“BREAK IT,” JANE SAID TO FROST.
Glass shattered, shards flying into the house, spilling across the tiled floor. In seconds she and Frost were through the door and inside Alan Rhodes’s kitchen. Weapon drawn, Jane caught rapid-fire glimpses of dishes stacked in the drying rack, a pristine countertop, a stainless-steel refrigerator. Everything looked orderly and clean—too clean.
She and Frost moved down the hallway, into the living room, Jane in the lead. She looked left, looked right, saw no movement, no signs of life. She saw bookshelves, a sofa and coffee table. Not a thing out of place, not even a stray magazine. The home of a bachelor with OCD.
From the foot of the stairway she peered up toward the second floor, trying to listen through the pounding of her own heart. It was quiet upstairs, as silent as the grave.
Frost took the lead as they moved up the stairs. Though the house was chilly, her blouse was already damp with sweat. The most dangerous animal is the one who’s trapped, and by now Rhodes must realize this was the end game. They reached the second-floor landing. Three doorways ahead. Glancing through the first, she saw a bedroom, sparsely furnished. No dust, no clutter. Did a real human actually live in this house? She eased toward the closet, yanked it open. Empty hangers swayed on the rod.
Back into the hallway, past a bathroom, to the last doorway.
Even before she stepped through, she already knew Rhodes wasn’t there. He was probably never coming back. Standing in his bedroom, she looked around at blank walls. The queen bed had a stark white cover. The dresser was bare and dust-free. She thought of her own dresser at home, a magnet for keys and coins, socks and bras. You could tell a lot about people by looking at what migrated to their dressers and their countertops, and what she saw here, on Alan Rhodes’s dresser, was a man without an identity. Who are you?
From the bedroom window, she looked down at the street, where yet another Danvers PD patrol car had just pulled up. This neighborhood was outside Boston PD’s jurisdiction, but in their rush to capture Rhodes she and Frost had not wasted time waiting for Danvers detectives to assist. Now there’d be bureaucratic hell to pay.
“There’s a trapdoor up here,” said Frost, standing in the closet.
She squeezed in beside him and looked up at the ceiling panel, where a pull rope dangled. It probably led to attic storage space, where families stash boxes they never open, filled with items they couldn’t bring themselves to throw out. Frost tugged on the rope and the panel swung open, revealing a drop-down ladder and a shadowy space overhead. They shot a tense glance at each other, then Frost climbed the ladder.
“All clear!” he called down. “Just a bunch of stuff.”
She followed him through the trapdoor and turned on her pocket flashlight. In the gloom she glimpsed a row of cardboard boxes. This could be anyone’s attic, a depository for clutter, for the reams of tax documents and financial papers you fear you might need someday when the IRS comes calling. She opened one box and saw bank statements and loan documents. Moved on to the next and the next. Found copies of Biodiversity and Conservation. Old sheets and towels. Books and more books. There was nothing here to tie Rhodes to any crimes at all, much less murder.
Have we made another mistake?
She climbed back down the ladder, into the bedroom with its bare walls and spotless bedspread. Her uneasiness grew as another car pulled up outside. Detective Crowe climbed out, and she felt her blood pressure shoot up as he strutted toward the house. Seconds later, someone pounded on the front door. She went downstairs and found Crowe grinning at her from the front porch.
“So, Rizzoli, I hear the city of Boston’s not big enough for you. You breaking down doors in the suburbs now?” He walked in and made a lazy stroll around the living room. “What’ve you got on this guy Rhodes?”
“We’re still looking.”
“Funny, ’cause he’s got a clean record. No arrests, no convictions. You sure you tagged the right guy?”
“He ran, Crowe. He released two large cats to cover his escape, and he hasn’t been seen since. It makes the death of Debra Lopez look less and less like an accident.”
“Murder by leopard?” Crowe shot her a skeptical look. “Why would he kill a zookeeper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he kill Gott? And Jodi Underwood?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lot of don’t knows.”
“There’s trace evidence linking him to Jodi Underwood. That tiger hair on her bathrobe. We also know he was a student at Curry College, the same year Natalie Toombs vanished, so there’s a link to her as well. Remember how Natalie was last seen leaving for a study date with someone named Ted? Rhodes’s middle name is Theodore. According to his bio at the zoo, before he started college, he spent a year in Tanzania. Maybe that’s where he learned about the leopard cult.”
“A lot of circumstantials.” Crowe waved his arm at the sterile-looking living room. “I gotta say, I don’t see anything here that screams Leopard Man.”
“Maybe that’s significant. There’s not a whole lot here, period. There are no photos, no pictures, not even a DVD or a CD to tell us about his personal tastes. The books and magazines are all related to his work. The only medicine in his bathroom is aspirin. And you know what’s missing?”
“What?”
“Mirrors. There’s only one small shaving mirror in the upstairs bathroom.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care how he looks. Or are you going to tell me he’s a vampire?”
She turned away at his laughter. “A giant blank, that’s what this house is. It’s like he tried to keep it a sterile zone, a place just for show.”
“Or this is exactly who he is. A totally dull guy with nothing to hide.”
“There’s got to be something here. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“And if you don’t?”
She refused to consider the possibility, because she knew she was right. She had to be right.
But as the afternoon slid into evening and a team of criminalists scoured the house for evidence, her stomach knotted tighter and tighter with uncertainty. She could not believe she’d made a mistake, but it was beginning to look like one. They’d invaded the home of a man with no known criminal past. They’d broken a window, pulled apart his house, and found nothing to tie him to the murders, not even a fragment of nylon cord. They’d also attracted the attention of keenly curious neighbors, and those neighbors had nothing bad to say about Alan Rhodes, although no one admitted to knowing him well. He was quiet and polite. Never seemed to have any girlfriends. Liked to garden, always hauling home bags of mulch.
That last remark sent Jane out to take another look at Rhodes’s backyard. She had already walked the entire property, which was nearly three-quarters of an acre and abutted a wooded conservation easement. In the darkness she scanned the ground by flashlight, her beam moving across shrubs and grass. She tramped to the far edge of the lot, where a fence marked the property line. Here a sharply sloping hillock had been planted with rosebushes, their canes now spindly and bare. She stood frowning at that odd landscaping feature, wondering about that hillock. In a yard that was otherwise level, it stood out like a volcano thrust up from a plain. She was so focused on that peculiar mound that she didn’t notice Maura crossing toward her until the flashlight beam flared in her eyes.
“Have you found anything?” said Maura.
“No dead bodies for you to look at, anyway.” She frowned at Maura. “So what brings you here?”
“I couldn’t stay away.”
“You have got to get yourself a better social life.”
“This is my social life.” Maura paused. “Which is pathetic.”
“Well, nothing’s happening here,” Jane said in disgust. “As Crowe keeps pointing out to me.”
“It’s got to be Rhodes, Jane. I know he’s the one.”
“Based on what? Are you talking gestalt again? Because I don’t have a damn thing to use in court.”
“He would have been only twenty when he killed Natalie Toombs. She may have been his only Boston victim until he killed Gott. The reason we had trouble seeing the pattern is because he’s too intelligent to hunt in the same place. Instead he expanded his territory, to Maine. To Nevada and Montana. It made his signature almost impossible to spot.”
“How do we explain Leon Gott and Jodi Underwood? Those were reckless killings, both in the same day. Within ten miles of each other.”
“Maybe he’s accelerating. Losing control.”
“I don’t see any sign of that in this house. Did you look around inside? Everything’s in perfect order. There’s no hint of the monster.”
“Then he has another place. A lair, where that monster lives.”
“This is the only property Rhodes owns, and we can’t even find a piece of rope here.” In frustration, Jane kicked at the mulch and frowned at the rosebush that she’d just knocked askew. She gave the bare bush a tug, and felt only minimal resistance from the roots. “This was planted recently.”
“It’s odd, this mound of dirt.” Maura swept her flashlight around the yard, across grass and shrubs and a gravel walkway. “There don’t seem to be any other recent plantings. Just here.”
Jane stared at the hillock and suddenly felt a chill when she realized what it represented. Dirt. Where did all this dirt come from? “It’s here, under our feet,” she said. “His lair.” She moved onto the lawn, searching for an opening, a seam, anything that might indicate a hatchway leading underground, but the yard was obscured by shadow. It could take them days to dig it all up, and what if they found nothing? She could imagine the ridicule from Crowe about that.
“Ground-penetrating radar,” said Maura. “If there’s a chamber under here, that would be the quickest way to locate it.”
“Let me check with CSU. See if we can get a GPR unit here in the morning.” Jane walked back to the house and had just stepped inside when she heard the chime announcing a text message on her phone.
It was from Gabriel, who was in DC and wouldn’t be home till tomorrow. CHECK YOUR EMAIL. INTERPOL REPORT.
She’d been so focused on searching Rhodes’s house, she hadn’t read her email all afternoon. Now she scrolled through an inbox stuffed with the trivial and annoying before she found the message. It had arrived three hours earlier, sent by Henk Andriessen.
She squinted at a screen filled with dense text. As she scanned the document, words leaped out at her. Skeletonized remains found, outskirts of Cape Town. White male, multiple skull fractures. DNA match.
She stared at the newly identified name of the deceased. This makes no sense, she thought. This cannot be true.
Her phone rang. Gabriel again.
“Did you read it?” he asked.
“I don’t understand this report. It’s got to be a mistake.”
“The man’s remains were found two years ago. They were fully skeletonized, so the bones could have been lying there much longer. It took them a while to finally run the DNA and make the ID, but now there’s no doubt about who he is. Elliot Gott didn’t die on safari, Jane. He was murdered. In Cape Town.”