Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

said. “No fire in the belly. Family man.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with being a family man. I wish I’d been a better one.”
    She glanced up from the carton of Mongolian beef and saw that he wasn’t looking at her but was staring at the necklace. There’d been a note of pain in his voice, and she didn’t know what to say in response. Figured that it was best not to say anything.
    She was relieved when he turned the subject back to the investigation. In their world, murder was always a safe topic.
    “There’s something wrong here,” he said. “This jewelry thing doesn’t make sense to me.”
    “He’s taking souvenirs. Common enough.”
    “But what’s the point of taking a souvenir if you’re going to give it away?”
    “Some perps take the vic’s jewelry and give it to their own wives or girlfriends. They get a secret thrill from seeing it around their girlfriend’s neck, and being the only one who knows where it really comes from.”
    “But our boy’s doing something different. He leaves the souvenir at the
next
crime scene. He doesn’t get to keep seeing it. Doesn’t get the recurrent thrill of being reminded of his kill. There’s no emotional gain that I can see.”
    “A symbol of ownership? Like a dog, marking his territory. Only he uses a piece of jewelry to mark his next victim.”
    “No. That’s not it.” Moore picked up the Ziploc bag and weighed it in his palm, as though divining its purpose.
    “The main thing is, we’re onto the pattern,” she said. “We’ll know exactly what to expect at the next crime scene.”
    He looked up at her. “You just answered the question.”
    “What?”
    “He’s not marking the victim. He’s marking the crime scene.”
    Rizzoli paused. All at once, she understood the distinction. “Jesus. By marking the scene …”
    “This isn’t a souvenir. And it’s not a mark of ownership.” He set down the necklace, a tangled filigree of gold that had skimmed the flesh of two dead women.
    A shudder went through Rizzoli. “It’s a calling card,” she said softly.
    Moore nodded. “The Surgeon is talking to us.”
     
    A place of strong winds and dangerous tides.
    This is how Edith Hamilton, in her book
Mythology,
describes the Greek port of Aulis. Here lie the ruins of the ancient temple of Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. It was at Aulis where the thousand Greek black ships gathered to launch their attack on Troy. But the north wind blew, and the ships could not sail. Day after day, the wind was relentless and the Greek army, under the command of King Agamemnon, grew angry and restless. A soothsayer revealed the reason for the ill winds: the goddess Artemis was angry, because Agamemnon had slain one of her beloved creatures, a wild hare. She would not allow the Greeks to depart unless Agamemnon offered up a terrible sacrifice: his daughter, Iphigenia.
    And so he sent for Iphigenia, claiming that he had arranged for her a great marriage to Achilles. She did not know she was coming instead to her death.
    Those fierce north winds were not blowing on the day you and I walked the beach near Aulis. It was calm, the water was green glass, and the sand was as hot as white ash beneath our feet. Oh, how we envied the Greek boys who ran barefoot on the sun-baked shore! Though the sand scorched our pale tourist skin, we reveled in the discomfort, because we wanted to be like those boys, our soles like toughened leather. Only through pain and hard wear do calluses form.
    In the evening, when the day had cooled, we went to the Temple of Artemis.
    We walked among the lengthening shadows, and came to the altar where Iphigenia was sacrificed. Despite her prayers, her cries of “Father, spare me!,” the warriors carried the girl to the altar. She was stretched over the stone, her white neck bared to the blade. The ancient playwright Euripides writes that the soldiers of Atreus, and all the army, stared at the ground, unwilling to watch the spilling of her virgin blood. Unwilling to witness the horror.
    Ah, but I would have watched! And so, too, would you have. And eagerly, too.
    I pictured the silent troops assembled in the gloom. I imagined the beating of drums, not the lively throb of a wedding celebration, but a somber march toward death. I saw the procession, winding its way into the grove. The girl, white as a swan, flanked by soldiers and priests. The drumming stops.
    They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.
    In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself