

“I see you’re on the benefit committee,” he said, reading her name tag, just as she had read his. “Excellent event tonight, Dr. Isles.”

She smiled back. “I can’t take any credit. All I did was write a check and lend my name to the cause.” She shook his hand. “Thank you for your generous donation to the museum. We need to get every kid in town fired up about science.”

“And that title Doctor I see in front of your name,” he said, pointing to her tag. “Would that be MD or PhD?”

“MD. I’m a forensic pathologist. And you?”

He gave a modest shrug. “Nothing nearly as impressive. I suppose my full-time job is supporting causes that matter to me.”

Which explained the gold dot on his name tag. He didn’t have an occupation because he obviously had money.

“And which causes do matter to you?” she asked.

“Inspiring young scientists, for one. Which is why we’re both here tonight, wearing our dancing shoes.”

“Dancing?” She winced. “More like limping. These are my two-hour shoes.”

He looked down at her high heels. “What happens after two hours?”

“Either I kick them off, or someone has to carry me home.”

“Both prospects sound pretty exciting.”

She laughed, surprised to find herself flirting with an attractive stranger, and she quickly confirmed that he wore no wedding ring. The evening had turned interesting: The champagne tasted more delicious, and a pleasant warmth flushed her cheeks.

“So are you alone here tonight?” he asked, glancing around the room, searching for her escort.

“Yes. Here to do my civic duty.”

“And is there a Mr. Dr. Isles?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, no. You?”

“Unless you count my mother, there is no Mrs. Kilgour. Which turns out to be a good thing tonight, because I can enjoy a guilt-free chat with a beautiful woman in a stunning gown.”

“That,” she said with a smile, “sounds like a line you’ve used before.”

“But tonight I actually mean it.” He looked down at her empty champagne glass. “Let me refill that for you. If you promise not to disappear.”

She handed him the glass. “Thanks for saving me the pain of hobbling to the bar.”

“Back in a flash. Tell T. rex to behave himself.”

Off he went with her champagne glass, striding with the confidence of a man who knew his way among the tuxedoed crowd. Just as she lost sight of him, the PA system hummed to life.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m George Gilman, chairman of the benefit committee. I’m delighted to see so many people here who care about this museum and all the ways it enriches our city, inspires our children, and awakens our wonder in science …”

Maura’s two-hour shoes had just about reached their limit. She leaned against a pillar, trying to take the pressure off her numb toes, as George Gilman finished his introductions. The museum director took the microphone and began to talk about their mission as educators and scientists, all things Maura deeply believed in. Her eyes stayed on the speaker, but she scarcely registered his words because she was distracted by the buzz of the crowd, the flushing of her own skin. And by the attentions of a certain stranger.

Suddenly he was back beside her. “Here you go,” he whispered, placing a full champagne glass in her hand. “What did I miss?”

“The introductions.”

“T. rex didn’t make a pass?”

“He’s been a very good boy,” she said as she sipped.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

“The canapés were a meal in themselves.”

“I arrived too late to sample any. So …”

“So?” She looked at him.

“When the speeches are over, let me take you someplace for dessert.”

He was staring at her as if he thought she were dessert. The champagne made her feel bold, even reckless, but something she glimpsed in his eyes made her hesitate. She took another sip, giving herself a moment to weigh his invitation.

“We’ve only just met, Eli.”

“True. But I have the special gold dot,” he said, tapping his name tag. “Does that count for something?”

Now she had to smile. If ever there was a place to meet a respectable man, it would be a Museum of Science reception. Whatever she’d earlier glimpsed in his eyes, whatever had pinged some internal alarm, was no longer visible.

“After the speeches,” she said.

“Of course. That is why we’re here.”

“And then I want to hear more about you. What else you do besides supporting causes.”

“Over dessert. And I know just the place. A French café, right in this neighborhood. Strawberry tarts as good as any in Paris. And it’s close enough to walk to.”

“Ouch.” She looked down at her shoes. “Don’t even say that word.”

He nodded sympathetically. “I can arrange alternative transportation. Pumpkin. Limousine. Stretcher.”

“Even the pumpkin sounds good.”

Now the evening’s featured speaker took the microphone. A distinguished climate scientist from MIT. Maura drained her champagne to steel herself for the doom-and-gloom lecture sure to come. Shrinking polar ice caps and disappearing phytoplankton. Even though she wore only a silk halter gown, the room felt warm and suddenly airless.

“… and how can we as a country sensibly respond to these global challenges, given our schools’ latest test scores in science?”

Maura looked at the other attendees. Was no one else feeling overheated? All around her were women in jewel-colored gowns, appearing cool and collected.

She felt a steadying hand on her arm, and looked up into Eli’s face.

He took her empty champagne glass and set it on a nearby tray. “I think you need some air,” he said.

“… and that is where we find ourselves today, in a nation rapidly being eclipsed by scientific powerhouses now rising in Asia, where …”

The sun burned through her eyelids. Maura turned her head, trying to escape the glare, but it shone down on her face like a heat lamp, hot enough to scorch her skin. Her mouth was dry, so dry, and her head hurt. And the damn phone kept ringing and ringing.

She opened her eyes and squinted at the sunlight blazing through the living room window. Why am I not in bed? She struggled to focus on her surroundings and saw her coffee table, the Persian rug, the bookcase. Everything where it usually was. Except for me. How did I end up falling asleep on the sofa?

The phone stopped ringing.

Groaning, she sat up and immediately had to drop her head as the room seemed to rock. Doubled over, her face resting in her hands, she realized she was still wearing her evening gown from the Museum of Science reception. The silk was thoroughly wrinkled from being slept in, and one high-heeled shoe was lying under the coffee table. Where the other shoe was, she could not remember.

She could not remember a lot of things. How she’d gotten home. How she’d made it through her front door.

Slowly she straightened again, and this time the room stayed steady. She spotted her purse on the floor, with her keys lying beside it. I must have driven myself home, she thought. Unlocked my front door, and collapsed onto the sofa.

Why can’t I remember any of it?

She stood up, reeling like a drunken woman, and stumbled down the hall into the kitchen. There she drank two full glasses of water, gulping it so greedily it dribbled down her chin and splattered her silk dress. She didn’t care. Thirst quenched at last, she propped herself against the countertop, feeling steadier. Stronger. Her head still throbbed, but she was awake enough now to feel the first prickles of fear. The kitchen clock read eleven thirty-five. It was a Sunday, but even on weekends she never slept this late.

What happened to me last night? Why can’t I remember?

She looked down at her dress. Except for the wrinkled fabric and the fresh water stains, it appeared intact. She was still wearing her pantyhose, although a fat run had streaked its way up her left stocking. She hadn’t been robbed, since her purse and keys were in the …

My purse.

She hurried back to the living room and scooped up her evening bag. Inside it, she found her business card case, lipstick, and wallet. The wallet was unsnapped. With a rising sense of panic she flipped it open and was relieved to see all her credit cards; only her driver’s license was missing. No, there it was, lying loose at the bottom of the purse.

The doorbell rang.

She turned, heart suddenly pounding. Could the answers be waiting on her front porch? Though she had just downed two glasses of water, her throat felt parched again, this time from anxiety, as she opened the door.

Detective Jane Rizzoli pulled off sunglasses and frowned up and down at Maura’s evening gown. “Isn’t there some rule about formal wear before noon?” she asked.

Maura lifted a hand to her throbbing head. “Oh God, Jane. I’m so confused.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Jane stepped into the house and shut the door. “You look like you need to sit down,” she said, guiding Maura to the sofa. “I’ve been calling you for the last hour. Where were you?”

“Here.” Maura looked down at the white cushions and suddenly gave a laugh. “Right here, in fact. This is where I woke up.”

“On the sofa? Must’ve been a wild night.”

Maura closed her eyes against the headache. She didn’t have to look to know that Jane was eyeing her with a cop’s unrelenting stare, exactly what Maura didn’t want to face right now. Head in her hands, Maura said, “Why are you here?”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“It’s Sunday. I’m not on call.”

“I know that.”

“So why were you trying to reach me?” Her question was met with silence. Maura lifted her head and found herself looking straight into Jane’s eyes. It was Maura’s job to wield a scalpel, but now Jane was the one doing the dissecting, and Maura didn’t like being on the receiving end.

“I just came from a death scene,” said Jane. “Olmsted Park. A body was found on the bank of the Muddy River, just south of Leverett Pond.”

“It’s not my case, not today. Why are you telling me about it?”

“Because we have reason to think you might know him.”

Maura sat up straight, staring. “Who?”

“That’s just it, we don’t know. There’s no wallet, no phone on the body. At the moment he’s a John Doe.”

“Why do you think I know him?”

“Because we found your business card tucked into his breast pocket.”

“He could have it for any number of reasons. I give my cards out to anyone who does business with—”

“Your home address was written on the back, Maura.”

Maura sat still for a moment, struggling to think through the cloud of confusion that still hung over her. She seldom gave out her personal information to anyone—not her phone number, and certainly not where she lived. She valued her privacy too dearly. “This man,” she said softly. “What does he look like?”

“Dark hair. In his forties, well built. I guess you’d call him good looking.”

Maura’s head lifted. “What was he wearing?”

“Funny you should ask that,” said Jane, looking at Maura’s evening gown. “He’s wearing a very nice tuxedo. At least, it was nice, until someone sliced him up with a knife.”

Maura lurched to her feet. “Excuse me,” she gasped, and made a run for her bathroom. She barely made it in time and dropped her head over the toilet just as she started to retch. Nothing but water came up, every drop of those two full glasses she’d gulped down so quickly. She was left weak and shaking, and she barely heard Jane knocking on the door.

“Maura? You okay, Maura?”

“I’ll be—I’ll be out in a minute.” Maura rose unsteadily to her feet and stared at herself in the mirror. Her usually sculpted hair was in disarray. Her face was sickly pale, with one bright streak of lipstick smeared across her cheek.

The dead man was wearing a tuxedo.

She turned on the faucet and washed her face twice, scrubbing away every trace of makeup. Bent over the sink, splashing her cheeks with water, all of a sudden she remembered a face. A man with dark hair, smiling at her. She remembered swirls of color, women in evening dresses standing around them. And a glass of champagne.

She stood up straight, water dripping onto her gown. A gown she never wanted to wear again. She unzipped it and shed the silk. Peeled off her pantyhose and underwear, desperate to get it all away from her because it felt dirty. Contaminated. Even as she threw the clothing into the corner, she knew it was evidence, and she could not wash it. Not yet.

Nor could she take a shower.

In her bedroom, she dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but as soon as they touched her unwashed skin, the fresh clothes felt soiled, because she was. Or might be.

When she walked back into the living room, she found Jane talking on the cell phone. Jane took one look at Maura’s face and quickly hung up.

“I want to see the body,” said Maura.

“He’s probably en route to the morgue right now.”

“Do you have a photo?”

“Yeah. I took one because I thought you might need to look at it.” Jane found the image on her cell phone, but paused before handing it to Maura. “You sure about this?”

“I need to know if it’s him.” She took Jane’s cell phone and stared at the dead man’s face. Remembered how that same face had smiled at her as he’d placed the champagne glass in her hand. And she remembered the name tag with the gold dot. “Eli Kilgour,” she said.

“That’s his name?”

“Yes. I met him last night, at the Museum of Science reception. He’s a donor.”

“Okay, so we’ve got a name.” As Jane took back her phone, her eyes were still on Maura. “Now you want to tell me the rest of the story? Because I can see there’s more.”

“I need to go to the ER, Jane.”

“Are you sick?”

“It’s possible—I need to be sure …” Maura moved to an armchair and sank down. “I don’t think it happened. But I need to be examined. For rape.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember!” Maura dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t remember how I got home. I don’t remember falling asleep on the sofa.”

“What do you remember?”

“The reception. Meeting him. We left the museum and I was feeling dizzy. I remember we were in the parking garage, and then …” She shook her head. “After that, I’m not sure.”

“Somehow you did manage to get home. Is your car here?”

“I haven’t looked.”

Jane walked out of the living room; seconds later, she was back. “Your car’s not in the garage.”

“But my keys are right there.” She pointed to the floor.

“Someone drove you here. Someone unlocked your front door and got you to the sofa.”

The same someone who drugged my champagne? Who’s now dead from stab wounds?

Jane placed a comforting hand on Maura’s shoulder. “I’ll drive you to the ER now, okay? And I’ll need your clothes. What you wore last night.”

“On the floor, in my bathroom. Everything’s there, my underwear, my stockings.” Maura sighed. “I know the drill.”

“You also know that I’ve got a problem, Maura. The guy you just happened to meet last night turns up murdered. And you can’t remember how the evening ended.”

Maura looked up at her. “I guess we’ve both got a problem.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jane was accustomed to seeing Maura poised and in control, the Queen of the Dead unruffled even by the horrors that landed on her autopsy table. So it was a shock to see how vulnerable Maura looked, sitting on the ER exam table, dressed in a hospital paper gown. Maura flinched as a needle pierced her vein and dark blood streamed into the specimen tube.

“That’s for the drug screen?” asked Jane.

“Dr. Murata ordered a number of blood and urine tests” was all the nurse would say as she unsnapped the tourniquet, taped gauze to the puncture site. “And that should do it. As soon as you sign the discharge form, you’re free to go, Dr. Isles. We’ll call you when the lab results come in.” She walked out with the blood tubes, sliding the privacy curtain closed.

“Thank you, Jane,” Maura whispered. “For staying with me.”

“Feel better?”

“Yes. Now that it looks like I wasn’t …” Maura’s voice trailed off before she could say the word. “I just wanted to be certain.”

“Nevertheless,” said Jane, “we’ll need to hang on to your evening clothes, as well as all the collected trace evidence.”

Maura frowned. “You’re keeping my fingernail scrapings?”

Before Jane could answer, her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and walked out. Kept walking until she was well down the hall, where Maura couldn’t hear her. “Rizzoli,” she answered.

“You know that name you gave me, Eli Kilgour?” said her partner, Detective Barry Frost.

“You reach his next of kin?”

“Even better. I reached him. Mr. Kilgour’s alive and well and living with his male partner on Beacon Street.”

“Male partner?”

“You got it. He said he is a donor to the Museum of Science, but he couldn’t make it to the benefit because he had another engagement. The man Dr. Isles met last night must have picked up a badge from the ones remaining on the table.”

“Classic way to crash a party. But in that crowd, it carries risks. You’d think folks in their circle would know each other.”

“I called the museum, and they’ve pulled the security tapes for me. They had four hundred guests last night, so it’d be easy to slip in among so many people. He must be an old hand at this, if he comes dressed in a tuxedo. Hell, I don’t even own a tuxedo.”

“So we’re back to square one. Who is our dead John Doe?”

“Dr. Isles was with him last night, and she has no idea?”

“She says she can’t remember what happened. What about Maura’s car. Did you find it?”

“Yeah. It’s still in the museum garage, where she says she parked it last night. It was locked, nothing unusual about it.”

“If her car was left at the museum, he must have driven her home.”

“So where’s his car? There wasn’t any vehicle near the body,” Frost pointed out.

She thought about the geography of Boston, and realized that if she drove directly from the Museum of Science to Maura’s house in Brookline, the death scene would be right along the way. She didn’t like where that line of reasoning took her. It led to the possibility that John Doe was killed and dumped en route to Maura’s home. It meant she was with the killer when it happened.

Or she was the killer.

“Check the cars in Maura’s neighborhood,” Jane said. “Any vehicle that doesn’t belong.”

“You’re not thinking that …”

“We have to, Frost. We have no choice.” She glanced up as Maura emerged, now dressed, from the exam room. “Right now, she’s our only suspect.”

The vehicle was parked across the street from Maura’s residence, a black Buick LaCrosse with Massachusetts plates, registered to Christopher Scanlon of Braintree. None of the nearby neighbors knew anything about the car, only that it was already parked there when they woke up that morning.

“Unlocked. Keys still in the ignition,” said Frost. “And look what’s down there.” He pointed to the floor beneath the passenger seat, and Jane’s heart dropped when she saw the woman’s high-heeled shoe. It was the mate to the shoe she’d seen under Maura’s coffee table.

“Tow truck’s on the way now,” said Frost. “Once they get it back to the lab, I’m gonna bet CSU finds her fingerprints in there as well.”

“Oh man. This gets worse and worse.”

“If this were anyone else, we’d be reading her her rights.”

“But it’s not anyone else,” said Jane. “This is Maura.”

“And we both know a few cops who’d like to see her take a perp walk.” Maura’s recent testimony against a Boston PD officer had sent him to prison—something plenty of cops viewed as a betrayal of the thin blue line.

“What do we have on this guy, Christopher Scanlon?” she asked.

Frost pulled up the data on his smartphone. “Age forty-one, six foot two, hundred eighty pounds. Brown hair, blue eyes.” He showed her the driver’s license photo. “Looks like our victim.”

“Who’s no longer a John Doe.”

“And get this. ME’s office sent the victim’s fingerprints to AFIS. Scanlon’s in their database. Two arrests, both for indecent assault and battery.”

“He’s a rapist? Any convictions?”

“None. It seems our victim was a very bad boy. Who kept getting away with it.”

But not this time, thought Jane as she crossed the street back to Maura’s house.

She found Maura still sitting in the kitchen where she’d left her moments ago. Her cup of coffee appeared untouched, and she barely looked up as Jane walked in the room.

“Is the car his?” Maura asked.

“It appears so. His real name is Christopher Scanlon. Lives—lived—in Braintree. That ring any bells?”

“I told you, I never met the man before last night.”

Jane couldn’t help studying the wooden block of kitchen knives on the countertop. Couldn’t help noticing that one slot was empty.

“Was it a Wüsthof blade?” Maura asked softly.

“What?”

“The knife that killed him. That’s the brand of knives I own. It’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it?”

“The murder weapon hasn’t been found.”

“Then you’ll want to collect mine for a wound match. Fingerprints, blood. And don’t forget the knife in the dishwasher.” She raised her head and looked at Jane. “You have a job to do, I understand that.”

Jane sat down at the table. “Then you also understand—”

“I’m a suspect.” Maura gave an ironic laugh. “Which will please more than a few Boston PD officers. The high-and-mighty ME everyone loves to hate.”

“Not true.”

“They’ll blithely point out that murder runs in my family. Like mother, like daughter.”

“Your mother is not you.”

“My mother is a monster. Do you think we’ll be granted the privilege of adjoining prison cells?”

“Stop it, Maura. For God’s sake.”

“I’m just telling it like it is.”

“That’s the drug talking. Whatever he gave you, it’s kicked you down and out and made you give up.” Jane leaned forward and said fiercely: “I won’t allow it.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Maura leaned back with a smile. “Everyone should have their own Jane Rizzoli.”

Jane stood up and slid the chair against the table. “Well, this Jane Rizzoli has a job to do.”

Christopher Scanlon’s residence was a rented two-bedroom town house on a leafy street in Braintree. Mr. Siegel, the rental agent who met them at the address, kept shaking his head and murmuring “Awful, just awful,” as they climbed the steps to the front door. “He was a dream tenant. Kept the property in immaculate shape.” He waved at the manicured lawn. “You can see how neat the front yard is.”

“He never gave you any problems?” Frost asked.

“Never. He moved in about nine, ten months ago. Passed the financial screen with flying colors. Excellent credit rating. Hundred thousand in his bank account. Paid me three months’ rent in advance.” Siegel unlocked the door. “The kind of tenant every rental agent hopes for.”

Until you find out that perfect tenant is a rapist.

Jane and Frost stepped into the residence and saw a black leather couch, a big-screen TV, a chrome-and-glass coffee table. A manpad, Jane thought, with no soft touches. If any woman had ever lived here, there was no trace of her in this room with its cold and polished décor.

“See how orderly everything is?” said Mr. Siegel. “Kept it in perfect shape.”

“He certainly did,” said Jane, focusing on the huge framed photo that dominated one wall. It was a leopard, staring from the grass, eyes agleam, powerful muscles tensed to leap. The consummate predator.

“I guess you folks are looking for leads, huh?” asked Mr. Siegel as Jane and Frost continued their inspection of the residence, moving from kitchen to study to master bedroom, all of it furnished in stark black and white.

“You have any info on next of kin?” asked Frost.

“Never mentioned any. And he was single.”

“Friends? Contacts?”

“I’m just the rental agent. Not my job to get chummy with the tenants.” He frowned as Jane opened dresser drawers, revealing neatly folded socks and underwear and sweaters. “What’s the story with his death, anyway? Was it a mugging or something?”

“It’s under investigation,” she said.

“Was he shot? Stabbed? What?”

She ignored his questions and focused on the laptop computer on the nightstand. Turning it on, she saw it was password-protected.

“I’m getting the feeling it wasn’t just a mugging,” Mr. Siegel said. “Is there something I should be worried about here? Like, was he into something illegal?” He frowned at Jane’s stony expression and groaned. “Oh Jesus. I thought he was too good to be true! All that rent in advance. Was he a drug dealer or what?”

“Rizzoli!” Frost called out from the bathroom.

She found him kneeling by the under-sink cabinet. He rose to his feet, holding a ziplock bag. “Look what I found. It was hidden way in the back, behind the cleaning stuff.”

Through clear plastic, she saw blister packs of white tablets stamped with the pharmaceutical company’s name: Roche. She looked at Frost. “Rohypnol.”

“What? Roofies?” Mr. Siegel said. “Why the hell would he have something like that?”

“I can think of one reason,” said Jane, turning to the rental agent. “Tell me everything about Christopher Scanlon.”

“I did tell you. He was a good tenant.”

“Yeah, yeah. Paid his rent, kept the lawn mowed. Did he ever bring women here? Did neighbors complain of any disturbances?”

“No, never. No parties, no loud music. In fact, he was hardly here at night. I thought he was over at some girlfriend’s house, but he told me he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

Frost’s cell phone rang, and he stepped out of the bathroom to answer the call.

“What about his job? You said he was a software developer.”

“Self-employed, told me he worked from home. I figured I didn’t need to see his federal tax return, ’cause he had so much in his bank account. You think that wasn’t true? That he worked in software?”

“I can’t be sure what’s true about Mr. Scanlon.” Except that he was supplied with enough roofies to knock out a few dozen women.

Frost reappeared in the doorway. “You wanna step outside with me?” he said to her. “We gotta talk.”

Seeing the grim expression on his face, she immediately followed him out of the town house. They stood on the front walk, where Mr. Siegel couldn’t overhear their conversation.

“I just got the details on Scanlon’s two arrests,” said Frost.

“Why was he never convicted?”

“The first case, he was seen on a bar’s security camera driving away with the victim, Kitty O’Brien, age twenty-six. Unfortunately, she waited a week to report the crime. The charges were dropped because Kitty couldn’t remember what happened. She was also pretty intoxicated that night, which made it a tough case to try. A few months later, she committed suicide. Got hold of her father’s gun and shot herself in the head.”

“Scanlon fucks up that poor girl’s life, and he walks away scot-free?”

“Left her father devastated. Harry O’Brien publicly threatened to kill Scanlon. Which led to poor O’Brien getting charged.”

“So Harry O’Brien’s a definite suspect. If he did it, I’m gonna pat him on the back before I arrest him.”

“You and me both.”

“What about Scanlon’s second arrest? How did he get off that time?”

Frost sighed. “It gets complicated.”

“Don’t tell me it ends with a second suicide.”

“No, the second rape victim’s alive. Year and a half ago, Sarah Shapiro, age thirty-two, met a guy at an art gallery reception. She woke up at home the next morning and realized she’d been raped. Someone at the gallery noticed Sarah wasn’t acting right as she got into the man’s car, so she wrote down Scanlon’s license number. That’s how they ID’d him.”

“How did that case not end in a conviction?”

“Scanlon claimed he only gave Sarah a lift home and left her there.”

“If she was raped, didn’t they have his DNA?”

“Here’s the part that’s weird. There was male DNA found inside Sarah. But it wasn’t Scanlon’s. And she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

Jane stared at him. “Someone else raped her?”

Frost nodded. “We’re dealing with a second man. His DNA profile was already in CODIS, for five different attacks in Massachusetts.”

“A serial rapist.”

“It’s worse. His most recent victim, last month, was strangled. This unknown man has now escalated to murder. And it seems like our Christopher Scanlon was delivering the victims to him.”

CHAPTER THREE

Harry O’Brien was sixty-two years old, but the man who gazed at them from the doorway appeared far older, his eyes hollow, his shoulders drooping as though under the weight of grief. “I knew the police would want to talk to me someday,” he said. “So Scanlon did it again. Didn’t he?”

“We believe so,” said Jane.

“A monster like that, he doesn’t just call it quits one day. He keeps going and going, cutting down lives.” Harry stepped aside to let them enter. “Come in, Detectives. Tell me how I can help you take the bastard down.”

It was an older home, and Jane could smell its age as she walked into the living room, the accumulated odors of dust and mildew and worn carpets. The first thing that caught her eye was the array of photographs on the wall, images of what looked like the same dark-haired girl through the years. As a child, sitting in a swing. As a teenager in her graduation cap and gown. As a young woman hugging a smiling man. Jane was startled to recognize Harry O’Brien in the face of that man in the photo—a younger, happier version of the bitter man now standing in the room with them.

“Kitty had so much to give to the world,” he said, staring at his daughter’s photo. “Not just her big heart and her big laugh. She was brilliant, the first in my family to go to college. Worked nights, went to school during the day. She’d just earned her PhD in history. She went out to celebrate that night. Ended up at a bar and drank a little too much. That’s when he …” O’Brien swallowed and looked out the window. “She couldn’t admit what happened to her, until a week later. By the time she reported it, too much evidence was lost. She never stopped blaming herself. Such a smart girl, yet she felt so stupid.”

“She was hardly responsible for what happened,” said Frost.

“You think I didn’t tell her that a thousand times?” O’Brien shot back. His anger suddenly collapsed and he dropped his head. “She used my gun. So I blame myself, too. I could see how depressed she was and I should have gotten rid of it. I just didn’t think she’d ever …” He shook his head and sighed. “There’s plenty of guilt to go around. But Scanlon’s the one I blame. The one who destroyed my beautiful girl. My only child.”

“Christopher Scanlon is dead,” said Jane.

O’Brien’s head snapped up. “What?”

“His body was found in Olmsted Park.”

“Was it murder?”

“Yes. It was. It happened last night.”

O’Brien was silent for a moment, the news sinking in. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad someone got him, while I’m still alive.” He paused. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“You’ve threatened Mr. Scanlon in the past.”

“I sure as hell did. I just wish I’d killed him myself, but I didn’t have the guts.” He sounded disgusted with himself. “I couldn’t go through with it.”

“You probably know my next question,” said Jane.

“I assume it’s Where were you last night?”

“You want to answer that?”

“Yeah. I was visiting a woman friend up in Swampscott. Had dinner at her house, watched a few DVDs, drank a little too much. I got home sometime after midnight, I guess.”

Jane studied O’Brien’s wasted face and sunken eyes, and could not imagine him staying up late, partying with a woman. “What’s this friend’s name?” she asked.

“Monica Vargas. Her mother was there, too. Monica’s in the phone book, so you can call her and confirm it.”

“We will.”

Christopher Scanlon’s second known victim, Sarah Shapiro, was less willing to speak to them. She peered suspiciously through her barely open door, the chain still in place. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said.

“This is a homicide investigation, Ms. Shapiro,” said Jane.

“If Scanlon’s dead, then I plan to celebrate. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“You had every reason to want him dead.”

“Damn right.”

“Which means we have every reason to be here. I know it’s not easy to talk about what he did to you. But you do understand that we have to.”

With a sigh, Sarah at last unchained the door and swung it open. “Let’s get this over with. Then I can crack open a bottle of champagne.”

Her apartment was stunning, with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced Commonwealth Avenue. The furniture and artwork had been chosen with an eye for style, and the ebony shelves were filled with expensive-looking art books.

Noticing Jane’s obvious curiosity over her book collection, Sarah asked: “Are you interested in art, Detective?”

“I know what I like.”

“That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

“You own an art gallery, is that right?”

“On Newbury Street. But I’m sure you already knew that.” Sarah stared off into space. “That’s how he found me,” she said softly. “At a friend’s gallery reception. Out of all those people, he chose me. Like a lion selecting a lamb.”

“We’re sorry to bring back such a painful memory,” Frost said.

“Bring back?” Sarah shook her head. “It’s never left me. How charming he seemed. How eager to fetch me a glass of wine. When I woke up the next morning, I knew what had happened, even though I couldn’t remember it. Oh, I was going to take this all the way to the end. I did everything right, everything a rape victim is supposed to do. I didn’t shower, but went straight to the ER and gave a statement to the police. One of the other guests at the reception had seen me wobbling to Scanlon’s car, and she had the presence of mind to take down his license number. When I saw his photo, I recognized him at once. I swore to the police that Christopher Scanlon was the man who drugged me.”

“But he wasn’t the man who raped you,” said Jane.

Sarah’s face tightened. “I kept telling them there had to be a mistake. The crime lab switched their DNA samples. Or the specimen was contaminated. But no, it was all blamed on me. The unreliable witness. The woman who accused the wrong man of assaulting her.”

“You don’t remember a second man that night?”

“I don’t remember a lot of things. Sometimes, there’s a spark of a memory. A man’s face. I’m not sure it’s a real memory, or something I’ve fabricated.” She gave a harsh laugh. “The way I supposedly fabricated my accusation. There was no way any prosecutor would touch the case. Not after the DNA came back.”

“Yet you’re certain it was Christopher Scanlon you met at the reception.”

“Absolutely. I found out later that I wasn’t his only victim. There was another woman, Kitty O’Brien. She’d just gotten her PhD, and was out celebrating when he picked her up at a bar. I read about Kitty after she committed suicide, and I realized Scanlon targeted a certain type of woman. Confident. Accomplished.”

And attractive, thought Jane, looking at Sarah Shapiro. Those were the same words she might use to describe Maura. It sent a chill through her, imagining a predator spotting Maura among the crowd. Circling in on his prey. Somehow, Maura had escaped the fate of Sarah and Kitty: She had not been sexually assaulted.

Instead it was Scanlon who’d ended up a victim.

“So who did it?” asked Sarah. “Who killed him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” said Jane.

“And I have a motive.”

“A perfectly understandable one.”

“Fortunately, I also have an alibi. You said he was killed Saturday night.”

“That’s right.”

“On Saturday night, I had a friend visiting. She stayed here, and we ate in. Talked a lot. Went to bed around midnight.”

“Your friend’s name?” asked Frost, pulling out his notebook.

“Julia Chan.” Sarah picked up a personal address book and flipped to the C’s. “I’ll give you her phone number. Since I’m sure you’ll want to talk to her.”

“We’ve confirmed their alibis,” said Frost. “Julia Chan said she spent the evening with Sarah Shapiro. And Monica Vargas said Harry O’Brien was at her house in Swampscott. Both these suspects now seem to be off the table.”

It was their morning team meeting at Boston PD, and seated in the conference room were Jane and Frost, Detectives Moore and Crowe, and their unit commander, Lieutenant Marquette. More than forty-eight hours had passed since the discovery of Scanlon’s body. The murder weapon was still missing; the autopsy confirmed that the cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the back and chest, a frenzied attack indicating uncontrolled rage.

“So we’re back to Dr. Isles,” said Lieutenant Marquette.

“Where I’ve always said we should focus,” said Crowe. He’d never tried to hide his dislike of Maura; her authority annoyed him. Or was it her intelligence that threatened him? “Her shoe and her fingerprints were in the victim’s vehicle. The museum surveillance cameras show them walking out together—”

“Maura wasn’t walking,” said Jane. “She was staggering.”

“And his car ends up parked right outside her house. If you ask me, it looks like they left the reception together, she stabbed him in Olmsted Park, and then she drove home in his car.”

“In a semiconscious state?”

“The amnesia story is a little too convenient, don’t you think? Plus, there was no evidence of sexual assault, no presence of semen. If Scanlon went to all the trouble of drugging her and getting her home, why didn’t he collect his prize?”

It enraged Jane to hear him so casually toss around the intimate details of Maura’s ordeal. This was not just a victim they were discussing; this was her friend, and she rocked forward in her chair, planting fists on the table. “Then where’s the blood on her dress? Tell me that. You don’t stab a guy fifteen times and walk away spotless.”

“She changed clothes.”

“She was wearing that dress in the museum surveillance video.”

“If he was killed by someone else after he brought her home, how did he get to Olmsted Park?” said Crowe. “His car was still parked at her house.”

“Obviously there was another vehicle,” said Jane. “Someone else was involved. Someone who drove Scanlon to Olmsted Park and killed him there.”

“Right. This mysterious second man you keep talking about.”

“Unknown male DNA was found inside Sarah Shapiro. There is a second man.”

“Or Sarah Shapiro’s a flake. Lied about when she last had sex with a boyfriend, and then accused the wrong guy.”

Frost said, “Sarah didn’t strike me as a flake at all. She’s a serious professional with a good head on her shoulders.”

Crowe looked at Frost and laughed. “So says our resident expert on women.”

It was a particularly cruel barb to direct at Frost, whose wife had walked out on him, and who still mourned the breakup of his marriage. Though Frost stiffened, he didn’t return the cruelty; he never did.

“You’re so fixated on Maura,” Jane said to Crowe, “you’re trying to make the evidence fit your theory.”

“You’re the one calling her Maura,” Crowe pointed out. “Which makes it obvious you’ve got a problem being objective.” He turned to Marquette. “It’s hard to conduct an investigation when your friend’s the prime suspect.”

“She’s the victim here,” said Jane.

“That’s exactly what she wants us to believe,” said Crowe. “Look, I’m not saying that Scanlon didn’t have it coming. Whoever killed him did us all a favor. Maybe he tried to assault her. Dr. Isles flew into a rage and delivered a little justice. After all, she does cut up people for a living. And she’s brilliant enough to come up with a good cover story.”

Jane looked around the table. “You cannot be seriously considering this.”

“We have to consider every possibility, Rizzoli,” said Marquette. “What else do we have?” He turned to Detective Moore. “Anything more on Scanlon’s vehicle?”

Moore, ever the calm voice of the unit, said: “CSU is still working on the cell phone they found under the front seat. It’s a TracFone, password-protected, so we haven’t been able to get into it yet. The fact it was tucked way up under the seat makes me think it’s a phone he used only occasionally.”

“To call his partner,” said Jane.

“We unlock that phone, we may be able to find out the identity of Predator Number Two,” said Moore. “I’ve checked the other cases in the CODIS database. All the rapes where the unknown DNA showed up. They span a period of four years, all within thirty miles of Boston.” He typed on his laptop keyboard and swung the screen around to show Marquette the images of three women. “You’ll notice the similarities among these victims, as well as with both Sarah Shapiro and Kitty O’Brien. All of them educated, accomplished women. All targeted in upscale venues such as cocktail receptions or business conventions. Most were last seen, before the assaults, with a man matching Scanlon’s description.”

“But his DNA wasn’t found in any of them,” said Marquette.

“No,” said Moore. “Scanlon may have abducted them. But he didn’t rape them.”

Marquette frowned. “He was merely the supplier.”

“Which may be why he didn’t need a job,” said Frost. “He claimed to be a software developer, but we can’t find any recent employment records to support that. He died with three hundred thousand dollars in various accounts. That was his job.” Frost pointed to the victims’ photos on the screen. “And it looks like he was well paid for it.”

“No wonder,” said Marquette. “Scanlon takes all the risks. Shows his face in public. Transports the women in his car to their own residences.”

“Easy enough to get the addresses off their drivers’ licenses,” pointed out Frost.

“And that’s when the second man shows up. The women are drugged, so they never see the man who’s actually assaulting them. The DNA isn’t Scanlon’s, so even if he is arrested, he can’t be convicted of rape. It’s a perfect partnership, with Scanlon as the employee.”

“Whoever hired him is obviously loaded and pays him well,” said Frost. “But maybe Scanlon got greedy. Maybe he tried to blackmail his boss. That would be a motive for murder.”

“Then why was Scanlon still working for him?” asked Marquette. “Because it seems that’s what he was doing Saturday night. He crashed that reception to look for the next victim.”

And he chose just the kind of woman his employer craves, thought Jane. Intelligent. Attractive. Accomplished. All words that described Maura Isles.

“He wants only the best,” she said softly, staring at the faces on Moore’s computer screen. “Maybe he’s afraid of women like this. Or he resents them. And this is how he conquers them, how he cuts them down to size. The question is, Why couldn’t he find these women himself? Why take on the risk of a partner?”

“Maybe he’s deformed,” said Frost. “Unable to get close to them.”

“Or he’s too prominent,” suggested Moore. “Someone who’s immediately recognizable.”

That second possibility disturbed Jane. Money and power, she thought. Is that what they were up against? A killer who paid someone else to take the risks while awaiting delivery of his next victim?

It would have been Maura.

But on Saturday night, something went awry for those partners. It started off well enough at the reception, where Scanlon chose his target and slipped Rohypnol into her drink. He guided his increasingly wobbly victim to his car. In her purse, he found Maura’s driver’s license and jotted down her address on the back of her business card, which he tucked into his pocket. He drove to her house in Brookline, used her keys to unlock the door, and carried her inside, where he deposited her on the sofa, unconscious and ready to be taken.

But for some reason, the partner did not claim her. Did he show up at all that night? Or did he decide he would wait for another time?

He already knows where to find her.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was late in the afternoon when Maura walked into the medical examiner’s building, and she saw Dr. Costas freeze beside the coffeepot, a cup clutched in his hand. She saw her secretary Louise staring at her over her computer screen. Maura said nothing, but walked straight past Louise’s desk into her own office and closed the door. No doubt they’d all heard the news; in both medicine and law enforcement, there were few secrets. Maura had not been present at Christopher Scanlon’s autopsy, but she knew that Dr. Bristol had performed it, which meant he knew the circumstances of Scanlon’s death. He knew that her home address was found in the victim’s pocket, that Scanlon’s vehicle was parked at her house, and that her fingerprints and her shoe were in that vehicle.

But what tormented her most weren’t all the damning details that made her look like a suspect; no, it was the details that made her look like a victim. The gullible woman, charmed and drugged by a predator. Though she had not been raped, she felt as ashamed and exposed as any rape victim, and it had taken all her fortitude to walk into the building today. This is how you fight back, she thought. You start by just showing your face.

Louise knocked and came into the office, closing the door behind her. “How are you?” she asked. “I was so worried. We were all worried.”

“I’m fine, Louise.” Maura calmly booted up her computer, as if this day were like any other. A day to inspect the wounds of others, not her own.

“Are you, really?” Louise had worked for the ME’s office for so long that Maura could not imagine a time when the woman would not be here to greet her every morning, cheerfully fetching her coffee. In an office that dealt every day with tragedy, Louise was always ready with a kind word, a comforting smile. But Maura wanted no sympathy from her today.

“I need Christopher Scanlon’s autopsy report,” she said.

That request startled Louise. “That’s … the man …”

“I know who he is. Could you get it for me?”

“Yes, of course.” Louise opened the door to leave, then glanced back at Maura. “If you need to talk, if you need anything at all, you know I’m here.”

No doubt Louise thought Maura needed a hug, a shoulder to cry on. But what Maura needed most was information. Anything that would help her reconstruct what had happened during the hours she could not remember. For all I know, I killed a man that night.

She already knew a great deal about Christopher Scanlon. She knew he’d been arrested twice, accused both times by women who told eerily similar stories. Scanlon had met them in crowded settings and offered to refresh their drinks. Both Kitty O’Brien and Sarah Shapiro woke up hours later in their own homes, with no memory of what had happened. In both cases, the charges were dropped.

Kitty O’Brien never recovered from the emotional trauma. Months later, she committed suicide, a heartbreaking end to the case.

No, not quite the end.

She found an online news article about Kitty’s father, Harry O’Brien, who’d threatened to kill Scanlon. In the photograph, she saw the bottomless grief in Harry’s face, the sunken eyes haunted by loss. That image so transfixed her that she barely noticed when Louise laid Scanlon’s autopsy report on her desk and quietly exited again.

Harry O’Brien. Why does your face seem familiar?

She opened the report and read the description of Scanlon’s injuries. Dr. Bristol counted fifteen stab wounds in all, of various depths, in the chest and back. She turned to the conclusions and was startled by Bristol’s statement:

Based on varying width and depth of wounds, it appears that at least two separate blades were used.

A frenzied attack. Two different knives.

As far as she knew, the murder weapons had not been found. Her own treasured set of chefs’ knives had been confiscated by Boston PD, and were now being analyzed in the crime lab. Could she have done it? Plunged a blade again and again in Scanlon’s chest and back? She knew that under the influence of the drug Ambien, patients had been known to drive, to eat, to behave in purposeful ways that made them appear fully conscious, yet awaken with no memory of what they had done. Drugged with Rohypnol, could she have performed similarly automatic tasks? Or had some monster from her id, released from her darkest subconscious, emerged to take control?

Maybe I am not so different from my mother after all.

Shaken by the possibility, she closed her eyes, hunting for the flimsiest strand of a memory. Glimpsed lights, heard a voice, distant as an echo. But nothing solid, nothing she could grasp and hold on to.

If I killed him, would I recognize the place where it happened?

She barely murmured a goodbye to Louise as she walked out, and once again felt her colleagues watching her, perhaps wondering if she could have done it. Even she didn’t know the answer.

It was a warm summer evening, and when she arrived at Olmsted Park, she saw joggers dutifully running along the riverway and couples lolling on the bank of Leverett Pond. She followed the path along the Muddy River, toward the location where the body had been found, according to the autopsy report. It wasn’t difficult to spot the place; a bright strand of crime scene tape was still snagged in a tangle of brush. She recognized the riverside bench and the same overarching pair of trees she’d seen in the death scene photos. Parallel gouges in the soil marked the trail of the stretcher that had borne the body up the riverbank, and she stared down at the disturbed earth, which marked the comings and goings of crime scene personnel.

According to the autopsy report, Scanlon had been attacked on the paved path. His body was then rolled down the steep bank and had landed just short of the river’s edge, where the stones were stained brown. That’s where he bled to death, she thought. But here, on this path where she now stood, was where he had been stabbed.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this spot as it would have looked in the dark. Tried to dredge up some memory of being here. Of holding a knife and plunging it, again and again, into flesh.

The snap of a twig made her eyes fly open. She turned and saw, a few dozen yards away, a man standing among the trees. Had he been there all along? In her single-minded pursuit of the death location, had she simply missed seeing him? All at once she noticed how silent it was on this isolated stretch of the riverwalk. No joggers, no strolling couples. Only her and this man, who was now gazing at her through the trees.

He started toward her, and as he passed from shadow into sunlight, she saw that his hair was gray, and he had the gait of someone with a bad hip. No longer fearful, she remained where she was as the man slowly made his way toward her.

“Are you with the police?” he called out.

“No. No, I just came to see …”

“You heard about it, then. A man was killed here Saturday night. It’s been all over the news.” He came to a stop beside her, his gaze on the river below. “To think it happened right down there.”

She studied him, and suddenly realized why he looked familiar. “You’re Harry O’Brien,” she said.

Startled, he looked straight at her, and she thought she saw a similar flash of recognition in his eyes. But that was impossible; they had never met.

“How do you know my name?” he asked.

“I know your daughter was one of his victims.” She gestured down the riverbank, where Scanlon’s body had been found. “I read the article in the Globe. How you threatened him, after she …” Her voice trailed off.

He finished the painful thought for her. “After she killed herself.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Brien. I can’t imagine how horrible it is to lose a child.”

“No one can. Until it happens. Then it’s all you think about, all you feel.” He stared down at the river. “I came here to spit on his grave. Does that make me evil?”

“It makes you a grieving father.”

He nodded, and his thin shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would, knowing he’s dead. All I feel is … relief.” He looked at her, and once again she felt that strange shock of recognition. Somehow I know this man. And I think he knows me. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I wanted to see where he died.”

“Did you know him?” He paused. Asked, quietly: “Did the bastard hurt you, too?”

She didn’t respond, but she felt certain he could see the answer in her face. Yes, he hurt me. The question is: Did I hurt him?

“Savor this moment,” he said. “The death of monsters should always be celebrated. I was afraid I wouldn’t live to see it, but here I am. While he burns in hell.”

Those last three words jolted a nerve of recognition. Not just the words, but the voice, deep with rage. She had heard it before.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, backing away.

He looked straight at her, his eyes fixed on her face. Seeing too much.

A pair of joggers came around the bend, huffing toward them. That’s when Maura made her escape. Swiftly she walked away, heading back to Leverett Pond. Toward other people. Only once did she pause to look back, and she saw he was standing where she’d left him, but his eyes were still on her.

She drove straight home, hands shaking as she clutched the wheel. Only when she was in her garage, the door safely closed, did her breathing begin to steady, her heart to slow.

Inside the house, the first thing she did was call Jane.

“Harry O’Brien,” she said. “Did you question him?”

“Of course we did,” said Jane. “How do you even know about O’Brien?”

“I know he once threatened Scanlon. It made the newspapers, after Kitty O’Brien’s suicide. Jane, I think he’s involved. I recognized his voice.”

“You spoke to him? What the hell are you doing, getting in the middle of an investigation?”

“We met by accident, in Olmsted Park. I went to the death scene, to see if I remembered anything, and O’Brien was there. We had a few words, and I had this—this sudden flash of recognition. I’ve heard his voice before, Jane. Maybe it was that night.”

“Saturday?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it? Even though there’s so much I don’t remember, there could be bits and pieces that I did retain. A face, a voice.”

“It couldn’t have been O’Brien that night. He had an alibi.”

“You’re absolutely sure it’s real?”

“He was visiting a friend in Swampscott. Frost and I interviewed her, and she swears O’Brien was at her house till midnight.”

“Is she reliable?”

“She’s an architect. Her mother was there that night, too. Apparently the evening was some sort of matchmaking plot to pair Mom off with Harry. It’s rock-solid, Maura.”

But even as she hung up, Maura could not shake off the certainty that she’d heard Harry O’Brien’s voice that night.

She sat on her living room sofa and stretched out on the cushions, trying to call up another memory. Here was where she’d awakened Sunday morning. The night before, someone had laid her on this sofa. Had words been spoken, words that she might still remember? She closed her eyes.

The doorbell rang.

She snapped straight, heart slamming against her chest. She forced herself to rise from the sofa and peeked through the glass panel.

A dark-haired young woman, pretty and petite, stood on the porch.

Maura took a deep breath and felt the tension go out of her. She opened the door. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman said, “but I’m trying to find David Chatworth’s house. I know he lives around here somewhere, but my cell phone just died. Could I borrow your phone book?”

“Of course. Hold on,” said Maura. She turned toward the kitchen, where she kept the phone directory. Made it only halfway up the hall when she heard the front door suddenly slam shut.

Footsteps closed in behind her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jane sat at her desk, troubled by her conversation with Maura. Flash of recognition was how Maura had described her reaction to O’Brien, a certainty that she’d met him. But it couldn’t have happened on Saturday night, because O’Brien was at his friend’s house in Swampscott.

She pulled out her file on their interview with Monica Vargas, the woman whom O’Brien had been visiting. Thirty-five years old and an architect, she lived alone in an impressive house with a view of the sea. She had been definite about O’Brien’s visit, had told Jane and Frost that O’Brien arrived around six PM, dined with Monica and her mother, and the three of them had watched Woody Allen DVDs. Around midnight, O’Brien left her house. Monica had offered the police her mother’s phone number, should they need further corroboration.

Yes, a rock-solid alibi.

But now, thinking back to that interview, Jane recalled details about Monica that suddenly seemed significant. Her poise, her beauty. An attractive female professional, confident and accomplished.

Like Sarah Shapiro and Kitty O’Brien. Like Maura Isles.

She spun around to her computer and was just about to do a background check on Monica Vargas when her phone rang.

“We finally got into Scanlon’s TracFone,” said Frost.

“We have access to his calls?”

“We have everything. And you won’t believe what’s here.”

She saw the excitement on Frost’s face when she walked into the crime lab. He sat in front of a computer screen as a printer churned out pages of documents.

“He hardly made any calls on this phone,” he said. “But he did use it to send text messages.” He pointed to the computer screen. “We’ve got them all here, dating back four years. About a dozen of them. And they were all sent to the same recipient.”

Jane frowned at the date of the most recent text. “Scanlon sent one Saturday night. Eight thirty PM.”

“Look at what he wrote.” Frost clicked on the body of the text, and one sentence appeared. It was an address in Brookline. Maura’s.

“This is how Scanlon told his partner where to find the next catch,” she said, and she gave Frost an excited slap on the back. “We’ve got the second perp!”

“Wait. You need to see something else. The other texts.” He scrolled down the list. “See the dates? This one here, eighteen months ago, corresponds to the attack on Sarah Shapiro. And this one, just before it, was Kitty O’Brien.”

“So we have a record of every attack. Every victim’s address.”

“Right. Now look at this one.” He clicked on a text from nine months earlier.

Jane stared at the address. Swampscott. “It’s Monica Vargas! She was a victim, too?”

“Only she never reported it,” said Frost. “And Julia Chan, the woman who gave Sarah Shapiro her alibi? Her address is in here as well. Somehow, these women managed to connect. They found each other. We’ve got a whole nest of victims here, and they’re covering for each other. We can’t trust anyone’s alibi.”

“Which means Harry O’Brien could have killed Scanlon. He could have been … oh Jesus.” Jane snatched up her cell phone.

“What?”

“Maura spoke to Harry O’Brien this evening. She recognized him.”

“Does he know that?”

Jane hung up. “She’s not answering her phone.”

It was dark when they arrived at Maura’s house. There were no lights on inside, and the front door was unlocked. Jane and Frost glanced at each other, a grim acknowledgment of what could very well await them. They both drew their weapons, and Jane gave the door a nudge. She slipped through first, moved into the living room.

Suddenly a lamp came on. Jane froze.

Harry O’Brien stood clutching Maura as a shield in front of him, his gun pressed to her temple.

“Drop it, O’Brien!” Jane ordered, her weapon raised. She heard Frost move beside her, caught a peripheral view of his gun, clutched in both hands.

“We don’t want violence, Detective,” another voice said, and Jane glanced in surprise at Sarah Shapiro, who rose to her feet from the armchair. “Harry just wants to settle things, once and for all.”

“By killing a witness?” said Jane. “The one person who remembers he was here that night?” She looked at O’Brien. “You were stalking Scanlon. Oh, it was in the name of justice, I get that. The scum deserved to die, and any jury will sympathize.”

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said.

“You should’ve thought of that before you stabbed him.”

“Did I?” He shook his head. “I told you, I was with a friend that night.”

“She’s covering for you. That alibi will fall apart.”

“No, it won’t. We built a fortress, Detective. You just haven’t realized it yet, because you haven’t finished your job.”

“I know you’re all in this together. And I know this is not helping your case.” She tightened her grip on the Glock. “Drop the gun.”

“Why? I have nothing to lose.”

“Your life?”

O’Brien’s laugh was bitter. “My life is over. It ended when Kitty died. I’m just tying up loose ends.”

“Like Scanlon?”

“And his partner.”

He knows there’s a second man. “We will find that partner, Harry. I swear we will. And he’ll pay.”

“Oh, I know you’ll find him.”

“Drop the gun and we’ll talk. We’ll work on finding him together. We’ll see justice done.”

He seemed to weigh her words, and she saw the struggle in his eyes. The indecision. “It never comes soon enough,” he said softly.

“What doesn’t?”

“Justice. Sometimes, you have to give it a nudge.” With that, he pushed Maura so hard that she went sprawling against the sofa. He raised his gun, and the barrel was aimed directly at Jane.

Gunfire exploded as both Jane and Frost opened fire. The bullets punched into O’Brien’s chest, sent him slamming backward against the bookcase. He leaned there staring at them for a moment, an odd smile on his lips, the gun already falling from his hand. Slowly he slid down to the floor, and Sarah dropped to her knees beside him, sobbing, screaming.

He had not fired a single shot.

Maura crouched over the body, felt for a pulse, and began CPR. But staring into O’Brien’s eyes, Jane saw the light fade away. And she knew there was nothing left to save.

A day later, they found the body.

They tracked down the recipient of Scanlon’s text messages, and it led them to the handsome Newton residence of William Heathcote, age forty-two. There they found Mr. Heathcote slumped in the driver’s seat of his silver Mercedes, which was parked inside his garage. He had been dead for several days, which meant he could well have died the same night as Scanlon. The cause of death was immediately apparent: a single gunshot to the right temple. A Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter pistol, reportedly stolen in Miami a year before, was in his hand.

In the Mercedes trunk was a plastic bag containing two chefs’ knives, both covered in dried blood.

It was almost certainly Scanlon’s blood, thought Jane as she watched the CSU team tag the evidence. No case could come more prettily tied up with a bow. The evidence was all there to help the police draw the obvious conclusion: Heathcote stabbed Scanlon to death in Olmsted Park, then drove home and committed suicide. In a single bloody evening, two predators met their end.

Jane didn’t believe it for a second; neither did Maura.

They stood together in Heathcote’s driveway, watching as the Boston PD tow truck pulled away with the Mercedes, bound for the crime lab. It was late afternoon, dark clouds were moving in, and the air felt prickly with impending thunder.

But for Maura, the storm had already passed. “Harry was a hero, Jane,” she said. “He never meant to hurt me. He came to my house without a single bullet in that gun.”

“We didn’t know that. We had no choice.”

“Of course you had no choice. It was supposed to happen this way. He wanted to go out with a blaze of publicity, so his daughter would be remembered. And he wouldn’t have to face any questions.” Maura paused. “He had cancer.”

“Harry told you that?”

“No. Dr. Bristol did the autopsy this morning. Harry’s body was riddled with tumors. I think he knew he was dying, and he chose this way to end it.”

Leaving me with the nightmares, thought Jane, looking up at the darkening sky. Taking a man’s life leaves a stain on your soul, even if you’re forced to do it. Even if the man you kill wants you to pull that trigger.

“We both know it was a conspiracy,” said Jane. “Harry and those victims, they planned this together. They covered for each other. For all I know, they each took their turn stabbing Christopher Scanlon. Fifteen stab wounds, two different knives? And not a single fingerprint.” Jane sighed in frustration. “I know what happened, I just can’t prove it.”

“Do you really want to?”

“You’re the one who’s always hung up on the facts, the truth. But you’re willing to ignore the truth of this case?”

“I could have been a victim, too. I was like a staked goat, drugged and laid out on my sofa, where anything could have been done to me. But it never happened because they stopped it. I don’t know which of them was there in my house, or how many. All I know is that this time, the victims fought back. They caught and killed two monsters.” Maura looked straight at her. “And they saved me.”

Maybe that’s worth more than any truth, thought Jane as she watched Maura climb into her Lexus and drive away. And she remembered what Harry O’Brien had said: Justice. Sometimes you have to give it a nudge.

That you did, Mr. O’Brien. That you did.

Read on for an excerpt from

Last to Die

by Tess Gerritsen.

Order it today!

Published by Ballantine Books

We called him Icarus.

It was not his real name, of course. My childhood on the farm taught me that you must never give a name to an animal marked for slaughter. Instead you refer to it as Pig Number One or Pig Number Two, and you always avoided looking it in the eye, to shield yourself from any glimpse of self-awareness or personality or affection. When a beast trusts you, it takes far more resolve to slit his throat.

We had no such issue with Icarus, who neither trusted us nor had any inkling of who we were. But we knew a great deal about him. We knew that he lived behind high walls in a hilltop villa on the outskirts of Rome. That he and his wife Lucia had two sons, ages eight and ten. That despite his immense wealth, he had simple tastes in food, and a favorite local restaurant, La Nonna, at which he dined almost every Thursday.

And that he was a monster. Which was the reason we came to be in Italy that summer.

The hunting of monsters is not for the faint of heart. Nor is it for those who feel bound by such trivial doctrines as law or national borders. Monsters, after all, do not play by the rules, so neither can we. Not if we hope to defeat them.

But when you abandon civilized standards of conduct, you run the risk of becoming a monster yourself. And that is what happened that summer in Rome. I did not recognize it at the time; none of us did.

Until it was too late.

CHAPTER ONE

Ithaca, New York

On the night that thirteen-year-old Claire Ward should have died, she stood on the window ledge of her third-floor bedroom, trying to decide whether to jump. Twenty feet below were scraggly forsythia bushes, long past their spring bloom. They would cushion her fall, but most likely there’d be broken bones involved. She glanced across at the maple tree, eyeing the sturdy branch that arched only a few feet away. She’d never attempted this leap before, because she’d never been forced to. Until tonight she’d managed to sneak out the front door without being noticed. But those nights of easy escapes were over, because Boring Bob was on to her. From now on young lady, you are staying home! No more running around town after dark like a wildcat.

If I break my neck on this jump, she thought, it’s all Bob’s fault.

Yes, that maple branch was definitely within reach. She had places to go, people to see, and she couldn’t hang around here forever, weighing her chances.

She crouched, tensing for the leap, but suddenly froze as an approaching car’s headlights angled around the corner. The SUV glided like a black shark beneath her window and continued slowly up the quiet street, as if searching for a particular house. Not ours, she thought; no one interesting ever turned up at the residence of her foster parents Boring Bob and Equally Boring Barbara Buckley. Even their names were boring, not to mention their dinner conversations. How was your day, dear? And yours? The weather’s turning nice, isn’t it? Can you pass me the potatoes?

In their tweedy, bookish world, Claire was the alien, the wild child they’d never understand, although they tried. They really did. She should be living instead with artists or actors or musicians, people who stayed up all night and knew how to have fun. Her kind of people.

The black car had vanished. It was now or never.

She took a breath and sprang. Felt the night air whoosh in her long hair as she soared through the darkness. She landed, graceful as a cat, and the branch shuddered under her weight. Piece of cake. She scrambled down to a lower branch, and was about to jump off when that black SUV returned. Again it glided past, engine purring. She watched it until it vanished around the corner, then she dropped down onto the wet grass.

Glancing back at the house, she expected Bob to come storming out the front door, yelling at her: Get back inside now, young lady! But the porch light remained dark.

Now the night could begin.

She zipped up her hoodie and headed toward the Town Common, where the action was – if you could call it that. At this late hour, the street was quiet, most of the windows dark. It was a neighborhood of picture-perfect houses with gingerbread trim, a street populated by college professors and gluten-free vegan moms who all belonged to book groups. Ten square miles surrounded by reality was how Bob affectionately described the town, but he and Barbara belonged here.

Claire did not know where she belonged.

She strode across the street, scattering dead leaves with her scuffed boots. A block ahead, a trio of teens, two boys and a girl, stood smoking cigarettes beneath the pool of light cast by a street lamp.

“Hey,” she called out to them.

The taller boy waved. “Hey, Claire Bear. I heard you were grounded again.”

“For about thirty seconds.” She took the lit cigarette he offered her, drew in a lung full of smoke, and exhaled with a happy sigh. “So what’s our plan tonight? What’re we doing?”

“I hear there’s a party over at the falls. But we need to find a ride.”

“What about your sister? She could take us.”

“Naw, Dad took her car keys. Let’s just hang around here and see who else shows up.” The boy paused, frowning past Claire’s shoulder. “Uh oh. Look who just did.”

She turned and groaned as a dark blue Saab pulled up at the curb beside her. The passenger window rolled down and Barbara Buckley said, “Claire, get in the car.”

“I’m just hanging out with my friends.”

“It’s nearly midnight and tomorrow’s a school day.”

“It’s not like I’m doing anything illegal.”

From the driver’s seat, Bob Buckley ordered, “Get in the car now, young lady!”

“You’re not my parents!”

“But we are responsible for you. It’s our job to raise you right, and that’s what we’re trying to do. If you don’t come home with us now, there’ll be – there’ll be, well, consequences!”

Yeah, I’m so scared I’m shaking in my boots. She started to laugh, but suddenly noticed that Barbara was wearing a bathrobe and Bob’s hair was standing up on one side of his head. They’d been in such a hurry to chase after her that they hadn’t even gotten get dressed. They both looked older and wearier, a rumpled, middle-aged couple who’d been roused from bed and, because of her, would wake up exhausted tomorrow.

Barbara gave a tired sigh. “I know we’re not your parents, Claire. I know you hate living with us, but we’re trying to do our best. So please, get in the car. It’s not safe for you out here.”

Claire shot an exasperated glance at her friends, then climbed into the Saab’s back seat and swung the door shut. “Okay?” she said. “Satisfied?”

Bob turned to look at her. “This isn’t about us. It’s about you. We swore to your parents that you’d always be looked after. If Isabel were alive, it would break her heart to see you now. Out of control, angry all the time. Claire, you were given a second chance, and that’s a gift. Please, don’t throw it away.” He sighed. “Now buckle up, okay?”

If he’d been angry, if he’d yelled at her, she could have dealt with it. But the look he gave her was so mournful that she felt guilty. Guilty for being a jerk, for repaying their kindness with rebellion. It was not the Buckleys’ fault that her parents were dead. That her life was screwed up.

As they drove away, she sat hugging herself in the back seat, remorseful but too proud to apologize. Tomorrow, I’ll be nicer to them, she thought. I’ll help Barbara set the table, maybe even wash Bob’s car. Because damn, this car sure does need it.

“Bob,” said Barbara. “What’s that car doing over there?”

An engine roared. Headlights hurtled toward them.

Barbara screamed: “Bob!”

The impact threw Claire against her seatbelt as the night exploded with terrible sounds. Shattering glass. Crumpling steel.

And someone crying, whimpering. Opening her eyes, she saw that the world had turned upside down, and she realized that the whimpers were her own. “Barbara?” she whispered.

She heard a muted pop, then another. Smelled gasoline. She was suspended by the seatbelt, and the strap cut so deeply into her ribs that she could scarcely breathe. She fumbled for the release. It clicked open and her head thumped down, sending pain shooting up her neck. Somehow she managed to twist around so she was lying flat, the shattered window in view. The smell of gasoline was stronger. She squirmed toward the window, thinking about flames, about searing heat and flesh cooking on her bones. Get out, get out. While there’s still time to save Bob and Barbara! She punched through the last pebbly fragments of glass, sent them clattering onto pavement.

Two feet moved into view and halted in front of her. She stared up at the man who blocked her escape. She could not see a face, only his silhouette. And his gun.

Tires shrieked as another car roared toward them.

Claire jerked back into the Saab like a tortoise withdrawing into the safety of her shell. Shrinking from the window, she covered her head with her arms and wondered if this time the bullet would hurt. If she would feel it explode in her skull. She was curled so tightly into a ball that all she heard was the sound of her own breathing, the whoosh of her own pulse.

She almost missed the voice calling her name.

“Claire Ward?” It was a woman.

I must be dead. And that’s an angel, speaking to me.

“He’s gone. It’s safe to come out now,” the angel said. “But you must hurry.”

Claire opened her eyes and peered through her fingers at the face staring sideways through the broken window. A slender arm reached toward her and Claire cowered from it.

“He’ll be back,” the woman said. “So hurry.”

Claire grasped the offered hand and the woman hauled her out. Broken glass tinkled like hard rain as Claire rolled onto the pavement. Too quickly she sat up, and the night wobbled around her. She caught one dizzying glimpse of the overturned Saab, and had to drop her head again.

“Can you stand?”

Slowly Claire looked up. The woman was dressed all in black. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, the blond strands bright enough to reflect a faint glimmer from the streetlamp. “Who are you?” Claire whispered.

“My name doesn’t matter.”

“Bob — Barbara —” Claire looked at the overturned Saab. “We have to get them out of the car! Help me.” Claire crawled to the driver’s side and yanked open the door.

Bob Buckley tumbled out onto the pavement, his eyes open and sightless. Claire stared at the bullethole punched into his temple. “Bob,” she moaned. “Bob!”

“You can’t help him now.”

“Barbara — what about Barbara?”

“It’s too late.” The woman grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “They’re dead, do you understand? They’re both dead.”

Claire shook her head, her gaze still on Bob. On the pool of blood now spreading like a dark halo around his head. “This can’t be happening,” she whispered. “Not again.”

“Come, Claire.” The woman grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me. If you want to live.”

About the Author

Tess Gerritsen is a physician and an internationally bestselling author. She gained nationwide acclaim for her first novel of suspense, the New York Times bestseller Harvest. She is also the author of the bestsellers The Silent Girl, Ice Cold, The Keepsake, The Bone Garden, The Mephisto Club, Vanish, Body Double, The Sinner, The Apprentice, The Surgeon, Life Support, Bloodstream, and Gravity. Tess Gerritsen lives in Maine.

For more information about Tess Gerritsen and the Rizzoli & Isles series, visit www.TessGerritsen.com