They had moved downstairs, into the hospital conference room. In the corner was a rolling cabinet with a TV and VCR. Arlen let Canady turn on all the power switches and work the remote. Controlling the remote was an alpha male’s role, and Canady needed to be that male. Arlen was secure enough not to care.
Canady shoved in the tape and said, “Okay. Let’s see if Boston P.D. can figure it out.” It was the verbal equivalent of tossing down the gauntlet. He pressed play.
A view of a closed door at the end of a corridor appeared on-screen.
“This is a ceiling-mounted camera in a first-floor hallway,” said Arlen. “That door you see leads directly outside, to the staff parking lot, east of the building. It’s one of four exits. The recording time’s at the bottom.”
“Five-ten,” she read.
“According to the E.R. log, the prisoner was moved upstairs to the O.R. at around four forty-five, so this is twenty-five minutes later. Now watch. It happens around five-eleven.”
On-screen, the seconds counted forward. Then, at 5:11:13, a figure suddenly walked into view, moving at a calm, unhurried pace toward the exit. His back was turned to the camera, and they saw trim brown hair above the collar of the white lab coat. He was wearing surgeon’s scrub pants and paper shoe covers. He made it all the way to the door and was pressing on the exit bar when he suddenly stopped.
“Watch this,” said Arlen.
Slowly the man turned. His gaze lifted to the camera.
Rizzoli leaned forward, her throat dry, her eyes riveted on the face of Warren Hoyt. Even as she stared at him, he seemed to be staring directly at her. He walked toward the camera, and she saw he had something tucked under his left arm. A bundle of some kind. He kept walking until he was standing directly beneath the lens.
“Here’s the weird part,” said Arlen.
Still staring into the camera, Hoyt raised his right hand, palm facing forward, as though he were about to swear in court to tell the truth. With his left hand, he pointed to his open palm. And he smiled.
“What the hell’s that all about?” said Canady.
Rizzoli didn’t answer. In silence she watched as Hoyt turned, walked to the exit, and vanished out the door.
“Play it again,” she said softly.
“You have any idea what that hand thing was all about?”
“Play it again.”
Canady scowled and hit REWIND, then PLAY.
Once again, Hoyt walked to the door. Turned. Walked back to the camera, his gaze focused on those who were now watching.
She sat with every muscle tensed, her heart racing, as she waited for his next gesture. The one she already understood.
He raised his palm. “Pause it,” she said. “Right here!” Canady hit pause.
On the screen, Hoyt stood frozen with a smile on his face, his left index finger pointing to the open palm of his right hand. The image left her stunned.
It was Arlen who finally broke the silence. “What does it mean? Do you know?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Well, what?” snapped Canady.
She opened her hands, which had been closed into fists on her lap. On both her palms were the scars left from Hoyt’s attack a year ago, thick knots that had healed over the two holes torn by his scalpels. Arlen and Canady stared at her scars.
“Hoyt did that to you?” said Arlen.
She nodded. “That’s what it means. That’s why he raised his hand.” She looked at the TV, where Hoyt was still smiling, his palm open to the camera. “It’s a little joke, just between us. His way of saying hello. The Surgeon is talking to me.”
“You must have pissed him off big-time,” said Canady. He waved the remote at the screen. “Look at that. It’s like he’s saying, ‘Up yours.’ ”
“Or ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ ” Arlen said quietly. His words chilled her. Yes, I know I’ll be seeing you. I just don’t know when or where.
Canady pressed play, and the tape continued. They watched Hoyt lower his hand, and he turned once again toward the exit. As he walked away, Rizzoli focused on the bundle wedged under his arm. “Stop it again,” she said.
Canady hit PAUSE.
She leaned forward and touched the screen. “What is this thing he’s carrying? It looks like a rolled-up towel.”
“It is,” said Canady. “Why would he walk out with that?”
“It’s not the towel. It’s what he has inside it.” She frowned, thinking about what she had just seen upstairs in the O.R. Remembered the empty tray next to the table.
She looked at Arlen. “Instruments,” she said. “He took surgical instruments.”
Arlen nodded. “There’s a laparotomy set missing from the room.”
“Laparotomy? What’s that?”
“It’s medical-speak for cutting open the abdomen,” said Canady.
On-screen, Hoyt had walked out the exit and they saw only an empty hallway, a closed door. Canady shut off the TV and turned to her. “Looks like your boy’s anxious to go back to work.”
The chirp of her cell phone made her flinch. She could feel her heart hammering as she reached for her phone. The two men were watching her, so she stood and turned to the window before answering the call.
It was Gabriel Dean. “You’re aware the forensic anthropologist is meeting us at three o’clock?” he said.
She looked at her watch. “I’ll be there on time.” Barely.
“Where are you?”
“Look, I’ll be there, okay?” She hung up. Staring out the window, she drew in a deep breath. I can’t keep up, she thought. The monsters are stretching me too thin…
“Detective Rizzoli?” said Canady.
She turned to him. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to the city. You’ll call me the instant you hear anything about Hoyt?”
He nodded. Smiled. “We don’t think it’ll take long.”
The last person she felt like speaking to was Dean, but as she drove into the M.E.‘s parking lot she saw him stepping out of his car. She quickly pulled into a space and turned off her engine, thinking that if she just waited a few minutes, he would walk into the building first, and she could avoid any unnecessary conversation with him. Unfortunately, he had already spotted her, and he stood waiting in the parking lot, an unavoidable obstacle. She had no choice but to deal with him.
She stepped out into the wilting heat and walked toward him, at the pace of one with no time to waste.
“You never came back to the meeting this morning,” he said.
“Marquette called me into his office.”
“He told me about it.”
She stopped and looked at him. “Told you what?”
“That one of your old perps is out.”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s shaken you up.”
“Marquette told you that, too?”
“No. But since you didn’t come back to the meeting, I assumed you were upset.”
“Other matters required my attention.” She started to walk toward the building.
“You are the lead on this case, Detective Rizzoli,” he called after her.
She stopped, turned to look at him. “Why do you feel the need to remind me?”
Slowly he walked toward her, until he was close enough to be intimidating. Perhaps that was his intention. They now stood face-to-face, and although she would never give ground, she couldn’t help flushing under his gaze. It was not just his physical superiority that made her feel threatened; it was her sudden realization that he was a desirable man-an utterly perverse reaction, in light of her anger. She tried to suppress the attraction, but it had already planted its claws and she could not shake it off.
“This case is going to require your full attention,” he said. “Look, I do understand you’re upset about Warren Hoyt’s escape. It’s enough to rattle any cop. Enough to knock you off balance-”
“You hardly know me. Don’t try to be my shrink.”
“I just wonder if you’re feeling focused enough to head up this investigation. Or if you have other issues that will interfere.”