Free Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set by Tess Gerritsen Page A

killing spree were never released to the public. The use of catgut suture. The folding of the victims’ nightclothes. Yet our unsub here is reenacting those very details.”
    “Killers do communicate with each other. It’s a twisted brotherhood, of sorts.”
    “Capra’s been dead two years. He can’t communicate with anyone.”
    “But while he was alive, he may have shared all the gruesome details with our unsub. That’s the explanation I’m hoping for. Because the alternative is far more disturbing.”
    “That our unsub had access to the Savannah police reports,” said Moore.
    Zucker nodded. “Which would mean he’s someone in law enforcement.”
    The room fell silent. Rizzoli couldn’t help looking around at her colleagues—all of them men. She thought about the kind of man who is drawn to police work. The kind of man who loves the power and authority, the gun and the badge. The chance to control others.
Precisely what our unsub craves.
     
    When the meeting broke up, Rizzoli waited for the other detectives to leave the conference room before she approached Zucker.
    “Can I hold on to this photo?” she asked.
    “May I ask why?”
    “A hunch.”
    Zucker gave her one of his creepy John Malkovich smiles. “Share it with me?”
    “I don’t share my hunches.”
    “It’s bad luck?”
    “Protecting my turf.”
    “This is a team investigation.”
    “Funny thing about teamwork. Whenever I share my hunches, someone else always gets the credit.” With photo in hand, she walked out of the room and immediately regretted making that last comment. But all day she had been irritated by her male colleagues, by their little remarks and snubs that together added up to a pattern of disdain. The last straw was the interview that she and Darren Crowe had conducted of Elena Ortiz’s next-door neighbor. Crowe had repeatedly interrupted Rizzoli’s questions to ask his own. When she’d yanked him out of the room and called him on his behavior, he’d shot back the classic male insult:
    “I guess it’s that time of month.”
    No, she was going to keep her hunches to herself. If they didn’t pan out, then no one could ridicule her. And if they bore fruit, she would rightfully claim credit.
    She returned to her workstation and sat down to take a closer look at Diana Sterling’s graduation photo. Reaching for her magnifying glass, she suddenly focused on the bottle of mineral water she always kept on her desk, and her temper boiled up when she saw what had been shoved inside.
    Don’t react, she thought. Don’t let ’em see they’ve gotten to you.
    Ignoring the water bottle and the disgusting object it contained, she aimed the magnifying glass on Diana Sterling’s throat. The room seemed unusually hushed. She could almost feel Darren Crowe’s gaze as he waited for her to explode.
    It ain’t gonna happen, asshole. This time I’m gonna keep my cool.
    She focused on Diana’s necklace. She had almost missed this detail, because the face was what had initially drawn her attention, those gorgeous cheekbones, the delicate arch of the eyebrows. Now she studied the two pendants dangling from the delicate chain. One pendant was in the shape of a lock; the other was a tiny key. The key to my heart, thought Rizzoli.
    She rifled through the files on her desk and found the photos from the Elena Ortiz crime scene. With the magnifying glass, she studied a close-up shot of the victim’s torso. Through the layer of dried blood caked on the neck, she could just make out the fine line of the gold chain; the two pendants were obscured.
    She reached for the phone and dialed the M.E.’s office.
    “Dr. Tierney is out for the afternoon,” said his secretary. “Can I help you?”
    “It’s about an autopsy he did last Friday. Elena Ortiz.”
    “Yes?”
    “The victim was wearing an item of jewelry when she was brought into the morgue. Do you still have it?”
    “Let me check.”
    Rizzoli waited, tapping her pencil on the desk.