Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(28)

“Well, this Amur leopard is my stuffed animal. I wanted it because it’s a spectacular predator. Beautiful. Lethal. Designed by nature as a killing machine.” He pointed to the wall of trophies facing them, a gallery of heads bristling with fangs and tusks. “I still take down the occasional deer, ’cause there’s no better eating than deer tenderloin. But I really prize the animals that scare me. I’d love to get my hands on a Bengal tiger. And that snow leopard was another one I really wanted. Frigging shame the skin’s gone missing. It was worth a lot to me, and obviously worth it to the * who killed Leon.”

“You think that’s the motive?” asked Frost.

“Sure. You police need to watch the black market, and if a pelt comes up for sale, you’ll have your perp. I’d be glad to assist you. It’s my civic duty, and I owe it to Leon.”

“Who knew he was working on a snow leopard?”

“Lots of people. Very few taxidermists get to handle such a rare animal, and he was crowing about it on Internet hunting forums. We’re all fascinated by big cats. By animals who can kill us. I know I am.” He looked up at his trophies. “This is how I honor them.”

“By hanging their heads on your wall?”

“No worse than what they’d do to me if they got the chance. That’s life in the jungle, Detective. Dog eat dog, survival of the fittest.” He looked around his trophy room, a king surveying his conquered subjects. “It’s in our nature to kill. People don’t acknowledge that. If I so much as take a slingshot to a squirrel here, you can bet that my loony granola neighbors will squawk. Crazy lady next door yelled at me to pack up and move the hell to Wyoming.”

“You could,” observed Frost.

O’Brien laughed. “Naw, I’d rather stay and be a thorn in their side. Anyway, why should I? I grew up in Lowell, right up the road. Crappy neighborhood next to the mill. I stay here because it reminds me how far I’ve come.” He crossed to a liquor cabinet and uncorked a bottle of whiskey. “Can I offer you some?”

“No sir,” said Frost.

“Yeah, I know. On duty and all that.” He poured a few fingers’ worth into a glass. “I own my business, so I get to make the rules. And I say cocktail hour starts at three.”

Frost moved closer to the display of predators and studied the full-body mount of a leopard. It was poised on a tree branch, its body coiled as if ready to pounce. “Is this an African leopard?”

O’Brien turned, glass in hand. “Yeah. Shot that a few years ago, in Zimbabwe. Leopards are tricky. Secretive and solitary. When they’re up in the branches, they can take you by surprise. As cats go, they’re not all that big, but they’re strong enough to drag you up a tree.” He took a sip of whiskey as he admired the animal. “Leon mounted that one for me. You can see the quality of his work. He also did that lion, and that grizzly over there. He was good, but he didn’t come cheap.” O’Brien crossed to a full-body mount of a cougar. “This was the first one he did for me, about fifteen years ago. Looks so real, it still gives me a start when I see it in the dark.”

“So Leon was your hunting buddy and your taxidermist,” said Jane.

“Not just any taxidermist. His work is legendary.”

“We saw an article about him in Hub Magazine. ‘The Trophy Master.’ ”

O’Brien laughed. “He liked that piece. Had it framed and hanging on his wall.”

“That article got a lot of comments. Including a few pretty nasty ones, about hunting.”

O’Brien shrugged. “Comes with the territory. I get threats, too. People calling in to the show, wanting to stick me like a pig.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard some of those calls,” said Frost.

O’Brien’s head perked up, like a bulldog hearing a supersonic whistle. “You listen to me, huh?”

What he wanted Frost to say was, Of course I do! I love your show and I’m your biggest fan! A man who lived this large and flamboyantly, a man who seemed to delight in extending his middle finger to all who despised him, was also a man starved for validation.

“Tell us about these people who’ve threatened you,” said Jane.

O’Brien laughed. “My show reaches a lot of people, and some of ’em don’t like what I have to say.”

“Any of those threats worry you? Say, from the anti-hunting crowd?”

“You saw my arsenal. Let ’em try and take me down.”

“Leon Gott had an arsenal, too.”

He paused, whiskey glass at his lips. He lowered it and frowned at her. “You think it was some wacko animal lover?”

“We’re looking at all angles. That’s why we want to hear about any threats you’re getting.”

“Which ones? Every time I open my mouth, I piss off certain listeners.”

“Any of them say they want to see you hung and gutted?”

“Oh yeah, that’s so original. Like she’d ever come up with anything new.”

“She?”

“One of my regular dipshits. Suzy something, calls all the time. Animals have souls! Humans are the real savages! Blah, blah, blah.”

“Anyone else make that particular threat? About hanging and gutting?”

“Yeah, and it’s almost always gals. They go into great bloodthirsty detail, like only women can.” He paused, suddenly struck by the significance of Jane’s question. “You’re not saying that’s what happened to Leon? Did someone gut him?”