Dean picked up the third photo, which had been taken inside a restaurant.
At first glance, it appeared to be just a poorly composed image of patrons seated at dining tables, a waitress blurred in action as she crossed the room carrying a coffeepot. It had taken Rizzoli a few seconds to zero in on the figure seated just to the left of center, a woman with dark hair, her face seen only in profile, her features obscured against the glare of the window. She waited for Dean to recognize who the woman was.
He asked softly: “Do you know where this was taken?”
“The Starfish Cafe.”
“When?”
“I don’t know-”
“Is it a place you visit often?”
“On Sundays. For breakfast. It’s the one day of the week when I…” Her voice faded. She stared at the photo of her own profile, the shoulders relaxed, face tilted downward, gazing at an open newspaper. It would have been a Sunday paper. Sunday was when she treated herself to breakfast at the Starfish. A morning of French toast and bacon and the comics.
And a stalker. She’d never known someone was watching her. Taking photos of her. Sending them to the very man who pursued her in her nightmares.
Dean flipped over the Polaroid.
On the back was drawn yet another smiley face. And beneath it, enclosed in a heart, was a single word:
Me.
SIXTEEN
My car. My home. Me.
Rizzoli rode back to Boston with her stomach knotted in anger. Although Dean sat right beside her, she didn’t look at him; she was too focused on nursing her rage, on feeling its flames consume her.
Her rage only deepened when Dean pulled up in front of O’Donnell’s address on Brattle Street. Rizzoli stared at the large Colonial, the clapboards painted a pristine white, accented by slate-gray shutters. A wrought-iron fence enclosed a front yard with a manicured lawn and a pathway of granite pavers. Even by the upscale standards of Brattle Street, this was a handsome house that a public servant could never dream of owning. Yet it’s the public servants like me who face down the Warren Hoyts of the world and who suffer the aftershocks of those battles, she thought. She was the one who bolted her doors and windows at night, who jerked awake to the echo of phantom footsteps moving toward her bed. She fought the monsters and suffered the consequences, while here, in this grand house, lived a woman who offered those same monsters a sympathetic ear, who walked into courts of law and defended the indefensible. It was a house built on the bones of victims.
The ash-blond woman who answered the door was as meticulously groomed as her residence, her hair a gleaming helmet, her Brooks Brothers shirt and slacks crisply pressed. She was about forty, with a face as creamy as alabaster. Like real alabaster, that face revealed no warmth. The eyes projected only chilly intellect.
“Dr. O’Donnell? I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli. And this is Agent Gabriel Dean.”
The woman’s eyes locked on Dean’s. “Agent Dean and I have met.”
And obviously made an impression on each other- not a favorable one, thought Rizzoli.
Clearly not pleased about the visit, O’Donnell was mechanical and unsmiling as she ushered them through the large foyer and into a formal sitting room. The couch was white silk on a rosewood frame, and Oriental carpets in rich shades of red accented the teak floors. Rizzoli knew little about art, but even she recognized that the paintings hanging on the walls were originals, and probably quite valuable. More bones of victims, she thought. She and Dean sat on the couch, facing O’Donnell. No coffee or tea or even water had been offered to them, a not-so-subtle clue that their hostess wanted this to be a brief conversation.
O’Donnell got right to the point and addressed Rizzoli. “You said this was about Warren Hoyt.”
“You’ve corresponded with him.”
“Yes. Is there a problem with that?”
“What was the nature of that correspondence?”
“Since you know about it, I assume you’ve read it.”
“What was the nature of that correspondence?” Rizzoli repeated, her tone unyielding.
O’Donnell stared at her a moment, silently gauging the opposition. By now she understood Rizzoli was the opposition, and she responded accordingly, her posture stiffening into a suit of armor.
“First I should ask you a question, Detective,” countered O’Donnell. “Why is my correspondence with Mr. Hoyt of any concern to the police?”
“You know that he’s escaped custody?”
“Yes. I saw it on the news, of course. And then, the State Police contacted me to ask if he had tried to reach me. They contacted everyone who corresponded with Warren.”
Warren. They were on a first-name basis.
Rizzoli opened the large manila envelope she’d brought with her and removed the three Polaroids, encased in Ziploc bags. These she handed to Dr. O’Donnell. “Did you send these photos to Mr. Hoyt?”
O’Donnell merely glanced at the images. “No. Why?”
“You hardly looked at them.”
“I don’t need to. I never sent Mr. Hoyt any photos of any kind.”
“These were found in his cell. In an envelope with your return address.”
“Then he must have used my envelope to store them.” She handed the Polaroids back to Rizzoli.
“What, exactly, did you send him?”
“Letters. Release forms for him to sign and return.”
“Release forms for what?”
“His school records. Pediatric records. Any information that might help me evaluate his history.”
“How many times did you write him?”
“I believe it was four or five times.”
“And he responded?”
“Yes. I have his letters on file. You can have copies.”
“Has he tried to reach you since his escape?”
“Don’t you think I would tell the authorities if he had?”
“I don’t know, Dr. O’Donnell. I don’t know the nature of your relationship with Mr. Hoyt.”
“It was a correspondence. Not a relationship.”
“Yet you wrote him. Four or five times.”
“I visited him, as well. The interview’s on videotape, if you’d like to have it.”
“Why did you talk to him?”
“He has a story to tell. Lessons to teach us.”
“Like how to butcher women?” The words were out of Rizzoli’s mouth before she could think about it, a dart of bitter emotion that failed to pierce the other woman’s armor.
Unruffled, O’Donnell replied: “As law enforcement, you see only the end result. The brutality, the violence. Terrible crimes that are the natural consequence of what these men have experienced.”
“And what do you see?”
“What came before, in their lives.”
“Now you’re going to tell me it’s all due to their unhappy childhoods.”
“Do you know anything about Warren’s childhood?”
Rizzoli could feel her blood pressure rising. She had no desire to talk about the roots of Hoyt’s obsessions. “His victims don’t give a damn about his childhood. And neither do I.”
“But do you know about it?”
“I’m told it was perfectly normal. I know he had a better childhood than a lot of men who don’t cut up women.”
“Normal.” O’Donnell seemed to find this word amusing. She looked at Dean for the first time since they’d all sat down. “Agent Dean, why don’t you give us your definition of normal?”
A look passed between them, hostile echoes of an old battle not fully resolved. But whatever emotions Dean was now feeling did not register in his voice. He said, calmly: “Detective Rizzoli is asking the questions. I suggest you answer them, Doctor.”
That he had not already wrestled away control of the interview surprised Rizzoli. Dean struck her as a man accustomed to taking control, yet in this he had ceded to her and had chosen instead the role of observer.