Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(41)

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

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

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

Jane stiffened. “When haven’t I?”

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

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

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

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

Maura sighed. “I got a letter.”





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

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

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

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

As if men drunk on testosterone ever listened to reason.

Maura glanced at the passionately entwined couple. “Nice place. Do they rent rooms by the hour?”

“When you’re on a cop’s salary, this is the place for decent food and lots of it. Sorry it doesn’t meet your standards.”

Maura winced. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m just not good company today.”

“You said you got a letter. Who sent it?”

“Amalthea Lank.”

The name was like a wintry breath, chilling Jane’s skin, lifting the hairs on her neck. Maura’s mother. The mother who’d abandoned her soon after birth. The mother who now resided in the women’s prison in Framingham, where she was serving a life term for multiple homicides.

No, not a mother. A monster.

“Why the hell are you getting letters from her?” said Jane. “I thought you cut off all contact.”

“I did. I asked the prison to stop forwarding her letters. I refused her phone calls.”

“So how did you get this letter?”

“I don’t know how she managed to slip it through. Maybe she bribed one of the guards. Or it was sent out in another inmate’s letter. But I found it in my mail when I got home last night.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve handled the whole thing. One visit to Framingham, and I’d make damn sure she’ll never bother you again.”

“I couldn’t call you. I needed time to think.”

“What’s to think about?” Jane leaned forward. “She’s screwing around with your head again. It’s the kind of thing she loves to do. Gives her a thrill to play mind games with you.”

“I know. I know that.”

“Open the door one tiny crack and she’ll shove her way into your life. Thank God she didn’t raise you. It means you don’t owe her a thing. Not one word, not one thought.”

“I carry her DNA, Jane. When I looked at her, I saw myself in her face.”

“Genes are overrated.”

“Genes determine who we are.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna pick up a scalpel and start slicing up people, like she did?”

“Of course not. But lately …” Maura paused and looked down at her hands. “Everywhere I look, I seem to see shadows. I see the dark side.”

Jane snorted. “Of course you do. Look at where you work.”

“When I walk into a crowded room, I’ll automatically wonder whom I should be afraid of. Who needs to be watched.”

“It’s called situational awareness. It’s smart.”

“It’s more than that. It’s as if I can feel the darkness. I don’t know if it comes from the world around me, or if it’s already inside me.” She was still staring at her hands, as if the answers were written there. “I find myself obsessed with looking for ominous patterns. Things that connect. When I saw that skeleton today, and I remembered Leon Gott’s body, I saw a pattern. A killer’s signature.”