The Silent Girl

“And I just wish…” He sighed. “It’s been nineteen years since her husband died, and she still loves him. She still carries a torch for him. Alice couldn’t even make it ten years before she walked out on me. I look at Iris and I think, Why the hell didn’t I marry someone like her?”

“The woman’s almost old enough to be your mother.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not talking about going out with her! And what does age have to do with anything? This is about loyalty. About loving someone your whole life, no matter what happens.” He turned away and said softly: “I’m never going to know what that’s like.”

The front door opened and they both turned as Tam escorted Iris out of the building. She gave a nod to Frost, a tired smile, then she climbed into Tam’s car. Even as the taillights faded into the mist, Frost was still staring after her.

“I have to admit,” said Jane thoughtfully, “she’s got me wondering now.”

He turned to her. “About what?”

“You’re right about one thing. She’s obviously rattled someone. Someone who’s angry enough or feels threatened enough to break into her house. To stab a knife in her pillow.”

“What if she’s right about the massacre? And the cook didn’t do it?”

Jane nodded. “I think it’s time to take a closer look at the Red Phoenix.”

FIFTEEN

HIDDEN BEHIND TALL HEDGES, PATRICK DION’S BROOKLINE PROPERTY was a private Eden of woods and lawn where footpaths meandered from intimate shade to sunlit flower beds. The wrought-iron gate at the entrance hung open, and as Jane and Frost drove through, they glimpsed the residence through a stand of ghostly white birches. It was a massive Colonial set on a knoll, commanding a view of Dion’s expansive estate.

“What the heck is a venture capitalist, anyway?” said Frost as they passed a tennis court tucked into a shady grove. “I hear that term used all the time.”

“I think they use money to make money,” Jane said.

“But how do you get the money to start with?”

“From friends who have it.”

“I gotta get me some new friends.”

She pulled to a stop in the driveway, where two cars were parked, and stared up at the mansion. “But think about it. You have all this money, this nice house. Then your wife leaves you for another man. And your daughter gets snatched off the street. Me, I’d rather be poor.” She looked at him. “Okay, now we’ve got to do some damage control in there. From what Mr. Dion said, Tam didn’t exactly charm them.”

Frost shook his head. “We gotta get that boy to cool his jets. He goes at everything full-throttle. It’s like he’s stuck on overdrive.”

“But you know who Tam reminds me of?”

“Who?”

“Me. He says he wants to make homicide before he’s thirty.” She pushed open her door. “He might just do it.”

They climbed granite steps to the front door, but before Jane could ring the bell, the door swung open and a silver-haired man stood before them. Though in his late sixties, he was still fit and handsome, but there was a gauntness to his face, and the baggy trousers told Jane that he had recently lost weight.

“I saw your car coming up the driveway,” he said. “I’m Patrick Dion.”

“Detective Rizzoli,” she said. “And this is my partner, Detective Frost.” They shook hands and Patrick’s grip was firm, his gaze steady.

“Come in, please. We’re all in the parlor.”

“Mr. Mallory’s here?”

“Yes. And I invited Mary Gilmore to join us as well. A united front, because we’re all upset about this, and we want to know how to put an end to it.”

As they entered the house, Jane saw polished wood floors and a graceful banister that curved up toward a soaring second-floor gallery. It was far too brief a look; Patrick led them straight into the front parlor, where the other two visitors were already waiting.

Mark Mallory rose with athletic grace from the sofa. He was in his mid-thirties, fit and tan, with not even a hint of gray in his dark hair. Jane surveyed his alligator belt, his Sperry Top-Siders, and his Breitling watch, all the little clues that sneered: I have more money than you ever will. His handshake was perfunctory, a clue that he was impatient to get on with the business at hand.

The third person in the room would have been easy to overlook, had Jane not already been alerted she was there. Mary Gilmore was about Patrick’s age, but so tiny and hunched over that she was almost invisible, swallowed up in a huge armchair by the window. As the woman struggled to stand, Frost quickly moved to her side.

“Please don’t bother, Mrs. Gilmore. You just sit right back down, okay?” Frost urged and helped her settle back into the chair. Watching the woman beam up at him, Jane thought: What is it about Frost and older ladies? He loves them, and they all love him.

“My daughter wanted to be here, too,” said Mrs. Gilmore. “But she couldn’t get off work, so I brought the note she got.” She pointed an arthritic hand at the coffee table. “It came in the mail the same day mine did. Every year they arrive on March thirtieth, the day my Joey died. It’s just like she’s stalking us. It’s emotional harassment. Can’t the police do something to stop her?”

On the coffee table were three envelopes. Before touching them, Jane reached into her pocket and took out a pair of gloves.

“There’s no point with gloves,” said Mark. “There are never any fingerprints on the letters or the envelopes.”

Jane frowned at him. “How do you know there aren’t any prints?”

“Detective Ingersoll had them analyzed in the crime lab.”

“He knows about these?”

“He gets them, too. So does anyone connected with the victims, even my father’s business associates. It’s up to a dozen people that we know about. It’s been going on for years, and the crime lab never finds anything on the envelopes or the mailings. She must wear gloves when she sends them.”

“Mrs. Fang denies sending any notes.”

Mark snorted. “Who else would do it? She’s the one who ran that ad in the Globe. She’s obsessed by this.”

“But she denies sending any notes.” With gloved hands, Jane picked up the first envelope, addressed to Mrs. Mary Gilmore. It had a Boston postmark; there was no return address. She slid out the contents: a single folded sheet of paper. It was a photocopied obituary of Joseph S. Gilmore, age twenty-five, killed in the Chinatown restaurant mass murder-suicide. Survived by his mother, Mary, and his sister, Phoebe Morrison. Funeral mass celebrated at St. Monica’s. Jane flipped over the mailing and saw a single sentence written in block letters.

I know what really happened.

“It’s the same damn note I got,” said Mark. “The same thing we get every year. Except I get my father’s obituary.”

“And I get Dina’s,” said Patrick quietly.

Jane picked up the envelope addressed to Patrick Dion. Inside was the photocopied obituary of Dina Mallory, age forty, killed with her husband, Arthur, in the Red Phoenix shooting. Survived by a daughter from a previous marriage, Charlotte Dion. On the reverse side was written the same sentence that was on Mary Gilmore’s mailing:

I know what really happened.

“Detective Ingersoll told us the envelope’s a standard brand sold by the millions in Staples,” said Mark. “The ink’s the same as what you’d find in any Bic pen. The crime lab found microscopic starch granules inside the