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“You think this is all to screw around with my head? These letters?”
“It’s a mind game, Jane. He left these behind for you. This nice collection of mail from his most ardent admirers. He knew that eventually you’d be right here, where you are now, reading what they had to say to him. Maybe he wanted to show you that he does have admirers. That even though you despise him, there are women who don’t, women who are drawn to him. He’s like a spurned lover, trying to make you jealous. Trying to throw you off balance.”
“Don’t mind-fuck me.”
“And it’s working, isn’t it? Look at you. He’s got you wound up so tight you can’t even sit still. He knows how to manipulate you, how to mess around with your head.”
“You’re giving him too much credit.”
“Am I?”
She waved at the letters. “This is all supposed to be for my benefit? What, I’m the center of his universe?”
“Isn’t he the center of yours?” Dean said quietly.
She stared at him, unable to come up with a retort because what he had said struck her, at that instant, as the unassailable truth. Warren Hoyt was the center of her universe. He reigned as dark lord over her nightmares and dominated her waking hours as well, always poised to step out of his closet, back into her thoughts. In that cellar, she had been marked as his, the way every victim is marked by an assailant, and she could not obliterate his stamp of ownership. It was carved into her hands, seared into her soul.
She returned to the table and sat down. Steeled herself for the remainder of the task.
The next envelope had a typed return address: Dr. J. P. O’Do
She unfolded the letter inside. It was dated six weeks ago.
Dear Warren,
Thank you for your last letter, and for signing the two release forms. The details you’ve provided go a long way toward helping me understand the difficulties you’ve faced. I have so many other questions to ask you, and I’m glad you’re still willing to meet with me as pla
Sincerely,
Dr. O’Do
“Who on earth is J. P. O’Do
Dean glanced up in surprise. “Joyce O’Do
“The envelope just says Dr. J. P. O’Do
He frowned at the envelope. “I didn’t know she’d moved to Boston.”
“You know her?”
“She’s a neuropsychiatrist. Let’s just say we met under hostile circumstances, across the aisle of a courtroom. Defense attorneys love her.”
“Don’t tell me. An expert witness. She goes to bat for the bad guys.”
He nodded. “No matter what your client’s done, how many people he’s killed, O’Do
“I wonder why she’s writing to Hoyt.” She reread the letter. It had been written with the utmost respect, praising him for his cooperation. Already she disliked Dr. O’Do
The next envelope in the stack was also from O’Do
“Jane? What is it?”
“It’s me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“She’s been following me. Taking photos of me. She sent them to him.”
Dean rose from his chair and circled to her side of the table to look over her shoulder. “I don’t see you here-”
“Look. Look.” She pointed to the photo of a dark-green Honda parked on the street. “It’s mine.”
“You can’t see the license number.”
“I can recognize my own car!”
Dean flipped over the Polaroid. On the back, someone had drawn an absurd smiley face and had written in blue felt-tip ink: My car.
Fear beat its drum in her chest. “Look at the next one,” she said.
He picked up the second photo. This one, too, had been taken in daylight, and it showed the facade of a building. He didn’t need to be told which building it was; last night he had been inside it. He turned over the photo and saw the words: My home. Beneath the words was another smiley face.
Dean picked up the third photo, which had been taken inside a restaurant.
At first glance, it appeared to be just a poorly composed image of patrons seated at dining tables, a waitress blurred in action as she crossed the room carrying a coffeepot. It had taken Rizzoli a few seconds to zero in on the figure seated just to the left of center, a woman with dark hair, her face seen only in profile, her features obscured against the glare of the window. She waited for Dean to recognize who the woman was.
He asked softly: “Do you know where this was taken?”
“The Starfish Cafe.”
“When?”
“I don’t know-”
“Is it a place you visit often?”
“On Sundays. For breakfast. It’s the one day of the week when I…” Her voice faded. She stared at the photo of her own profile, the shoulders relaxed, face tilted downward, gazing at an open newspaper. It would have been a Sunday paper. Sunday was when she treated herself to breakfast at the Starfish. A morning of French toast and bacon and the comics.
And a stalker. She’d never known someone was watching her. Taking photos of her. Sending them to the very man who pursued her in her nightmares.
Dean flipped over the Polaroid.
On the back was drawn yet another smiley face. And beneath it, enclosed in a heart, was a single word:
Me.
SIXTEEN
My car. My home. Me.
Rizzoli rode back to Boston with her stomach knotted in anger. Although Dean sat right beside her, she didn’t look at him; she was too focused on nursing her rage, on feeling its flames consume her.
Her rage only deepened when Dean pulled up in front of O’Do
The ash-blond woman who answered the door was as meticulously groomed as her residence, her hair a gleaming helmet, her Brooks Brothers shirt and slacks crisply pressed. She was about forty, with a face as creamy as alabaster. Like real alabaster, that face revealed no warmth. The eyes projected only chilly intellect.
“Dr. O’Do