Vanish (28 page)

pulled up to her neck, hands still clutching the fabric, as though it might protect her. A trickle of

blood oozed from the bullet wound in her forehead. A swift kill, rendered with the stunning

efficiency of a single bullet.

“That’s Jane Doe number two,” said Moore. At her troubled glance, he added: “There are still

others.”

Jane heard the note of caution in his voice. Once again she was on edge as she turned to the

next image. Staring at the third crime scene photo, she thought: This is getting harder, but I can

still deal with it. It was a view through a closet doorway, into the blood-splattered interior. Two

young women, both of them only partially clothed, sat slumped together in a tangle of arms and

long hair, as though caught in a final embrace.

“Jane Does number three and number four,” said Moore.

“
None
of these women have been identified?”

“Their fingerprints aren’t in any database.”

“You’ve got four attractive women here. And no one reported them missing?”

Moore shook his head. “They don’t match anyone on NCIC’s missing persons list.” He

nodded at the two victims in the closet. “The cartridge that popped up in the IBIS match was

found in that closet. Those two women were shot with the same weapon that the guard carried

into Olena’s hospital room.”

“And the other vics in this house? Also the same gun?”

“No. A different weapon was used on them.”

“Two guns? Two killers?”

“Yes.”

So far, none of the images had truly upset her. She reached without trepidation for the last

photo, of Jane Doe number five. This time, what she saw made her rock back against the

booth. Yet she could not drag her gaze from the image. She could only stare at the expression

of mortal agony still etched on the victim’s face. This woman was older and heavier, in her

forties. Her torso was tied to a chair with loops of white cord.

“That’s the fifth and final victim,” said Moore. “The other four women were dispatched

quickly. A bullet to the head, and that was that.” He looked at the open folder. “This one was

eventually finished off with a bullet to the brain as well. But not until . . .” Moore paused. “Not

until
that
was done to her.”

“How long . . .” Jane swallowed. “How long was she kept alive?”

“Based on the number of fractures in her hands and wrists, and the fact that all the bones were

essentially pulverized, the medical examiner felt there were at least forty or fifty separate blows

of the hammer. The hammerhead wasn’t large. Each blow would crush only a small area. But

there was not one bone, one finger, that escaped.”

Abruptly Jane closed the folder, unable to stomach the image any longer. But the damage was

done, the memory now indelible.

“It would have taken at least two attackers,” said Moore. “Someone to immobilize her while

she was tied to the chair. Someone to hold her wrist to the table while
that
was being done to

her.”

“There would have been screams,” she murmured. She looked up at Moore. “Why didn’t

anyone hear her screaming?”

“The house is on a private dirt road, some distance from its neighbors. And remember, it was

January.”

When people keep their windows shut. The victim must have realized that no one would hear

her cries. That there would be no rescue. The best she could hope for was the mercy of a bullet.

“What did they want from her?” she asked.

“We don’t know.”

“There must have been a reason for doing this. Something she knew.”

“We don’t even know who she was. Five Jane Does. None of these victims match any missing

persons report.”

“How can we not know
anything
about them?” She looked at her husband.

Gabriel shook his head. “They’re ghosts, Jane. No names, no identities.”

“What about the house?”

“It was rented out at the time to a Marguerite Fisher.”

“Who’s that?”

“There’s no such woman. It’s a fictitious name.”

“Jesus. This is like going down a rabbit hole. Nameless victims. Renters who don’t exist.”

“But we do know who owns that house,” said Gabriel. “A company called KTE Investments.”

“Is that significant?”

“Yes. It took Leesburg PD a month to track it down. KTE is an off-the-books subsidiary of the

Ballentree Company.”

Cold fingers seemed to stroke up the back of Jane’s neck. “Joseph Roke again,” she

murmured. “He talked about Ballentree. About Ashburn. What if he wasn’t crazy at all?”

They all fell silent as the waitress returned with the coffeepot. “Don’t you like your apple crisp,

Detective?” she asked, noting Jane’s scarcely touched dessert.

“Oh, it’s great. But I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

“Yeah, no one seems to have an appetite,” the waitress said as she reached across to fill

Gabriel’s cup. “Just a lot of coffee drinkers sitting around in here this afternoon.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Who else?” he asked.

“Oh, that guy over . . .” The waitress paused, frowning at the empty booth nearby. She

shrugged. “Guess he didn’t like the coffee,” she said, and walked away.

“Okay,” Jane said quietly. “I’m starting to freak out, guys.”

Moore quickly swept up the folders and slid them into a large envelope. “We should leave,” he

said.

They walked out of Doyle’s, emerging into the hot glare of afternoon. In the parking lot they

paused beside Moore’s car, scanning the street, the nearby vehicles. Here we are, two cops and

an FBI agent, she thought, yet all three of us are jumpy. All three of us are reflexively scoping

out the area.

“What happens now?” asked Jane.

“As far as Boston PD’s concerned, it’s hands off,” said Moore. “I’ve been ordered not to rattle

this particular cage.”

“And those files?” She glanced at the envelope Moore was carrying.

“I’m not even supposed to have these.”

“Well, I’m still on maternity leave. No one’s issued
me
any orders.” She took the envelope

from Moore.

“Jane,” said Gabriel.

She turned toward her Subaru. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Jane.”

As she climbed in behind the wheel, Gabriel swung open the passenger door and slid in beside

her. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he said.

“Do you?”

“You saw what they did to that woman’s hands. That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

She stared out the window, watching Moore step into his car and drive away. “I thought it was

over,” she said softly. “I thought, okay, we survived, so let’s get on with our lives. But it’s
not

over.” She looked at him. “I need to know why it all happened. I need to know what it means.”

“Let me do the digging. I’ll find out what I can.”

“And what should I do?”

“You just got out of the hospital.”

She put her key in the ignition and started the engine, setting off a blast of hot air from the AC

vent. “I didn’t have major surgery,” she said. “I just had a baby.”

“That’s reason enough for you to stay out of it.”

“But
this
is what’s bothering me, Gabriel.
This
is why I can’t sleep!” She sank back against the

seat. “This is why the nightmare doesn’t go away.”

“It takes time.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” She gazed, once again, at the parking lot. “I’m starting to

remember more things.”

“What things?”

“Pounding. Yelling, gunfire. And then the blood on my face . . .”

“That’s the dream you told me about.”

“And I
keep
having it.”

“There would have been noises and shouting. And there
was
blood on you—Olena’s blood.

Nothing you remember is surprising.”

“But there’s something else. I haven’t told you about it, because I’ve been trying to remember.

Just before Olena died, she tried to tell me something.”

“Tell you what?”

She looked at Gabriel. “She said a name. Mila. She said: ‘Mila knows.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Gabriel’s gaze suddenly turned toward the street. He tracked the progress of a car as it slowly

cruised past, then rounded the corner, and glided out of sight.

“Why don’t you go home?” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there in a while.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Love you,” he said, and climbed out.

She watched him walk to his own car, parked a few stalls away. Saw him pause as he reached

in his pocket, as though trying to locate his keys. She knew her husband well enough to

recognize the tension in his shoulders, to note his quick glance around the parking lot. She

seldom saw him rattled, and now it made her anxious, knowing that he was on edge. He started

his engine and sat waiting for her to leave first.

Only as she left the parking lot did he pull out. He trailed her for a few blocks. He’s watching

to see if I’m being followed, she thought. Even after he’d finally peeled away, she found

herself glancing in the mirror, though she could think of no reason for anyone to follow her.

What did she know, really? Nothing that Moore or anyone else in the homicide unit didn’t

already know. Just the memory of a whisper.

Mila. Who is Mila?

She glanced over her shoulder at Moore’s envelope, which she’d tossed on the backseat. She

did not look forward to examining those crime scene photos again. But I need to get beyond the

horror, she thought. I need to know what happened in Ashburn.

TWENTY-FIVE

Maura Isles was up to her elbows in blood. Pausing in the anteroom, Gabriel watched through

the glass partition as Maura reached into the abdomen, lifted out loops of intestine, and plopped

them into a basin. He saw no distaste in her face as she dug through the mound, just the quiet

concentration of a scientist probing for some detail out of the ordinary. At last she handed

Yoshima the basin, and was reaching once again for her knife when she noticed Gabriel.

“I’ll be another twenty minutes,” she said. “You can come in, if you want.”

He pulled on shoe covers and a gown to protect his clothes and stepped into the lab. Though he

tried to avoid looking at the body on the table, it was there between them, impossible to ignore.

A woman with skeletal limbs and skin hanging like loose crepe over the jutting bones of her

pelvis.

“History of anorexia nervosa. Found dead in her apartment,” said Maura, answering his

unspoken question.

“She’s so young.”

“Twenty-seven. EMTs said all she had in her refrigerator was a head of lettuce and Diet Pepsi.

Starvation in the land of plenty.” Maura reached into the abdomen to dissect the retroperitoneal

space. Yoshima, in the meantime, had moved to the head, to incise the scalp. As always, they

worked with a minimum of conversation, knowing each other’s needs so well that words did

not seem necessary.

“You wanted to tell me something?” said Gabriel.

Maura paused. In her hand she cupped a single kidney, like a lump of black gelatin. She and

Yoshima exchanged a nervous glance. At once, Yoshima started up the Stryker saw, and the

noisy whine almost covered Maura’s answer.

“Not here,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

Yoshima pried off the skullcap.

As Maura leaned in to free the brain, she asked, in a cheerfully normal voice: “So how is it,

being a daddy?”

“Exceeds all my expectations.”

“You’ve settled on Regina?”

“Mama Rizzoli talked us into it.”

“Well, I think it’s a nice name.” Maura lowered the brain into a bucket of formalin. “A

dignified name.”

“Jane’s already shortened it to Reggie.”

“Not quite so dignified.”

Maura pulled off her gloves and looked at Yoshima. He gave a nod. “I need some fresh air,”

she said. “Let’s take a break.”

They stripped off their gowns, and she led the way out of the room, to the loading bay. Only

when they’d stepped out of the building, and were standing in the parking lot, did she speak

again.

“I’m sorry about the conversational runaround,” she said. “We had a security breach. I’m not

comfortable talking inside right now.”

“What happened?”

“Last night, around three A.M., Medford Fire and Rescue brought in a body from an accident

scene. Normally we keep the exterior bay doors locked, and they have to call a night operator

for the key code to get in. They discovered that the doors were already unlocked, and when

they stepped inside, they saw that the lights were on in the autopsy lab. They mentioned it to

the operator, and security came to check the building. Whoever broke in must have left in a

hurry, because a desk drawer in my office was still open.”

“Your office?”

Maura nodded. “And Dr. Bristol’s computer was on. He always turns it off when he leaves at

night.” She paused. “It was open to the file on Joseph Roke’s autopsy.”

“Was anything taken from the offices?”

“Not that we’ve determined. But we’re all a little leery now of discussing anything sensitive

inside the building. Someone’s been in our offices. And in our lab. And we don’t know what

they were after.”

No wonder Maura had refused to discuss this over the phone. Even the levelheaded Dr. Isles

was now spooked.

“I’m not a conspiracy theorist,” said Maura. “But look at everything that’s happened. Both

bodies whisked out of our legal custody. Ballistics evidence confiscated by Washington. Who