She rolled sideways, pushed herself off the bed, and was about to reach for the phone on the nightstand when it suddenly rang. Startled, she looked at the caller ID readout. An unfamiliar number-not Gabriel’s.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Detective Rizzoli?” a man asked.
“Yes it is.”
“I apologize for the late hour. I just got back into town this evening, and-”
”Who’s calling, please?”
“Detective Ballard, Newton PD. I understand you’re lead investigator on that shooting last night, out in Brookline. A victim named Anna Jessop.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Last year, I caught a case here. It involved a woman named Anna Jessop. I don’t know if it’s the same person, but-”
“You said you’re with Newton PD?”
“Yes.”
“Could you identify Ms. Jessop? If you viewed the remains?”
A pause. “I think I need to. I need to be sure it’s her.”
“And if it is?”
“Then I know who killed her.”
Even before Detective Rick Ballard pulled out his ID, Rizzoli could have guessed the man was a cop. As she walked into the reception area of the M.E.’s building, he immediately rose to his feet, as though at attention. His eyes were a direct and crystalline blue, his brown hair clipped in a conservative cut, and his shirt was pressed with military neatness. He had the same quiet air of command that Gabriel possessed, the same rock-solid gaze that seemed to say,
Definitely a cop, she thought.
“You ready to do this?” she asked. When he nodded, she glanced at the receptionist. “Is Dr. Bristol downstairs?”
“He’s finishing up an autopsy right now. He said you can meet him down there.”
They took the elevator to the basement level and walked into the morgue anteroom, where cabinets held supplies of shoe covers and masks and paper caps. Through the large viewing window they could see into the autopsy lab, where Dr. Bristol and Yoshima were at work on a gaunt, gray-haired man. Bristol spotted them through the glass and he waved in greeting.
“Ten minutes more!” he said.
Rizzoli nodded. “We’ll wait.”
Bristol had just made the scalp incision. Now he peeled the scalp forward over the cranium, collapsing the face.
“I always hate this part,” said Rizzoli. “When they start messing with the face. The rest, I can handle.”
Ballard didn’t say anything. She looked at him and saw that his back was now rigid, his face grimly stoic. Since he was not a homicide detective, he probably did not make many visits to the morgue, and the procedure now going on beyond that window must surely strike him as appalling. She remembered the first visit she’d ever made here as a police cadet. She’d been part of a group from the academy, the only woman among the six brawny cadets, and the men had all towered over her. Everyone had expected the girl to be the squeamish one, that she’d be the one who’d turn away during the autopsy. But she had planted herself front and center, had watched the entire procedure without flinching. It was one of the men, the most strapping among them, who had paled and stumbled off to a nearby chair. She wondered if Ballard was about to do the same. Under fluorescent lights, his skin had taken on a sickly pallor.
In the autopsy room, Yoshima began sawing the cranium open. The whir of blade against bone seemed to be more than Ballard could deal with. He turned from the window, fixing his gaze instead on the boxes of gloves stacked up in various sizes on the shelf. Rizzoli actually felt a little sorry for him. It had to be humiliating when you were a tough-looking guy like Ballard, to let a girl cop see you going rubber-kneed.
She shoved a stool his way, then pulled one up for herself. Gave a sigh as she sat down. “Nowadays, I’m not so good at standing on my feet too long.”
He sat down too, looking relieved to be focused on anything other than that whining bone saw. “Is that your first?” he asked, pointing to her belly.
“Yep.”
“Boy or girl?”
“I don’t know. We’ll be happy either way.”
“That’s how I felt when my daughter was born. Ten fingers and toes, that’s all I was asking for…” He paused, swallowing hard, as the saw continued to whine.
“How old is your daughter now?” asked Rizzoli, trying to distract him.
“Oh, fourteen, going on thirty. Not a barrel of laughs right now.”
“Rough age for girls.”
“See all my gray hairs coming in?”
Rizzoli laughed. “My mom used to do that. Point to her head and say, ‘These gray hairs are all
“Well, we’ve got some problems going on, too. My wife and I separated last year. Katie’s getting pulled in different directions. Two working parents, two households.”
“That’s gotta be hard on a kid.”
The whine of the bone saw mercifully ceased. Through the window, Rizzoli saw Yoshima remove the skullcap. Saw Bristol free up the brain, cupping it gently in both hands as he extracted it from the cranium. Ballard kept his gaze averted from the window, his attention focused on Rizzoli.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he said.
“What is?”
“Working as a cop. Your condition and all.”
“At least no one expects me to kick down any doors these days.”
“My wife was a rookie when she got pregnant.”
“ Newton PD?”
“ Boston. They wanted to yank her right off patrol. She told them being pregnant was an advantage. Said perps are a lot more courteous.”
“Perps? They’re never courteous to me.”
In the next room, Yoshima was sewing the corpse’s incision closed with needle and suture, a macabre tailor stitching together not fabric, but flesh. Bristol stripped off his gloves, washed his hands, then lumbered out to meet his visitors.
“Sorry for the delay. Took a little longer than I expected. The guy had tumors all over his abdomen and never saw a doctor. So instead, he gets me.” He reached out with a beefy hand, still damp, to greet Ballard. “Detective. So you’re here to take a look at our gunshot.”
Rizzoli saw Ballard’s face tighten. “Detective Rizzoli asked me to.”
Bristol nodded. “Well, let’s go then. She’s in the cold room.” He led them across the autopsy lab, through another doorway to the large refrigeration unit. It looked like any walk-in meat locker, with temperature dials and a massive stainless steel door. Hanging on the wall beside it was a clipboard with the log of deliveries. The name of the elderly man on whom Bristol had just finished the postmortem was there on the list, delivered at eleven P.M. last night. This was not a roster one wanted to be on.
Bristol opened the door and wisps of condensation drifted out. They stepped inside, and the smell of chilled meat almost made Rizzoli gag. Since becoming pregnant, she had lost her tolerance for foul odors; even a whiff of decay could send her reeling for the nearest sink. This time she managed to hold back the nausea as she gazed with grim resolve at the row of gurneys in the cold room. There were five body bags, their contents shrouded in white plastic.
