Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(27)

Another burst of gunfire rang out. Jane and Frost glanced at each other, then simultaneously reholstered their weapons.

“Sounds like some major firepower,” said Jane.

“You’re welcome to check it out. Jerry loves to show off his arsenal.”

They stepped into a soaring entrance hall where the natural pine walls were hung with Native American rugs. Dolan reached into a hall cabinet and tossed ear protectors to his guests.

“Jerry’s rules,” he said, slipping a pair of protectors over his own head. “He went to a few too many rock concerts as a kid, and as he likes to say, Deafness is forever.”

Dolan swung open a door that was thickly padded with soundproofing. Jane and Frost hesitated as gunfire thundered up from the basement.

“Oh, it’s perfectly safe down there,” he said. “Jerry spared no expense when he designed it. Basement walls are sand-filled blocks, ceiling’s pre-stressed concrete, topped with four inches of steel. He’s got fully enclosed bullet traps, and the underground exhaust system vents all the smoke and residue to the outside. I’m telling you, it’s the best of the best. You gotta take a look.”

Jane and Frost put on the ear protectors and followed him down the stairs.

Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, Jerry O’Brien stood with his back turned to them. He was dressed incongruously in blue jeans and a garish aloha shirt, which generously draped his barrel-shaped torso in flowered fabric. He did not immediately acknowledge his visitors, but kept his focus on the target of a human silhouette as he fired repeatedly. Only when he’d emptied his magazine did he turn to face Jane and Frost.

“Ah, Boston PD’s here.” O’Brien pulled off his ear protectors. “Welcome to my little corner of Paradise.”

Frost surveyed the array of handguns and rifles displayed on the table. “Wow. Quite a collection you have here.”

“Trust me, they’re all legal. No magazine with more than ten rounds. I keep them all in a fully secured storage locker, and I have a Class A CCW permit. You can check with my local police chief.” He picked up another handgun and held it out to Frost. “This one’s my favorite. Care to try it out, Detective?”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Not even tempted? Probably won’t get another chance to fire one of these babies anytime soon.”

“We’re here to ask you about Leon Gott,” said Jane.

O’Brien turned his attention to her. “Detective Rizzoli, right? So are you into guns?”

“When I need them.”

“You hunt?”

“No sir.”

“Ever hunted?”

“Only people. It’s more exciting ’cause they shoot back.”

O’Brien laughed. “My kinda gal. Not like any of my frigging ex-wives.” He removed the magazine, checked the chamber for any remaining bullets. “So let me tell you about Leon. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. Given half a chance, I know he would’ve blown the f*cker’s brains out.” He looked at Jane. “So did he get half a chance?”

“How deaf was he?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“He wasn’t wearing his hearing aids.”

“Oh. Well, that changes the picture. Without his hearing aids, he wouldn’t have heard a moose clomping up the stairs.”

“Sounds like you knew him pretty well.”

“Well enough to trust him as a hunter. I brought him out to Kenya twice. Last year he took down one hell of a nice buffalo, one shot. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink. You get to know a lot about a person when you go hunting with him. You find out if they’re just talk and no action. If you can trust ’em enough to turn your back. If they’ve got the spine to face down a charging elephant. Leon proved himself, and I respected him. I don’t say that about many people.” O’Brien set the gun on the table and looked at Jane. “Why don’t we talk about this upstairs? I keep coffee brewing twenty-four seven, if you want any.” He tossed a key to his personal assistant. “Rick, you wanna lock up these guns for me? We’ll be in the den.”

O’Brien led the way, moving slowly and ponderously up the stairs in his garish tent of a shirt. By the time they reached the hallway, he was wheezing. The den was where he’d said they were headed, but the room he led them to was no mere man cave; instead it was a two-story cavern with massive oak beams and a fieldstone fireplace. Everywhere Jane looked she saw mounted game animals, the taxidermied evidence of O’Brien’s skill as a marksman. Jane had been startled by Leon Gott’s collection, but this room made her jaw drop.

“You shot all of these yourself?” asked Frost.

“Almost all,” said O’Brien. “A few of these animals are endangered and impossible to hunt, so I had to get ’em the old-fashioned way. By opening my wallet. That Amur leopard, for instance.” He pointed to a mounted head with one badly tattered ear. “It’s probably forty years old, and you won’t find them anymore. I paid good money to a collector for that sorry specimen.”

“And the point would be?” asked Jane.

“What, you never had stuffed animals as a kid, Detective? Not even a teddy bear?”

“I didn’t have to shoot my teddy bear.”