Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

talking about tens of millions of dollars. If it weren’t for people like him, there’d be no grants, no money to pay for turning over even a single rock.”
    “Tens of millions? And what does he get back for all that money?” asked Jane.
    “Get? Why, the thrill, of course! Wouldn’t you like to be the first person to step into a newly opened tomb? The first to peek into a sealed sarcophagus? He needs us and we need him. That’s how archaeology has always been done. A union between those with the money and those with the skills.”
    “Do you remember his son’s name?”
    “I wrote it in here somewhere.” He opened his book of field notes and began flipping through the pages. Several snapshots fell out onto the desk, and he pointed to one of the photos. “There, that’s him. I remember his name now. Bradley. He’s the young man in the middle.”
    Bradley Rose sat at a table, pottery shards spread out before him. The other two students in the photo were otherwise distracted, but Bradley stared directly at the camera, as though studying some interesting new creature he’d never seen before. In almost every way he appeared ordinary: average build, a forgettable face, a look of anonymity that would easily be lost in a crowd. But his eyes were arresting. They reminded Jane of the day she’d visited the zoo and stared through the fence at a timber wolf, whose pale eyes had regarded her with unsettling interest.
    “Did the police ever question the man?” asked Jane.
    “He left us two weeks before she vanished. They had no reason to.”
    “But he knew her. They’d worked together on the dig.”
    “Yes.”
    “Wouldn’t that make him someone worth talking to?”
    “There was no point. His parents said he was home with them in Texas at the time. An airtight alibi, I should think.”
    “Do you remember why he left the dig?” asked Frost. “Did something happen? Did he not get along with the other students?”
    “No, I think it was because he got bored here. That’s why he took that internship out in Boston. That annoyed me, because I would have taken on a different student if I’d known Bradley wouldn’t stick it out here.”
    “Boston?” Jane cut in.
    “Yes.”
    “Where was this internship?”
    “Some private museum. I’m sure his father pulled strings to get him in.”
    “Was it the Crispin Museum?”
    Professor Quigley thought about it. Then he nodded. “That may have been the one.”

EIGHTEEN
    Jane had heard that Texas was big, but as a New England girl, she had no real appreciation of just what
big
really meant. Nor had she imagined how bright the Texas sun was, or how hot the air could be, as hot as dragon’s breath. The three-hour drive from the airport took them through miles of scrub brush, through a sunbaked landscape where even the cattle looked different—rangy and mean, unlike the placid Guernseys she saw on pleasant green farms in Massachusetts. This was a foreign country, a thirsty country, and she fully expected the Rose estate to look like the arid ranches they passed along the way, low-slung and spread out, with white corral fences enclosing parched brown acreage.
    So she was surprised when the mansion loomed into view.
    It was set on a lushly planted hill that looked shockingly green above the endless expanse of scrubland. A lawn swept down from the home like a velvet skirt. In a paddock enclosed by white fences, half a dozen horses were grazing, their coats gleaming. But it was the residence that held Jane’s gaze. She’d expected a ranch house, not this stone castle with its crenellated turrets.
    They drove to the massive iron gate and stared up in wonder.
    “How much, do you think?” she asked.
    “I’m guessing thirty million,” said Frost.
    “That’s all? It’s got, like, fifty thousand acres.”
    “Yeah, but it’s Texas. Land’s gotta be cheaper than at home.”
    When thirty million dollars sounded cheap, thought Jane, you know you’ve stepped into an alternative universe.
    A voice over the gate intercom said: “Your business?”
    “Detectives Rizzoli and Frost. We’re from Boston PD. We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Rose.”
    “Is Mr. Rose expecting you?”
    “I called him this morning. He said he’d speak to us.”
    There was a long silence, then the gate finally swung open.
    “Drive through, please.”
    The curving road took them up the hill, past a colonnade of cypress trees and Roman statues. A circle of broken marble pillars stood