Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

you that.
    “The cash flow may be the key here,” said Zucker. “How is Kimball getting money to his son?”
    “Tracking that presents a problem,” said Tripp. “The family has multiple accounts, some of them offshore. And he has all those lawyers protecting him. Even with a friendly judge on our side, it will take us time to sort through it.”
    “We’re focused only on New England,” said Jane. “Whether there’ve been financial transactions in the Boston area.”
    “And friends? Contacts?”
    “We know that twenty-five years ago, Bradley worked at the Crispin Museum. Mrs. Willebrandt, one of the docents, recalls that he chose to spend most of his time working after hours, when the museum was closed. So no one remembers much about him. He left no impressions, made no lasting friends. He was like a ghost.” And he’s still a ghost, she thought. A killer who slips into locked buildings, whose face eludes security cameras. Who stalks his victims without ever being noticed.
    “There is one rich source of information,” said Zucker. “It would give us the most in-depth psychological profile you could hope for. If the Hilzbrich Institute will release his records.”
    Crowe gave a disgusted laugh. “Oh yeah. That school for perverts.”
    “I’ve called the former director three times,” said Jane. “Dr. Hilzbrich refuses to release the records because of patient confidentiality.”
    “There’s a woman’s life at stake. He can’t refuse.”
    “But he has refused. I’m driving up to Maine tomorrow to put the squeeze on. And see if I can get something else out of him.”
    “That would be?”
    “Jimmy Otto’s file. He was a student there, too. Since Jimmy’s dead, maybe the doctor will hand over that record.”
    “How will that help us?”
    “It seems pretty clear to us now that Jimmy and Bradley were longtime hunting partners. They were both in the Chaco Canyon area. They were both in Palo Alto at the same time. And they seemed to share a fixation with the same woman, Medea Sommer.”
    “Whose daughter is now missing.”
    Jane nodded. “Maybe that’s why Bradley chose her. For revenge. Because her mother killed Jimmy.”
    Zucker leaned back in his chair, his face troubled. “You know, that particular detail really bothers me.”
    “Which detail?”
    “The coincidence, Detective Rizzoli. Don’t you find it remarkable? Twelve years ago, Medea Sommer shot and killed Jimmy Otto in San Diego. Then Medea’s daughter, Josephine, ends up working at the Crispin Museum—the same place where Bradley Rose once worked. The same place where the bodies of two of his victims were stashed. How did that happen?”
    “It’s bothered me, too,” Jane admitted.
    “Do you know how Josephine got that job?”
    “I asked her that question. She said the position was advertised on an employment website for Egyptologists. She applied, and a few weeks later, she received a call offering her the job. She admits that she was surprised that he chose her.”
    “Who made that call?”
    “Simon Crispin.”
    Zucker’s eyebrow lifted at that detail. “Who now happens to be dead,” he said softly.
    There was a knock on the door, and a detective stuck his head into the conference room. “Rizzoli, we’ve got a situation. You’d better come out and deal with it.”
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “A certain Texas tycoon just blew into town.”
    Jane swiveled around in surprise. “Kimball Rose is here?”
    “He’s in Marquette’s office. You need to get over there.”
    “Maybe he decided to cooperate after all.”
    “I don’t think so. He’s out for your head, and he’s letting everyone know it.”
    “Oh, man,” muttered Tripp. “Better you than me.”
    “Rizzoli, you want us to come?” said Crowe, conspicuously cracking his knuckles. “Little psychological backup?”
    “No.” Tight-lipped, she gathered up her files and stood. “I’ll deal with him.”
He may want my head. But I’m damn well going to have his son’s.
    She walked through the homicide unit and knocked on Lieutenant Marquette’s door. Stepping inside, she found Marquette at his desk, his face unreadable. The same could not be said for his visitor, who stared at Jane with unmistakable contempt. By merely performing her job, she had dared to defy him, and in the eyes of a man as powerful as Kimball Rose, that was clearly an unforgivable offense.
    “I believe you two have met,” said Marquette.
    “We have,” said Jane.