Vanish (31 page)

carpets and iron bars. Before bloodstains.

They walked through a living room empty of furniture. Floral wallpaper showed the wear of

passing years—smudges and peeling corners and the yellow tinge from decades of cigarette

smoke. They moved through the dining room and came to a halt in the kitchen. The table and

chairs were gone; all they saw was tired linoleum, the edges nicked and curling. Afternoon sun

slanted in through the barred window. Here is where the older woman died, Jane thought.

Sitting in the center of this room, her body tied to a chair, tender fingers exposed to the

hammer’s blows. Though Jane was staring at an empty kitchen, her mind superimposed the

image she had seen on the video. An image that seemed to linger in the sunlit swirl of dust

motes.

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Gabriel.

They left the kitchen and paused at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up toward the secondfloor landing, she thought: Here is where another one died, on these steps. The woman with the

brown hair. Jane gripped the banister, her hand clasping carved oak, and felt her own pulse

throbbing in her fingertips. She did not want to go upstairs. But that voice was once again

whispering to her.

Mila knows.

There’s something I’m supposed to see up there, she thought. Something the voice is guiding

me toward.

Gabriel headed up the stairs. Jane followed more slowly, her gaze focused downward on the

steps, her palm clammy against the railing. She came to a halt, staring at a patch of lighter

wood. Crouching down to touch a recently sanded surface, she felt the hairs lift on the back of

her neck. Darken the windows, spray these stairs with luminol, and the grain of this wood

would surely light up a spectral green. The cleaners had tried to sand away the worst of it, but

the evidence was still there, where the victim’s blood had spilled. This was where she died,

sprawled on these steps, this very spot Jane was touching.

Gabriel was already on the second floor, walking through the rooms.

She followed him to the upper landing. The smell of smoke was stronger here. The hallway

had drab green wallpaper and a floor of dark oak. Doors hung ajar, spilling rectangles of light

into the corridor. She turned into the first doorway on her right, and saw an empty room, walls

marked by ghostly squares where pictures had once hung. It could be any vacant room in any

vacant house, all traces of its occupants swept away. She crossed to the window, lifted the

sash. The iron bars were welded in place. No escape in a fire, she thought. Even if you could

climb out, it was a fifteen-foot drop onto bare gravel, with no shrubs to break the fall.

“Jane,” she heard Gabriel call.

She followed his voice, moving across the hall into another bedroom.

Gabriel was gazing into an open closet. “Here,” he said quietly.

She moved beside him and crouched down to touch sanded wood. She could not help mentally

superimposing yet another image from the video. The two women, slender arms entwined like

lovers. How long had they huddled here? The closet was not large, and the smell of fear must

have soured the darkness.

Abruptly she rose to her feet. The room felt too warm, too airless; she walked into the hall, her

legs numb from crouching. This is a house of horrors, she thought. If I listen hard enough, I’ll

hear the echoes of screams.

At the end of the hall was one last room—the room where the contractor had touched off the

fire. She hesitated on its threshold, repelled by the far stronger stench of smoke in this room.

Both broken windows had been covered with plywood, blocking out the afternoon light. She

took the Maglite from her purse and shone it around the dim interior. Flames had scorched

walls and ceiling, devouring sections all the way down to charred timber. She swung the

Maglite beam around the room, past a closet missing its door. As her beam swept past, an

ellipse flashed on the closet’s back wall, then vanished. Frowning, she swung the Maglite

back.

There it was again, that bright ellipse, briefly flickering across the back wall.

She crossed to the closet for a closer look. Saw an opening large enough to poke a finger

through. Perfectly round and smooth. Someone had drilled a hole between the closet and the

bedroom.

Beams groaned overhead. Startled, she glanced up as footsteps creaked across the ceiling.

Gabriel was in the attic.

She went back into the hallway. Daylight was rapidly fading, dimming the house to shades of

gray. “Hey!” she called. “Where’s the trap door to get up there?”

“Look in the second bedroom.”

She saw the ladder and scrambled up the rungs. Poking her head into the space above, she saw

the beam of Gabriel’s Maglite slicing through the shadows.

“Anything up here?” she asked.

“A dead squirrel.”

“I mean, anything interesting?”

“Not a whole lot.”

She climbed up into the attic and almost banged her head on a low rafter. Gabriel was forced to

move at a crouch, long legs crab-walking as he inspected the perimeter, his beam slowly

scanning the deepest pockets of shadow.

“Stay away from this corner over here,” he warned. “The boards are charred. I don’t think the

floor is safe.”

She headed to the opposite end, where a lone window admitted the last gray light of day. This

one had no bars; it did not need them. She lifted open the sash and stuck her head out to see a

narrow ledge and a bone-shattering drop to the ground. An escape route only for the suicidal.

She pushed the window shut, and fell still, her gaze fixed on the trees.

In the woods, light briefly flickered, like a darting firefly.

“Gabriel.”

“Nice. Here’s another dead squirrel.”

“There’s someone out there.”

“What?”

“In the woods.”

He crossed to her side and stared out at the thickening dusk. “Where?”

“I saw it just a minute ago.”

“Maybe it was a passing car.” He turned from the window and muttered, “Damn. My battery’s

going.” He gave his flashlight a few hard raps. The beam briefly brightened, then began to fade

again.

She was still staring out the window, at woods that seemed to be closing in on them. Trapping

them in this house of ghosts. A chill whispered up her spine. She turned to her husband.

“I want to leave.”

“Should have changed batteries before we left home . . .”

“Now. Please.”

Suddenly he registered the anxiety in her voice. “What is it?”

“I don’t think that was a passing car.”

He turned to the window again and stood very still, his shoulders blotting out what dim light

still remained. It was his silence that rattled her, a silence that only magnified the drumming of

her heartbeat. “All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

They climbed down the ladder and retreated into the hall, past the bedroom where blood still

lingered in the closet. Moved down the stairs, where sanded wood still whispered of horrors.

Already, five women had died in this house, and no one had heard their screams.

No one would hear ours, either.

They pushed through the front door, onto the porch.

And froze, as powerful lights suddenly blinded their eyes. Jane raised her arm against the glare.

She heard footsteps crunch on gravel, and through squinting eyes, could just make out three

dark figures closing in.

Gabriel stepped in front of her, a move so swift that she was surprised to suddenly find his

shoulders blocking the light.

“Right where you are,” a voice commanded.

“Can I see who I’m talking to?” said Gabriel.

“Identify yourselves.”

“If you could lower your flashlights first.”

“Your IDs.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m going to reach in my pocket,” Gabriel said, his voice calm. Reasonable. “I’m

not armed, and neither is my wife.” Slowly he withdrew his wallet and held it out. It was

snatched from his hand. “My name is Gabriel Dean. And this is my wife, Jane.”

“Detective Jane Rizzoli,” she amended. “Boston PD.” She blinked as the flashlight suddenly

shifted to her face. Though she could not see any of these men, she felt them scrutinizing her.

Felt her temper rise as her fear ebbed away.

“What’s Boston PD doing here?” the man asked.

“What are
you
doing here?” she retorted.

She didn’t expect an answer; she didn’t get one. The man handed back Gabriel’s wallet, then he

waved his flashlight toward a dark sedan parked behind their rental car. “Get in. You’ll have to

come with us.”

“Why?” said Gabriel.

“We need to confirm your IDs.”

“We have a flight to catch, back to Boston,” said Jane.

“Cancel it.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Jane sat alone in the interview room, staring at her own reflection and thinking: It sucks to be

on the wrong side of the one-way mirror. She had been here for an hour now, every so often

rising to her feet to check the door, on the off chance that it had miraculously unlocked itself.

Of course they had separated her from Gabriel; that’s the way it was done, the way she herself

handled interrogations. But everything else about her situation was new and unfamiliar

territory. The men had never identified themselves, had presented no badges, offered no names,

ranks, or serial numbers. They could be the Men in Black for all she knew, protecting Earth

from the scum of the universe. They had brought their prisoners into the building through an

underground parking garage, so she did not even know which agency they worked for, only

that this interrogation room was somewhere within the city limits of Reston.

“Hey!” Jane went to the mirror and rapped on the glass. “You know, you never read me my

rights. Plus you took my cell phone so I can’t call an attorney. Man, are you guys in trouble.”

She heard no answer.

Her breasts were starting to ache again, the cow in desperate need of milking, but no way was

she going to pull up her shirt in view of that one-way mirror. She rapped again, harder. Feeling

fearless now, because she knew these were government guys who were just taking their sweet

time, trying to intimidate her. She knew her rights; as a cop, she’d wasted too much effort

ensuring the rights of perps; she was damn well going to demand her own.

In the mirror, she confronted her own reflection. Her hair was a frizzy brown corona, her jaw a

stubborn square. Take a good look, guys, she thought. Whoever you are behind that glass, you

are now seeing one pissed-off cop who is getting less and less cooperative.

“Hey!” she shouted and slapped the glass.

Suddenly the door swung open, and she was surprised to see a woman step into the room.

Though the woman’s face was still youthful, no older than fifty, her hair had already turned a

sleek silver, a startling contrast to her dark eyes. Like her male colleagues, she too was wearing

a conservative suit, the attire of choice for women who must function in a man’s profession.

“Detective Rizzoli,” the woman said. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I got here as soon as I

could. DC traffic, you know.” She held out her hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

Jane ignored the offered handshake, her gaze fixed on the woman’s face. “Should I know

you?”

“Helen Glasser. Department of Justice. And yes, I agree, you have every right to be pissed

off.” Again she held out her hand, a second attempt to call a truce.

This time Jane shook it, and felt a grasp as firm as any man’s. “Where’s my husband?” she

asked.

“He’ll be joining us upstairs. I wanted a chance to make peace with you first, before we all get

down to business. What happened this evening was just a misunderstanding.”

“What happened was a violation of our rights.”

Glasser gestured toward the doorway. “Please, let’s go upstairs, and we’ll talk about it.”

They walked down the hall to an elevator, where Glasser inserted a coded key card and pressed

the button for the top floor. One ride took them straight from the doghouse to the penthouse.

The elevator slid open, and they walked into a room with large windows and a view of the city

of Reston. The room was furnished with the undistinguished taste so typical of government

offices. Jane saw a gray couch and armchairs grouped around a bland kilim rug, a side table

with a coffee urn and a tray of cups and saucers. On one wall was the lone piece of decorative

art, an abstract painting of a fuzzy orange ball. Hang that in a police station, she thought, and

you could be sure some smart-ass cop would draw in a bull’s-eye.

The whine of the elevator made her turn, and she saw Gabriel step out. “Are you okay?” he

asked.

“Wasn’t too crazy about those electric shocks. But yeah, I’m . . .” She paused, startled to

recognize the man who had just stepped off the elevator behind Gabriel. The man whose face

she had just glimpsed that afternoon in the crime scene videotape.

John Barsanti tipped his head. “Detective Rizzoli.”

Jane looked at her husband. “Do
you
know what’s going on?”

“Let’s all sit down,” said Glasser. “It’s time to get a few wires uncrossed.”

Jane settled warily on the couch beside Gabriel. No one spoke as Glasser poured coffee and

passed around the cups. After the treatment they’d endured earlier that evening, it was a belated

gesture of civility, and Jane was not ready to surrender her well-earned anger in exchange for a