Rizzoli slipped a disk into her CD player and sank onto the couch as she toweled off her wet hair. The rich strains of a solo cello poured from the speaker like melted chocolate. Though she was not a fan of classical music, she had bought a CD of Alex Ghent’s early recordings in the Symphony Hall gift shop. If she was to familiarize herself with every aspect of his death, so, too, should she know about his life. And much of his life was music.
Ghent’s bow glided over the cello strings, the melody of Bach’s Suite no. 1 in G Major rising and falling like the swells of an ocean. It had been recorded when he was only eighteen. When he’d sat in a studio, his fingers warm flesh as they’d pressed the strings, steadied the bow. Those same fingers now lay white and chilled in the morgue refrigerator, their music silenced. She had watched his autopsy that morning and had noted the fine, long fingers, had imagined them flying up and down the cello’s neck. That human hands could unite with mere wood and strings to produce such rich sounds seemed a miracle.
She picked up the CD cover and studied his photograph, taken when he was still only a boy. His eyes gazed downward, and his left arm was draped around the instrument, embracing its curves, as he would one day embrace his wife, Karenna. Though Rizzoli had searched for a CD featuring both of them, all their joint recordings were sold out in the gift shop. Only Alexander’s was in stock. The lonely cello, calling to its mate. And where was that mate now? Alive and in torment, facing the ultimate terror of death? Or was she beyond pain and already in the early stages of decomposition?
The phone rang. She turned down the CD player and picked up the receiver.
“You’re there,” said Korsak.
“I came home to take a shower.”
“I called just a few minutes ago. You didn’t answer.”
“Then I guess I didn’t hear it. What’s up?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“If anything turns up, you’ll be the first one I call.”
“Yeah. Like you called me even once today? I had to hear about Joey Valentine’s DNA from the lab guy.”
“I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I’ve been running around like crazy.”
“Remember, I’m the one who first brought you in on this.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“You know,” said Korsak, “it’s going on fifty hours since he took her.”
And Karenna Ghent has probably been dead for two days, she thought. But death wouldn’t deter her killer. It would whet his appetite. He’d look at her corpse and see only an object of desire. Someone he can control. She doesn’t resist him. She is cool, passive flesh, yielding to any and all indignities. She is the perfect lover.
The CD was still playing softly, Alexander’s cello weaving its mournful spell. She knew where this was going, knew what Korsak wanted. And she didn’t know how to turn him down. She rose from the couch and turned off the CD. Even in the silence, the strains of the cello seemed to linger.
“If it’s like the last time, he’ll dump her tonight,” said Korsak.
“We’ll be ready for him.”
“So am I part of the team or what?”
“We’ve already got our stakeout crew.”
“You don’t have me. You could use another warm body.”
“We’ve already assigned the positions. Look, I’ll call you as soon as anything-”
“Fuck this ‘calling me’ shit, okay? I’m not gonna sit by the phone like some goddamn wallflower. I’ve known this perp longer than you, longer than anyone. How would you feel, someone cuts in on your dance? Leaves you outta the takedown? You think about that.”
She did. And she understood the anger that was now raging through him. Understood it better than anyone, because it had once happened to her. The shunting aside, bitter view from the sidelines while others moved in claim her victory.
She looked at her watch. “I’m leaving right now. If you want to join me, you’ll have to meet me there.”
“What’s your stakeout position?”
“The parking area across the road from Smith Playground. We can meet at the golf course.”
“I’ll be there.”
TWELVE
At two A.M. in Stony Brook Reservation, the air as muggy and thick as soup. Rizzoli and Korsak sat in her parked car, closely abutting dense shrubbery. From their position, they could observe all cars entering Stony Brook from the east. Additional surveillance vehicles were stationed along Enneking Parkway, the main thoroughfare winding through the reservation. Any vehicle that pulled off onto one of the dirt parking areas could swiftly be hemmed in on all sides by converging vehicles. It was a purse-string trap, from which no car could escape.
Rizzoli was sweating in her vest. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Forest smells.
“Hey, you’re letting in mosquitoes,” complained Korsdk.
“I need the fresh air. It smells like cigarettes in here.”
“I only lit up one. I don’t smell it.”
“Smokers never do.”
He looked at her. “Jeez, you been snapping at me all night. You got a problem with me, maybe we should talk about it.”
She stared out the window, toward the road, which remained dark and untraveled. “It’s not about you,” she said.
“Who, then?”
When she didn’t answer, he gave a grunt of comprehension. “Oh. Dean again. So what’d he do now?”
“Few days ago, he complained about me to Marquette.”
“What’d he tell him?”
“That I’m not the right man for the job. That maybe I need counseling for unresolved issues.”
“He talking about the Surgeon?”
“What do you think?”
“What an asshole.”
“And today, I find out we got instant feedback from CODIS. It’s never happened before. All Dean has to do is snap his fingers, and everyone jumps. I just wish I knew what he was doing here.”
“Well, that’s the thing about fibbies. They say information is power, right? So they keep it from us, ‘cause it’s a macho game to them. You and me, we’re just pawns to Mr. James Fucking Bond.”
“You’re getting confused with the CIA.”
“CIA, FBI.” He shrugged. “All those alphabet agencies, they’re all about secrets.”
The radio crackled. “Watcher Three. We got a vehicle, late-model sedan, moving south on Enneking Parkway.”
Rizzoli tensed, waiting for the next team to report in.
Now Frost’s voice, in the next vehicle. “Watcher Two. We see him. Still moving south. Doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”
Seconds later, a third unit reported: “Watcher Five. He’s just passed the intersection of Bald Knob Road. Heading out of the park.”
Not our boy. Even at this early-morning hour. Enneking Parkway was well traveled. They had lost count of how many vehicles they’d tracked through the reservation. Too many false alarms punctuating long intervals of boredom had burned up all her adrenaline, and she was fast sliding into sleep-deprived torpor.
She leaned back with a disappointed sigh. Beyond the windshield she saw the blackness of woods, lit only by the occasional spark of a firefly. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she murmured. “Come to Mama…”
“You want some coffee?” asked Korsak.
“Thanks.”
He poured a cup from his thermos and handed it to her. The coffee was black and bitter and utterly disgusting, but she drank it anyway.
“Made it extra strong tonight,” he said. “Two scoops of Folgers instead of one. Puts hair on your chest.”
“Maybe that’s what I need.”
“I figure, I drink enough of this stuff, some of that hair might migrate back up to my head.”
She looked off toward the woods, where darkness hid rotting leaves and foraging animals. Animals with teeth. She remembered the gnawed remains of Rickets Lady and thought of raccoons chewing on ribs and dogs rolling skulls around like balls, and what she imagined, staring into the trees, was not Bambi.