The Keepsake

“And friends? Contacts?”

“We know that twenty-five years ago, Bradley worked at the Crispin Museum. Mrs. Willebrandt, one of the docents, recalls that he chose to spend most of his time working after hours, when the museum was closed. So no one remembers much about him. He left no impressions, made no lasting friends. He was like a ghost.” And he’s still a ghost, she thought. A killer who slips into locked buildings, whose face eludes security cameras. Who stalks his victims without ever being noticed.

“There is one rich source of information,” said Zucker. “It would give us the most in-depth psychological profile you could hope for. If the Hilzbrich Institute will release his records.”

Crowe gave a disgusted laugh. “Oh yeah. That school for perverts.”

“I’ve called the former director three times,” said Jane. “Dr. Hilzbrich refuses to release the records because of patient confidentiality.”

“There’s a woman’s life at stake. He can’t refuse.”

“But he has refused. I’m driving up to Maine tomorrow to put the squeeze on. And see if I can get something else out of him.”

“That would be?”

“Jimmy Otto’s file. He was a student there, too. Since Jimmy’s dead, maybe the doctor will hand over that record.”

“How will that help us?”

“It seems pretty clear to us now that Jimmy and Bradley were longtime hunting partners. They were both in the Chaco Canyon area. They were both in Palo Alto at the same time. And they seemed to share a fixation with the same woman, Medea Sommer.”

“Whose daughter is now missing.”

Jane nodded. “Maybe that’s why Bradley chose her. For revenge. Because her mother killed Jimmy.”

Zucker leaned back in his chair, his face troubled. “You know, that particular detail really bothers me.”

“Which detail?”

“The coincidence, Detective Rizzoli. Don’t you find it remarkable? Twelve years ago, Medea Sommer shot and killed Jimmy Otto in San Diego. Then Medea’s daughter, Josephine, ends up working at the Crispin Museum-the same place where Bradley Rose once worked. The same place where the bodies of two of his victims were stashed. How did that happen?”

“It’s bothered me, too,” Jane admitted.

“Do you know how Josephine got that job?”

“I asked her that question. She said the position was advertised on an employment website for Egyptologists. She applied, and a few weeks later, she received a call offering her the job. She admits that she was surprised that he chose her.”

“Who made that call?”

“Simon Crispin.”

Zucker’s eyebrow lifted at that detail. “Who now happens to be dead,” he said softly.

There was a knock on the door, and a detective stuck his head into the conference room. “Rizzoli, we’ve got a situation. You’d better come out and deal with it.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“A certain Texas tycoon just blew into town.”

Jane swiveled around in surprise. “Kimball Rose is here?”

“He’s in Marquette’s office. You need to get over there.”

“Maybe he decided to cooperate after all.”

“I don’t think so. He’s out for your head, and he’s letting everyone know it.”

“Oh, man,” muttered Tripp. “Better you than me.”

“Rizzoli, you want us to come?” said Crowe, conspicuously cracking his knuckles. “Little psychological backup?”

“No.” Tight-lipped, she gathered up her files and stood. “I’ll deal with him.” He may want my head. But I’m damn well going to have his son’s.

She walked through the homicide unit and knocked on Lieutenant Marquette’s door. Stepping inside, she found Marquette at his desk, his face unreadable. The same could not be said for his visitor, who stared at Jane with unmistakable contempt. By merely performing her job, she had dared to defy him, and in the eyes of a man as powerful as Kimball Rose, that was clearly an unforgivable offense.

“I believe you two have met,” said Marquette.

“We have,” said Jane. “I’m surprised Mr. Rose is here. Since he’s refused to take any of my phone calls.”

“You have no right,” said Kimball. “Telling lies about my boy when he isn’t here to defend himself.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” said Jane. “I’m not sure what you mean by telling lies. ”

“Do you think I’m an imbecile? I didn’t get where I am by just being lucky. I ask questions. I got my sources. I know what your investigation’s all about. This nutty case you’re trying to build against Bradley.”

“I admit, the case is certainly bizarre. But let’s be clear about one thing: I don’t make a case. I follow the evidence where it leads me. At the moment, it’s pointing straight at your son.”

“Oh, I’ve learned all about you, Detective Rizzoli. You have a history of making snap judgments. Like shooting to death an unarmed man on that rooftop a few years ago.”

At the mention of that painful incident, Jane stiffened. Kimball saw it and drove the knife deeper.

“Did you give that man a chance to defend himself? Or did you play judge and jury and just pull the trigger, the way you’re doing to Bradley?”

Marquette said, “Mr. Rose, that shooting isn’t relevant to this situation.”

“Isn’t it? It’s all about this woman, who’s some kind of loose ca

“How can you be so certain of that?” asked Marquette. “You can’t even tell us where your son is.”

“Bradley’s not capable of violence. If anything, violence is more likely to be done against him. I know my boy.”

“Do you?” asked Jane. She opened the file she’d brought into the room and pulled out a photo, which she slapped down in front of him. He stared at the grotesque image of the tsantsa, its eyelids stitched shut, its lips pierced by braided threads.

“You do know what this thing is called, don’t you, Mr. Rose?” she asked.

He said nothing. Through the closed door they could hear phones ringing and detectives’ voices in the homicide unit, but in Marquette’s office, the silence stretched on.

“I’m sure you’ve seen one of these before,” said Jane. “A well-traveled archaeology buff like you has certainly been to South America.”

“It’s a tsantsa, ” he finally said.

“Very good. Your son would know that, too, wouldn’t he? Since I assume he’s traveled all over the world with you.”

“And that’s all you got against him? That my son is an archaeologist?” He snorted. “You’ll have to do better than that in a courtroom.”

“What about the woman he stalked? Medea Sommer filed a complaint against him in Indio.”

“So what? She dropped those charges.”

“And tell us about that private treatment program he attended in Maine. The Hilzbrich Institute. I understand they specialize in a certain class of troubled young men.”

He stared at her. “How the hell did you-”

“I’m not an imbecile, either. I ask questions, too. I hear the institute was very exclusive, very specialized. Very discreet. I guess it had to be, considering the clientele. So tell me, did the program work for Bradley? Or did it just introduce him to some equally perverted friends?”

He looked at Marquette. “I want her off this case or you’re go

“Friends like Jimmy Otto,” continued Jane. “You do remember the name Jimmy Otto?”

Kimball ignored her and kept his attention on Marquette. “Do I have to go to your police commissioner? ’Cause I’ll do that. I’ll do whatever it takes, bring in everyone I know. Lieutenant?”

Marquette was silent for a moment. A long moment during which Jane came to appreciate just how overwhelming Kimball Rose could be-not just his physical presence, but his unstated power. She understood the pressure Marquette was under, and she braced herself for the outcome.

But Marquette did not disappoint her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” he said. “Detective Rizzoli is the lead investigator and she calls the shots.”

Kimball glared at him, as though unable to believe that two mere public servants would defy him. Flushing dangerously red, he turned to Jane. “Because of your investigation, my wife is in the hospital. Three days after you came asking about Bradley, she collapsed. I had her flown here yesterday, to Dana-Farber hospital. She may not survive this, and I blame you. I will be watching you, Detective. You won’t be able to turn over a single rock without my knowing about it.”