The Keepsake

TWENTY-EIGHT

That evening, Maura dined alone.

She had pla

But he never could.

Now those veal shanks were stored in her freezer, and instead of osso buco, she was resigned to dining alone on a grilled cheese sandwich and a stiff gin and tonic.

She imagined where Daniel was at that moment. She pictured a table with men dressed in somber black, the preliminary bowing of heads, the murmured blessing over the food. The subdued clink of silverware and china as they discussed matters of importance to the church: declining seminary enrollments, the graying of the priesthood. Every profession conducted its own business di

Are you thinking at all of me?

She pressed the cheese sandwich onto the hot skillet and watched as butter sizzled, as the bread crisped. Like scrambled eggs, a grilled cheese sandwich was one of her meals of last resort, and the scent of browning butter brought back all the exhausted nights she’d known as a medical student. It was also the scent of those wounded evenings after her divorce, when pla

Outside, darkness was falling, mercifully cloaking the neglected vegetable garden that she had planted so optimistically in the spring. Now it was a jungle of weeds and bolting lettuce and unpicked peapods that hung dry and leathery on tangled vines. Someday, she thought, I’ll follow through. I’ll keep it weeded and neat. But this summer’s garden was a waste, yet another victim of too many demands and too many distractions.

Daniel, most of all.

In the window, she saw herself reflected in the glass, her lips downturned, her eyes tired and pinched. That unhappy image was as startling as a stranger’s face. In ten years, twenty years, would the same woman still be staring back at her?

The pan was smoking, the bread starting to burn black. She turned off the burner and opened the window to air out the smoke, then carried her sandwich to the kitchen table. Gin and cheese, she thought as she refilled her drink. All the necessary food groups for a melancholy woman. As she sipped, she sorted through the mail she’d brought in that evening, setting aside unwanted catalogs for the recycling bin and stacking together the bills that she’d pay this weekend.

She paused at an envelope with her typewritten name and address. It had no return address. She slit it open and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Instantly she dropped the page as though scalded.

Printed in ink were the same two words she had seen painted in blood on the door in the Crispin Museum.

FIND ME

She shot to her feet, knocking over the glass of gin and tonic. Ice cubes clattered onto the floor but she ignored them and crossed straight to the phone.

Within three rings, her call was answered by a brisk voice. “Rizzoli.”

“Jane, I think he wrote me!”

“What?”

“It just came in my mail. It’s a single sheet of paper-”

“Slow down. I’m having trouble hearing you in this traffic.”

Maura paused to collect her nerves and managed to say, more calmly: “The envelope is addressed to me. Inside there’s a sheet of paper with only two words: Find me. ” She drew a breath and said, quietly: “It has to be him.”

“Is there anything else written on that page? Anything at all?”

Maura turned the page over and frowned. “There are two numbers on the other side.”

Over the phone, she heard a car honk, and Jane muttered an oath. “Look, I’m stuck on Columbus Avenue right now. You’re at home?”

“Yes.”

“I’m heading right there. Is your computer on?”

“No. Why?”

“Turn it on. I need you to check something for me. I think I know what those numbers are.”

“Hold on.” Carrying the phone and the note, Maura hurried down the hall to her office. “I’m booting up right now,” she said as the monitor flickered on and the hard drive hummed to life. “Tell me about these numbers,” she said. “What are they?”

“I’m guessing they’re geographic coordinates.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Josephine told us she got a note just like yours with numbers that turned out to be the coordinates for Blue Hills Reservation.”

“That’s why she went hiking there that day?”

“The killer sent her there.”

The hard drive had stopped spi

“Go to Google Earth. Type in those numbers for latitude and longitude.”

Maura looked at the note again, suddenly struck by the significance of the words Find me. “Oh God,” she murmured. “He’s telling us where to find her body.”

“I hope to hell you’re wrong. Have you typed in those numbers?”

“I’ll do it now.” Maura set down the receiver and began tapping on the keyboard, entering the numbers for latitude and longitude. On the screen, the global map began to shift, moving toward the coordinates she’d specified. She picked up the receiver and said, “It’s starting to zoom in.”

“What’s it showing?”

“Northeastern U.S. It’s Massachusetts…”

“Boston?”

“It looks like-no, wait…” Maura stared as the details sharpened. Her throat suddenly went dry. “It’s in Newton,” she said softly.

“Where in Newton?”

Maura reached for the mouse. With each new click the image was magnified. She saw streets, trees. Individual rooftops. Suddenly she realized which neighborhood she was looking at, and a chill raised every hair on the back of her neck. “It’s my house,” she whispered.

“What?”

“These coordinates are for my house. ”

“Jesus. Listen to me! I’m going to get a cruiser right over there. Is your house secure? I want you to check all your doors. Go, go!”

Maura sprang from her chair and ran to the front door. It was locked. She ran to the garage door-also locked. She turned toward the kitchen and suddenly froze.

I left the window open.

Slowly she moved up the hall, her palms slick, her heart hammering. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw that the window screen was intact, the room unviolated. Melted ice cubes had left a puddle of water glistening under the table. She went to the door and confirmed that it was secured. Of course it would be. Two years ago, an intruder had broken into her home, and ever since then, she’d been careful to lock her doors, to arm her security system. She closed and latched the kitchen window and took calming breaths as her pulse gradually slowed. It was just a piece of mail, she thought. A taunt delivered through the U.S. Postal Service. Turning, she looked at the envelope that the note had arrived in. Only then did she notice that it had no postmark, that the stamp was pristine.

He delivered it himself. He came to my street and slipped it in my mailbox.

What else did he leave for me?

Looking through the window, she wondered what secrets the darkness concealed. Her hands were clammy again as she crossed to the switch for the outside lamps. She was almost afraid of what the light might reveal, afraid that Bradley Rose himself would be standing right outside her window, staring back at her. But when she flipped the switch, the glare revealed no monsters. She saw the gas barbecue grill and the teak patio furniture that she’d bought only last month, but had yet to enjoy. And beyond the patio, at the periphery of the light, she could just make out the shadowy edge of her garden. Nothing alarming, nothing amiss.