Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

Rizzoli. We spoke on the phone.”
    “I have nothing more to tell you.”
    “We don’t have a lot of time to save this woman.”
    “I can’t discuss my former patients.”
    “Last night, your former patient sent us a souvenir.”
    He frowned. “What do you mean, what souvenir?”
    “The victim’s hair. He hacked it off her head, stuffed it into a grocery bag, and hung it on a tree, like a trophy. Now, I don’t know how a psychiatrist like you would interpret that. I’m just a cop. But I hate to think of what he might cut off next. And if the next thing we find is a piece of her flesh, I fucking promise you I will be back on this doorstep. And I’ll invite a few TV cameras to come along with me.” She let that sink in for a moment. “So now do you want to talk?”
    He stared at her, his lips pressed together in two tight lines. Without a word, he stepped aside to let her come in.
    Inside, it smelled of cigarettes—an unhealthy habit made more so in that house, where she saw stuffed file boxes lining the hallway. Glancing through a doorway into a cluttered office, she spotted overflowing ashtrays and a desk covered with papers and even more boxes.
    She followed him into the living room, which was oppressively dark and cheerless because thick trees outside blocked the sunlight. Here some semblance of order had been maintained, but the leather couch she sat down on was stained, and the finely crafted coffee table bore the rings of countless cups set carelessly on unprotected wood. Both had probably been expensive purchases, evidence of their owner’s more affluent past. Clearly Hilzbrich’s circumstances had gone terribly wrong, leaving him with a house he could not afford to maintain. But the man who sat across from her betrayed no hint of defeat, and certainly no humility. He was still every inch
Doctor
Hilzbrich, facing the minor annoyance of a police investigation.
    “How do you know that my former patient is responsible for this young woman’s abduction?” he asked.
    “We have a number of reasons to suspect Bradley Rose.”
    “And those reasons are?”
    “I’m not at liberty to reveal the details.”
    “Yet you expect me to open up his psychiatric files to you?”
    “When a woman’s life is at stake? Yes, I do. And you know very well what your obligations are.” She paused. “Since you’ve been through this situation before.”
    The sudden rigidity in his face told her he knew exactly what she was talking about.
    “You’ve already had one of your patients go off the rails,” she said. “The parents of
his
victim weren’t too happy with that whole patient-confidentiality thing, were they? Having their daughter sliced and diced can do that to a family. They grieve, they get angry, and finally they sue. And it all shows up in the newspapers.” She glanced around the shabby room. “Are you still treating patients, by the way?”
    “You know I’m not.”
    “I guess it’s hard to practice psychiatry when you lose your license.”
    “It was a witch hunt. The parents needed someone to blame.”
    “They knew exactly who to blame—your sicko former patient. You were the one who pronounced him cured.”
    “Psychiatry is an inexact science.”
    “You had to know it was your patient who did it. When that girl was killed, you must have recognized his handiwork.”
    “I had no proof it was him.”
    “You just wanted the problem to go away. So you did nothing, said nothing to the police. Are you going to let that happen again with Bradley Rose? When you can help us stop him?”
    “I don’t see how I
can
help you.”
    “Release his records to us.”
    “You don’t understand. If I give them to you, he’ll—” He stopped.
    “He?” Her gaze was fixed so intently on his face that he drew back, as though physically pressed against the chair. “You’re talking about Bradley’s father. Aren’t you?”
    Dr. Hilzbrich swallowed. “Kimball Rose warned me you’d be calling. He reminded me that psychiatric records are confidential.”
    “Even when a woman’s life is in danger?”
    “He said he’d sue me if I released the records.” He gave a sheepish laugh and looked around at his living room. “As if there’s anything left to take! The bank owns this house. The institute’s been shuttered for years and the state’s about to foreclose on it. I can’t even pay the damn property taxes.”
    “When did Kimball speak to you?”
    He shrugged. “He called me about a week ago,