The Keepsake

“You let her go?”

“Gemma promised to keep an eye on her, so I thought it would be safe. She had a new name, a new identity. I didn’t think that Jimmy would ever be able to find her.”

There was a long silence as Jane took in what Medea had just said. “ Jimmy?But Jimmy Otto’s dead.”

Medea’s head lifted. “What?”

“You should know that. You shot him in San Diego.”

“No.”

“You shot him in the back of the head. Dragged his body outside and buried him.”

“That’s not true. That wasn’t Jimmy.”

“Then who was buried in the backyard?”

“It was Bradley Rose.”

THIRTY-FIVE

“Bradley Rose?” said Jane. “That’s not what the police in San Diego told us.”

“You think I couldn’t recognize the father of my own child?” said Medea. “It wasn’t Jimmy who broke into my daughter’s bedroom that night. It was Bradley. Oh, I’m sure that Jimmy was lurking around nearby, and the gunshot probably scared him off. But I knew he would be back. I knew we had to move fast. So we packed up and left the next morning.”

“The body was identified as Jimmy’s,” said Frost.

“Who identified him?”

“His sister.”

“Then she made a mistake. Because I know it wasn’t Jimmy.”

Jane switched on the lamp and Medea shrank from the light, as though the glow from a mere sixty-watt bulb was radioactive.

“This is not making sense. How could Jimmy Otto’s own sister make a mistake like that?” She snatched up his psychiatric file from the bed and sca

“His sister’s name was Carrie.” Jane looked at Frost. “Get Crowe on the line. Ask him to find out where Carrie Otto lives.”

He pulled out his cell phone.

“I don’t understand,” said Medea. “What does Jimmy’s sister have to do with this?”

Jane flipped through the notes in Jimmy’s Hilzbrich Institute chart, searching for any and all references to Carrie Otto. Only now that she was specifically searching for them did she realize how many times Carrie had been mentioned.

Sister is visiting again, second time today.

Carrie stayed past visiting hours; reminded she must adhere to rules.

Carrie has been asked not to call so often.

Carrie caught smuggling in cigarettes. Visiting privileges suspended for two weeks.

Sister visiting…Sister visiting…Carrie here again.

And finally she came to an entry that stopped her cold:

Far more extensive family counseling is indicated. Carrie has been referred to Bangor child psychiatrist to deal with issue of abnormal sibling attachment.

Frost hung up his cell phone. “Carrie Otto lives in Framingham.”

“Tell Crowe to get a team there now. With backup.”

“He’s already moving on it.”

“What’s happening?” Medea cut in. “Why are you so focused on the sister?”

“Because Carrie Otto told the police that the body you buried was her brother’s,” said Jane.

“But I know it wasn’t. Why did she say that?”

“There was a warrant out for his arrest,” explained Frost. “In co

“Carrie is the key,” said Jane. “And we know where she lives.”

“You think my daughter is there,” said Medea.

“If she isn’t, I’m betting that Carrie knows where he’s keeping her.” Jane was pacing the room now, checking her watch. Mentally calculating how long it would take for Crowe and his team to reach Framingham. She wanted to be there with him, knocking on that door, pushing into that house. Searching those rooms for Josephine. I should be the one to find her. It was after midnight, but she was wide awake, energy fizzing like carbonation through her bloodstream. All this time, she thought, we’ve been chasing a dead man when we should have focused on Jimmy Otto. The invisible man.

The only patient who really scared me,Dr. Hilzbrich had said about Jimmy. He scared everyone. Even his own parents.

Jane stopped and turned to Frost. “Do you remember what Crowe said about Jimmy’s parents? About how they were killed?”

“It was an accident, wasn’t it? A plane crash.”

“Didn’t it happen in Maine? They bought a house in Maine, to be close to Jimmy.”

Once again, Jane picked up the psychiatric file and flipped to the front page where the patient info was typed. Jimmy’s parents were Howard and Anita Otto, and they had two addresses. The first was their primary residence in Massachusetts. The second address, in Maine, had been added later; it was handwritten in ink.

Frost was already dialing Boston PD on his cell phone. “I need you to check a property tax record for me,” he said, looking over Jane’s shoulder at the address. “State of Maine, a town called Saponac. One Sixty-five Valley Way.” A moment later, he hung up and looked at Jane. “It’s owned by the Evergreen Trust, whatever that is. She’ll call us back with more information.”

Once again Jane was in motion, frustrated and impatient. “It can’t be that far from here. We could just drive by and take a look.”

“It’s been decades since they died. That house has probably changed hands several times.”

“Or maybe it’s still in the family.”

“If you just hang on, we’ll get that information on Evergreen.”

But Jane was in no mood to wait. She was a racehorse at the starting gate, ready to move. “I’m going,” she said, and glanced toward the dresser where she’d left her keys.

“Let’s take my car,” said Frost, already at the door. “We’ll need the GPS.”

“I’m coming, too,” said Medea.

“No,” said Jane.

“She’s my daughter.”

“That’s why you need to stay out of the way. So we won’t be distracted.” Jane holstered her weapon and the sight of that gun should have said it all. This is serious business. This is not for civilians.

“I want to do something,” Medea insisted. “I need to do something.”

Jane turned and saw a woman as determined as any she had ever met, a woman primed for battle. But this battle was not Medea’s; it could not be.

“The best thing you can do tonight is stay right here,” said Jane. “And lock the door.”

Valley Way was a lonely rural road lined by woods so thick that they could not make out the residences through the trees. The number posted on the roadside mailbox told them they were at the right address, but all they could see in the dark was the begi

“If anyone lives here,” she said, “they haven’t cleaned out their mailbox lately. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

“Then no one should object if we take a closer look,” said Frost.

Their car slowly rolled down the driveway, gravel crackling under the tires. The trees were so dense that they did not see the house until they rounded a bend and it suddenly stood before them. Once it might have been a handsome vacation cottage, with a gabled roof and a broad front porch, but weeds had sprung up and engulfed the foundation and hungry vines had clambered up and over the porch railings, as though determined to smother the house and any unfortunate occupants.

“Looks abandoned,” said Frost.

“I’m going to get out and take a look around.” Jane reached for the handle and was about to open the door when she heard the warning clank of a chain, a sound as ominous as a snake’s rattle.

Something black bounded out of the darkness.

She gasped and jerked back as the pit bull slammed against her door, as claws scrabbled at glass and white teeth gleamed in the window.