The Silent Girl (28 page)

Jane looked at the names of the three new girls. “And now he’s dead,” she said softly. “What the hell did he get himself into?”

“Kevin Donohue’s territory,” said Tam.

Jane and Frost looked up at him. Although Tam had been working with them for barely two weeks, he had already acquired a hint of cockiness. In his suit and tie, with his neatly clipped hair and icy stare, he could pass for Secret Service or one of those comic book Men in Black. Not someone you could easily get to know, and certainly not a guy Jane could imagine ever knocking back beers with.

“Word on the street,” said Tam, “is that Donohue’s been running girls for years. Prostitution’s just one of his sidelines.”

Jane nodded. “Yeah. Another meaning of
Donohue Wholesale Meats.
”

“What if this is how he obtains those girls?”

“By kidnapping A students?” Jane shook her head. “Somehow, it seems like a risky method of picking up underaged prostitutes. There are easier ways.”

“But it would tie everything together. Joey Gilmore, missing girls, and the Red Phoenix. Maybe Ingersoll discovered the link to Donohue, and that’s when he got spooked. Why he stopped using his phones. Because if Donohue got wind of it, Ingersoll knew he’d be a dead man.”

“Ingersoll
is
a dead man,” said Jane. “What we don’t know is
why
he started asking questions. After all these years in retirement, why did he suddenly get interested in missing girls?”

Tam said, “Maybe what we really need to ask is: Who was he working for?”

N
OW THERE WERE SIX
.

Jane sat at her desk, reviewing what she knew about the three new names on the list. The first to vanish was Deborah Schiffer, age thirteen, of Lowell, Massachusetts. Daughter of a doctor and a schoolteacher, she’d been five foot two, one hundred pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. Twenty-five years ago, she vanished somewhere between her middle school and her piano teacher’s house. A straight-A student, she was described as shy and bookish, with no known boyfriends. Had that been the age of the Internet, they would probably know a great deal more about her, but Facebook and MySpace and online chat groups had yet to be invented.

A year and a half later, the next girl on the list disappeared. Patricia Boles, fifteen, was last seen at a shopping mall, where she’d been dropped off by her mother. Three hours later, Patricia did not show up at the appointed meeting place. She was five foot three, 105 pounds, with blond hair and blue eyes. Like Deborah Schiffer, she was an above-average student who had never been in trouble. Her
disappearance no doubt contributed to the subsequent breakup of her parents’ marriage. Her mother died seven years later; her father, whom Jane was finally able to reach at his current residence in Florida, scarcely wanted to talk about his long-lost daughter. “I’m remarried and I have three kids now. It hurts too much to even hear Patty’s name,” he told Jane over the phone. Yes, he’d received calls from the police over the years about the case. Yes, he’d spoken to Detective Ingersoll recently. But nothing had ever come of those calls.

After Patty Boles’s disappearance, more than a year passed before the next girl went missing. Sherry Tanaka was sixteen, petite, and a high school junior in Attleboro. She vanished from her own home one afternoon, leaving the front door ajar, her homework still spread across the dining room table. Her mother, who was now living in Connecticut, had recently received a letter from Detective Ingersoll asking to speak with her about Sherry. It was dated April 4, and had been forwarded through a series of old addresses. She had tried calling his phone number just yesterday, but it rang unanswered.

Because Ingersoll was now dead.

Mrs. Tanaka did not know any of the girls on the list, nor had she heard of Charlotte Dion. But the name Laura Fang was familiar, because she was an Asian girl like Sherry, and that detail had stuck in Mrs. Tanaka’s mind. It had made her wonder if there was a link. Years ago, she had called the Attleboro police about it, but had heard nothing back since.

Having three Massachusetts girls go missing over a period of six years was not in itself surprising. Each year across the country, thousands of children between the ages of twelve and seventeen went missing, many no doubt abducted by non–family members. Dozens of girls in Massachusetts had vanished during that same time period, girls in the same age group, who had not made it onto Ingersoll’s list. Why had he focused on these particular victims? Was it because they were of similar ages and statures? Because they were all taken from locations within an easy drive of Highway 495, which encircled the Boston metropolitan area?

And then there was seventeen-year-old Charlotte Dion. Unlike the other girls, she’d been older and a disinterested C-minus student. How did she fit into the pattern?

Maybe there was no pattern. Maybe Ingersoll had been searching for links that did not exist.

Jane set aside the notes on the three girls and turned her attention to the folder on Charlotte, which had been compiled by Detective Buckholz. It was a great deal thicker than Laura Fang’s file, and she had to assume it was because of the Dion name. Wealth did count, even in matters of justice. Especially, perhaps, in matters of justice. A child’s disappearance would forever haunt any parent, would make him wonder as the decades passed if that young woman he glimpsed on the street might be a long-lost daughter, grown up. Or was she just another random stranger like all the others, whose smile or curve of a lip seemed, for an instant, heartbreakingly familiar?

Jane opened the envelope containing what were probably the last images ever recorded of Charlotte, which they’d obtained from the
Boston Globe
photo files. There were a dozen photos taken at the double burial service of Arthur and Dina Mallory. The horrific nature of their deaths, and the extensive publicity surrounding the Red Phoenix massacre, had drawn nearly two hundred people to the cemetery that day, according to the
Globe
article, and the photographer had taken several long shots of the somberly dressed gathering standing beside two open graves.

But the most arresting images were the close-ups of the family. Charlotte stood dead center, the dramatic focus of the composition, and no wonder: With her pale features, her long blond hair, she was the fragile embodiment of grief. Her hand was lifted to her mouth, as though to stifle a sob, and her face was contorted in a look of physical pain. Standing on her right was her father, Patrick, looking at her with concern. But her body was turned away from him, as though she did not want him to see her distress.

At the periphery of the photo stood Mark Mallory, his dark hair longer and more unruly. At twenty, he already had a man’s
well-muscled build and broad shoulders. He towered over the gaunt and middle-aged woman seated in a wheelchair beside him, his hand resting on her shoulder. Jane assumed the woman was Mark’s mother, Barbara, Arthur’s ex-wife. Barbara sat staring at the coffins, unaware that the click of a camera shutter would forever capture her expression, not of grief but an unsettling gaze of cold detachment. As if the man in that coffin meant nothing to her. Or perhaps less than nothing; after all, Arthur had left her for Dina, and although Mark claimed there were no bitter feelings between his parents, that view of Barbara’s face told a different story. Here was the discarded wife, standing at the graves of her ex-husband and the woman who had stolen him. Did she feel some trace of satisfaction at that moment? A twinge of triumph that she had survived them both?

Jane flipped to the next photo. It was taken from the same vantage point, but Charlotte’s face was blurred as she turned even further from her father, her whole body bent forward in motion. In the next photo, Patrick was frowning at her as she continued to move, her hand still pressed to her mouth, her face grimacing. By the next shot, she was halfway off the frame, only her back still in view, her skirt a black blur. One more click of the shutter, and Charlotte was no longer visible at all; neither was Mark. Patrick Dion and Barbara Mallory remained in place, both their faces registering puzzlement that their children had slipped away from the gathering.

What was going on between Mark and Charlotte? Had he followed her to offer his support?

In the next shot, Patrick was leaning over to awkwardly embrace Barbara, the two discarded spouses comforting each other. It was an artfully composed image, with the embrace reflected in a casket’s gleaming surface.

The final shot was of the crowd as it dispersed, their backs turned from the twin grave sites. A metaphor, perhaps, of how the living always move on with their lives. In that final photo, Charlotte was once again visible, walking beside her father, Patrick’s arm firmly wrapped around her waist. But Charlotte’s head was turned in a backward
glance toward her mother’s grave, and on her face was a desperate look of yearning, as if she longed to throw herself atop her mother’s coffin. That same mother who had walked out of her life five years earlier.

Jane set down the photo, overwhelmed with sadness for Charlotte. She thought of her own mother, thought of all the ways Angela annoyed her. But never once did Jane doubt that her mother loved her and would give her own life for her, just as Jane would give her own life for Regina without a second thought. When Dina divorced Patrick and left the family, Charlotte had been only twelve, that tender age at childhood’s end. Even with a devoted father, there were secrets that a girl could learn only from her mother, the secrets of womanhood.
Who was there to teach you, Charlotte?

At lunchtime, Jane went downstairs to the cafeteria for coffee and a ham sandwich. She brought both up to eat at her desk, fueling up not with pleasure but out of sheer necessity. She wiped mayonnaise from her fingers and turned to her computer to review the digital file of crime scene photos from the Ingersoll residence. As she cycled through the images of his home and remembered the smell of the shrubbery along the walkway, the glow of his TV screen through the window, she felt her heart begin to thump hard.
That was the night I should have died
. She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the photos and critically view the scene with a calmer perspective. She studied the kitchen, where Ingersoll lay with blood pooled around his head. Clicked to the photo of his home office with the ransacked drawers, the bare desktop where a computer must have been. During their last phone conversation, Ingersoll told Jane that someone had broken into his house. This was the chaos that he’d found when he got home from his fishing trip: the evidence of a burglary. Finally she clicked on a photo of the bedroom, where Ingersoll’s closed suitcase still sat on the floor. He’d never had the chance to unpack.

She advanced to the photos of his Ford Taurus, which was parked on the street in front of the residence. The car was still littered with the detritus of a long road trip: empty coffee cups, a wadded Burger
King sack, a
Bangor Daily
newspaper. That night she’d been covered in blood and shaken by what had happened in the alley, so she had not personally searched the car but had left that task to Frost and Tam. Frost reported finding a week-old receipt in the glove compartment from a Greenville, Maine, gas station. It corroborated the daughter’s statement that Ingersoll had left for a fishing trip up north.

She went back through all the photos again, clicking through image after image. Living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom. When she did not find what she was searching for, she picked up the phone and called Frost.

“Did you find a tackle box anywhere in the house?” she asked.

“Um, no. I don’t remember seeing one.”

“Who goes fishing without a tackle box?”

“Maybe he rented everything up at the camp where he was staying.”

“You talked to the manager up there?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t ask him about fishing gear.”

“I’ll give him a call.”

“Why?”

“Just strikes me as odd, that’s all.” She hung up and pulled out the page with Ingersoll’s call log. Scanning down it, she spotted a 207 area code. Ingersoll had made the call from his landline on April 14.

She dialed the number. It rang five times, and a male voice answered with a no-nonsense: “Loon Point.”

“This is Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Joe. Did you folks have another question?”

“Excuse me?”

“Someone else called from Boston PD yesterday. Spoke to my son Will.”

“That would have been Detective Frost. Where is Loon Point located, exactly?”

“We’re on Moosehead Lake. Got a dozen nice little cabins up here.”

“You had a guest up there recently, name of Ingersoll.”

“Yeah, Will said you folks were asking about him. It was my wife who checked him into the cabin, but she’s not here today. All I can tell you is he stayed five days, pretty much kept to himself.” He paused and yelled to his son: “Will, you wanna help those folks unload the gear from their boat? They’re already tied up at the dock!” Then, back to Jane: “Sorry, ma’am. Starting to get busy around here. Really want to help you and all, but there’s not much more to say. We were sorry to hear the man died.”

“Was that the first time Mr. Ingersoll stayed at Loon Point?”

“Don’t remember seeing him before.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Since it opened. I own the place. Look, I gotta get off and help some guests.”

“One last question. Did Mr. Ingersoll rent any fishing gear while he was there?”

“Yeah, he did. Will helped him choose a rod and reel. Don’t think he caught much, though.”

She glanced at her ringing cell phone. “Thank you, Mr.…”

“Patten. You have any more questions, just call back.”

She hung up the desk phone, picked up her cell phone, and saw the call was from the crime lab. “Rizzoli.”

Criminalist Erin Volchko answered: “I’ve seen some pretty surprising things over the years, but this just might take the cake.”

“What are we talking about?”

“That metallic fragment that came over from the ME’s office. It was embedded in the cervical spine of Jane Doe.”