Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(37)

“Not the time or place, Jane,” Gabriel said.

She stared down at her pork chop. “Nice weather we’re having.”

Only when the buzz of conversation around them had resumed did she say, more quietly: “I think the symbolism is obvious.”

“Or it may have nothing to do with the fact he was a hunter. There’s also theft as a motive.”

“If it was theft, it was pretty specific. His wallet and cash were still in the bedroom, untouched. As far as we know, the only thing missing from his house is the snow leopard pelt.”

“And you told me it was worth a lot.”

“But a pelt that rare would be hard as hell to unload. It’d have to be for someone’s private collection. And if robbery was the only motive, why go through the bloody ritual of gutting the victim?”

“It seems to me you have two specific symbolic features here. First, the taking of a rare animal pelt. Second, the way the victim’s body was displayed.” Gabriel frowned at the table candle as he mulled it over. He’d finally been dragged into the puzzle and now he was fully engaged. Tonight might be date night, the one evening a month when they vowed not to talk about work, but it always came back to murder. How could it not, when this was what they both lived and breathed? She watched the candlelight flicker on his face as he quietly sifted through the facts. How lucky she was to be able to share these facts with him. She thought of what it would be like to sit here with a spouse who was not in law enforcement, to be bursting to talk about what was gnawing away at her and unable to say a thing about it. Not only did they share a home and a child, they also shared the same grim knowledge of how instantaneously a life can change. Or end.

“I’ll see what info we have on the Vegan Action Army,” he said. “But I’d be inclined to focus on that leopard pelt, since it’s the one item of value you know was taken.” He paused. “What did you think of Jerry O’Brien?”

“Aside from his being a chauvinist jerk?”

“I mean, as a suspect. Any possible motive to kill Gott?”

She shook her head. “They were hunting buddies. He could just as easily shoot him in the woods and call it an accident. But yeah, I thought about O’Brien. And his personal assistant. Gott was such a loner, there aren’t a lot of suspects to choose from. At least, none that we know of.” But dig deep into someone’s life and surprises always turned up. She thought of other victims, other investigations that had turned up secret lovers or hidden bank accounts or countless illicit cravings that only come to light when one’s life is laid bare by a violent end.

And she thought of her own father, who had secrets of his own, whose affair with another woman had fractured his marriage. Even the man she thought she knew, the man with whom she’d shared every Christmas, every birthday, had turned out to be a stranger.

Later that evening, she was forced to confront that same stranger when she and Gabriel pulled up in front of Angela’s house to pick up their daughter. Jane spotted the familiar car parked in the driveway and said: “What’s Dad doing here?”

“This is his house.”

“Used to be his house.” She stepped out and eyed the Chevy, parked in its usual spot, as if it had never left. As if Frank Rizzoli could just step back into his old life and everything would be exactly the way it always was. The Chevy had a new dent in the left front fender; she wondered if Frank’s bimbo had put it there, and whether he’d yelled at her about it, the way he’d once yelled at Angela when she’d scraped the car door. If you hung around any man long enough, even a shiny new lover would start to show his flaws. When had the bimbo noticed that Frank had nose hairs and morning breath like every other man?

“Let’s just pick up Regina and go home,” whispered Gabriel as they climbed the front porch.

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Not engage in the usual family drama, I hope.”

“A family without drama,” she said, ringing the bell, “would not be mine.”

Her mother opened the door. At least, she looked like Angela, but this was a flat zombie version who greeted them with a lifeless smile as they walked in. “She’s sound asleep, no trouble at all. Did you two have a nice dinner?”

“Yeah. Why’s Dad here?” asked Jane.

Frank called out: “I’m sitting in my own house, that’s what I’m doing. What kind of question is that?”

Jane walked into the living room and saw her father planted in his old easy chair, the wandering king back to reclaim his throne. His hair was a weird shoe-polish black—when had he dyed it? There were other changes too: the open-necked silk shirt, the fancy wristwatch. They made him seem like some Vegas version of Frank Rizzoli. Had she walked into the wrong house, entered an alternate universe with an android mom and a disco dad?

“I’ll get Regina,” said Gabriel, and he discreetly vanished down the hallway. Coward.

“Your mother and I have finally come to an understanding,” Frank announced.

“Meaning?”

“We’re going to patch things up. Go back to the way things were.”

“Is that with or without Blondie?”

“What the hell’s the matter with you? You trying to ruin things?”

“You did a pretty good job of it on your own.”