The Silent Girl

TWENTY-ONE

ALTHOUGH BOTH FROST AND TAM SAT WATCHING HER FROM THEIR parked cars, Jane felt dangerously alone and exposed as she rang the bell at Kevin Donohue’s front gate. A moment later two beefy men strode toward her down the driveway, both of them sporting the conspicuous bulges of sidearms under their jackets. They asked her no questions, merely admitted her through the gate and locked it again behind her. As she passed under the arch, she spotted a surveillance camera mounted overhead. Every move she made was being monitored.

Following the men up the driveway, she noted the absence of trees and shrubbery. There was only a broad lawn and a concrete driveway lined with ugly lampposts, where yet more security cameras were mounted. Here was the stark evidence that being a prince of the Irish mob had its downside. You could never stop looking over your shoulder because you knew that somewhere, a bullet had your name on it.

As wealthy as he was, Donohue had depressingly pedestrian taste, something that was apparent as soon as Jane walked into the house and saw the bland pastel paintings hanging on the wall. They looked like the mass-produced landscapes for sale at every local shopping mall. Her escorts led her into the living room where an enormous man, bloated as a toad, sat in an extra-large armchair. He was in his sixties, clean-shaven and balding, with blue eyes that glared from beneath heavy lids. She didn’t need to be introduced; she already knew that this Jabba the Hutt character was Kevin Donohue, known for his impressive appetites and his equally impressive bad temper.

“Scan her, Sean,” someone said. She hadn’t noticed there was another man in the room, a skinny and nervous-looking fellow in a business suit.

One of her escorts moved toward her, holding a radio frequency scanner, and Jane snapped, “What the hell’s this all about?”

“I’m Mr. Donohue’s attorney,” the skinny man said. “Before he talks to you, we need to make sure you’re not bugged. And you’ll have to hand us your cell phone.”

“This wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“Detective Rizzoli,” rumbled Donohue, “I’m granting you the privilege of keeping your weapon, on account of your voluntarily coming here. But I don’t want any recording of this conversation. If you’re worried about your safety, I’m sure your associates parked outside will come running to your rescue at the first sign of trouble.”

For a moment Jane and Donohue traded stares. Then she handed her cell phone to the attorney and stood motionless while the bodyguard scanned her for radio signals. Only when Sean pronounced her clean did Donohue wave her toward the sofa, inviting her to sit. She chose an armchair instead, so that she would be at his eye level.

“Your reputation precedes you,” said Donohue.

“So does yours.”

He laughed. “I see the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?”

He folded his hands on his bulging belly. “Detective Jane Rizzoli. Smart-ass tongue. Fucking bulldog.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to dig somewhere else for your bones. You’re wasting your time on me.”

“Am I?”

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about me. So has your husband. Oh yeah, I know all about your husband, Mr. Special Agent Gabriel Dean. Quite the law enforcement couple. I’m not worried that you’re gonna find anything useful, mind you. But with all these questions going around, it makes me look weak to my rivals. Like I’m about to topple. And if I look weak, that brings the vultures out.” He leaned forward, his belly flopping over his belt. “There is nothing you’re going to find, okay? Nothing that can link me to the Red Phoenix.”

“What about Joey Gilmore?”

He sighed. “You’ve been talking to his old hag of a mother.”

“She says you and Joey had a falling-out nineteen years ago.”

“Small stuff. Not worth the price of a bullet.”

“Can’t be all that small if you’re bringing in outside people to mop up now.”

“What?”

Jane glanced at Donohue’s two bodyguards. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for some pictures, okay? Don’t freak out, boys.” She pulled out two morgue photos and slid them across the coffee table toward Donohue. “Your hired help just can’t keep their heads on straight.”

Donohue stared. Of all the morgue photos Jane could have brought, she’d chosen the two that were most graphically grotesque. Jane Doe with her slashed throat gaping open. John Doe’s severed head lying beside his torso on the autopsy table. The images had their desired effect: Donohue’s face had turned as pasty as the corpses.

“Why the fuck are you showing me this?” he demanded.

“Why did you hire these two killers?”

The lawyer cut in. “This conversation has come to an end. Sean, Colin. Escort Detective Rizzoli out of the house.”

“Shut up,” said Donohue.

“Mr. Donohue, it’s not in your best interests to-”

“I’m gonna answer her question, okay?” Donohue looked at Jane. “I didn’t hire ’em. I don’t even know who that woman is.” He eyed Jane Doe’s morgue photo with new interest and grunted. “Nice-looking gal. What a waste.”

“And the man? Do you recognize him?”

“Maybe. Looks a little familiar. What do you think, Sean?”

His man Sean eyed the photo. “I think I seen him around. Don’t know his name, but he’s local. Ukrainian or Russian.”

Donohue shook his head. “Bad news, those boys. Completely lacking any moral conscience. I can tell you, this guy never worked for me.” He looked up at Jane. “Now I guess he never will.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” she said.

“Because you’ve already decided I’m guilty. Even though I’ll swear on my mother’s Bible that I didn’t hire these two.” After the initial shock of seeing the morgue photos, his color and his cockiness had returned. “So you might wanna think of backing off.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Donohue?”

“You’re a smart girl. What do you think?”

“I think you’re scared. I think you know you’re cornered.”

“By you?” He laughed. “You are the least of my worries.”

“You called me a bulldog, remember? Well, I’m going to keep on digging in your backyard because that’s where I’ll find Joey Gilmore’s bones.”

“Come on. The cook killed those people and pulled a chuck. Everyone knows it was suicide, but Joey’s old hag of a mother just can’t let it go. That’s why she sent me that fucking note.”

Jane went very still. “You got one?”

“Few weeks ago, got a copy of Joey’s obit. Plus some stupid message that she wrote on the back. I know what really happened. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“If Mrs. Gilmore is the reason you’re investigating Mr. Donohue,” said the attorney, “don’t waste your time.”

“How do you know Mary Gilmore’s sending these notes?” Jane asked. “Did she sign yours? Was there a return address?”

The attorney frowned as he suddenly registered what Jane had said. “Notes, as in plural? Are you saying she’s sent more than one?”

“There have been others. Mailings sent to all the family members of the Red Phoenix victims. The notes are similar to what Mr. Donohue received.”

The attorney looked confused. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would Mrs. Gilmore harass other people with these mailings?”

“Maybe she’s not the one sending them,” said Jane.

The attorney and Donohue looked at each other. “We need to rethink this,” said the attorney. “Obviously, something else is going on. If Mary Gilmore isn’t doing this…”

Donohue’s fingers rolled into two plump fists. “I want to know who the hell is.”