Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(70)

Sylvia Van Ofwegen (South Africa). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Vivian Kruiswyk (South Africa). Deceased. Partial remains recovered, confirmed by DNA.

Elliot Gott (USA). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Isao Matsunaga (Japan). Deceased, remains found buried at campsite. Confirmed by DNA.

Keiko Matsunaga (Japan). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Richard Renwick (UK). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Clarence Nghobo (South Africa). Deceased. Partial remains recovered. Confirmed by DNA.



She was about to click to the next page when she suddenly paused, her eye on one particular name on that victim list. A name that stirred a faint memory. Why did it seem familiar? She struggled to retrieve the image it conjured up. Saw, in her mind’s eye, another list, with the same name.

She swiveled around to Frost, who was happily devouring his usual turkey sandwich. “You have the Brandon Tyrone file from Maine?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you read it yet?”

“Yeah. Not much more to it than what Detective Barber told us.”

“There was a list of stolen items they found stashed in Tyrone’s garage. Can I see it again?”

Frost set down the sandwich and picked through the stack of files on his desk. “Don’t remember anything worth noting on it. Few cameras. Credit cards and an iPod …”

“Wasn’t there a silver cigarette lighter?”

“Yeah.” He pulled out a folder and handed it to her. “So?”

She flipped through the file until she found the list of items that Brandon Tyrone and Nick Thibodeau had stolen from tents and cars at the Maine campground. Scanning down the list, she came to the item she’d remembered. Cigarette lighter, sterling silver. Engraved with name: R. Renwick. She looked at her laptop. At the names of the victims in Botswana.

Richard Renwick (UK). Missing, presumed dead.

“Holy shit,” she said, and reached for the phone.

“What is it?” said Frost.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” She punched in a phone number.

After three rings a voice answered: “Detective Barber.”

“Hey, it’s Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. You know that file you gave us on Brandon Tyrone’s murder? There’s a list of items that you recovered from Tyrone’s garage.”

“Yeah. The stuff he and Nick stole from the campground.”

“Did you track down the owners of all these items?”

“Most of them. The credit cards, stuff with names attached were easy. After the news broke that we’d recovered stolen goods from the campground, a few other owners filed claims.”

“I’m interested in one item in particular. A sterling silver lighter with a name engraved on it.”

Barber said, without hesitation: “Nope. Never found the owner.”

“You’re sure no one claimed it?”

“Yep. I interviewed everyone who came in to claim property, just in case they’d witnessed something at the campground. Maybe saw Nick and Tyrone at the scene. No one ever came for the lighter, which surprised me. It’s sterling silver. Someone obviously paid a lot of money for it.”

“Did you try tracking down the name engraved on it? R. Renwick?”

Barber laughed. “Try doing a Google search on R. Renwick. You’ll turn up about twenty thousand results. All we could do was put it out on the news and hope the owner would call us. Maybe he didn’t hear about it. Maybe he never noticed he’d lost it.” Barber paused. “Why’re you asking about the lighter?”

“That name, R. Renwick. It turned up in another case. A victim, named Richard Renwick.”

“Which case?”

“Multiple murders, six years ago. In Botswana.”

“Africa?” Barber snorted. “That’s a stretch. Don’t you think the name’s more likely to be a coincidence?”

Maybe, thought Jane as she hung up. Or maybe it was the one thing that tied all these cases together. Six years ago, Richard Renwick was murdered in Africa. A year later, a cigarette lighter with the name R. Renwick turned up in Maine. Did it come to the US in a killer’s pocket?

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” said Frost as she dialed the phone again.

“I need to track someone down.”

He looked over her shoulder at the page displayed on her laptop. “The Botswana file? What does it have to do with—”

She held up a hand to silence him as she heard her husband’s usual brusque greeting. “Gabriel Dean.”

“Hey, Mr. Special Agent. Can you do me a favor?”

“Let me guess,” he said with a laugh. “We’re out of milk.”

“No, I need you to put on your Bureau cap. I want to find someone, and I have no idea where in the world she is. You’ve got that buddy at Interpol, in South Africa. Henk something.”

“Henk Andriessen.”

“Yeah, maybe he can help me.”

“This is an international case?”

“Multiple murders in Botswana. I told you about it. Those tourists who vanished on safari. The problem is, it’s been six years and I’m not sure where this person is now. I’m guessing she’s back in London.”