The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

sounds, like our own alphabet.”
    “So what does it say?”
    “This isn’t my area of expertise. Josephine can read it.” He turned to his colleague and suddenly frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”
    The young woman had gone as pale as any corpse that had ever been stretched out on the morgue table. She stared at the cartouche as though she saw some undreamed-of horror in those symbols.
    “Dr. Pulcillo?” said Frost.
    She glanced up sharply, as though startled to hear her name.
    “I’m fine,” she murmured.
    “What about these hieroglyphs?” Jane asked. “Can you read them?”
    Pulcillo’s gaze dropped back to the cartouche. “The owl—the owl is the equivalent of our
M
sound. And the little hand beneath it, that would sound like a
D.
”
    “And the arm?”
    Pulcillo swallowed. “It’s pronounced like a broad
A.
As in
car.
”
    “
M-D-Ah?
What kind of name is that?”
    Robinson said, “Something like
Medea,
maybe? That would be my guess.”
    “Medea?” said Frost. “Isn’t there some Greek tragedy written about her?”
    “It’s a tale of vengeance,” said Robinson. “According to the myth, Medea falls in love with Jason of the Argonauts, and they have two sons. When Jason leaves her for another woman, Medea retaliates by slaughtering her own sons and murdering her female rival. All to get back at Jason.”
    “What happens to Medea?” asked Jane.
    “There are various versions of the tale, but in them all, she escapes.”
    “After killing her own kids?” Jane shook her head. “That’s a lousy ending, having her go free.”
    “Perhaps that’s the point of the story: that some who commit evil never face justice.”
    Jane looked down at the cartouche. “So Medea’s a murderer.”
    Robinson nodded. “She’s also a survivor.”

FIVE
     
    Josephine Pulcillo stepped off the city bus and walked in a daze along busy Washington Street, oblivious to the traffic and the relentless thump of car stereos. At the corner she crossed the road, and even the sharp squeal of tires skidding to a stop a few feet away did not shake her as deeply as what she had seen that morning, in that autopsy suite.
    Medea.
    Surely it was a coincidence. A startling one, but what else could it be? Most likely the cartouche wasn’t even an accurate translation. Trinket sellers in Cairo would tell you any tale in hopes of taking your dollars. Dangle enough money in front of them and they’d brazenly swear that Cleopatra herself had worn some worthless piece of junk. Perhaps the engraver had been asked to write Maddie or Melody or Mabel. It was far less likely that the hieroglyphs were meant to spell out
Medea,
since it was a name rarely heard except in the context of Greek tragedy.
    She flinched as a horn blared and turned to see a black pickup truck crawling along the street beside her. The window rolled down, and a young man called out: “Hey gorgeous, want a ride? There’s plenty of room on my lap!”
    One rude gesture involving her middle finger was all it took to let him know what she thought of his offer. He gave a laugh and the truck roared off, spewing exhaust. Her eyes were still watering from the fumes as she climbed the stairs and stepped into her apartment building. Pausing by the lobby mailboxes, she dug through her purse for her mailbox key and suddenly gave a sigh.
    She crossed to Apartment 1A and knocked.
    The door swung open and a bug-eyed alien peered out. “You found your keys yet?” the alien asked.
    “Mr. Goodwin? That is you, isn’t it?”
    “What? Oh, sorry. These old eyes aren’t what they used to be. Need Robocop glasses just to see the darn screw heads.” The building superintendent pulled off his pair of magnifying goggles, and the bug-eyed alien transformed to an utterly ordinary man in his sixties, unruly tufts of gray hair standing up on his head like miniature horns. “So did that key ring ever turn up?”
    “I’m sure I just misplaced it at work. I’ve managed to make copies of my car keys and apartment keys, but—”
    “I know. You want the new mailbox key, right?”
    “You said you’d have to change the lock.”
    “I did it this morning. Come on in and I’ll give you the new key.”
    Reluctantly, she followed him into his apartment. Once you stepped into Mr. Goodwin’s lair, it could be a good half hour before you escaped. Mr. Goodwrench was what the tenants called him, for reasons that were apparent as she walked into his living room—or what
ought
to be