The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

“The Hilzbrich Institute was very exclusive, very pricey. And very specialized. It was essentially a locked unit out in the middle of the woods—probably a smart idea, considering what kind of patients they were treating.”
    “Psychopaths?”
    “Sexual predators. Everything from budding pedophiles to rapists. It just goes to show you that rich people have their own share of perverts. But they also have lawyers to keep these kids out of the justice system, and this facility was a rich man’s alternative. A place to enjoy fine dining while a team of therapists tries to convince you it’s not nice to torture little girls. The trouble was, it didn’t seem to work very well. Fifteen years ago, one of their so-called graduates kidnapped and mutilated two girls, and he did it just a few months after the institute declared him safe to return to society. There was a big lawsuit, and the school was forced to shut down. It’s been closed ever since.”
    “What about Jimmy Otto? What happened after he left?”
    “At eighteen, he walked out their doors a free man. But it didn’t take long for him to revert to form. Within a few years, he was arrested for stalking and threatening a woman in California. Then he was arrested and questioned right here in Brookline, about the disappearance of a young woman. Police didn’t have enough to hold him, so he was released. Ditto thirteen years ago, when he was picked up for questioning after another Massachusetts woman disappeared. Before the police could build a case against him, he abruptly vanished. And no one knew where he was. Until a year later, when he turned up buried in that backyard in San Diego.”
    “You’re right, Tripp,” said Jane. “He got what he deserved. But what made this mother and daughter run? If they killed him, if they were just defending themselves, why did they pack up and leave town like criminals?”
    “Maybe because they are?” suggested Crowe. “They were living under assumed names even then. We don’t know who they really are—or what they might be running from.”
    Jane rested her head in her hands and began to rub her temples, trying to massage away the headache. “This is getting so damn complicated,” she muttered. “I can’t keep track of all the threads. We’ve got a murdered man in San Diego. We’ve got the Archaeology Killer here.”
    “And the link seems to be this young woman whose name we don’t even know.”
    Jane sighed. “Okay. What else do we know about Jimmy Otto? Any other arrests, any other links to our current investigation?”
    Crowe flipped through his notes. “Some minor stuff. Breaking and entering in Brookline, Massachusetts. DUI and speeding in San Diego. Another DUI and reckless speeding in Durango…” He paused, suddenly registering the significance of that last detail. “Durango, Colorado. Isn’t that close to New Mexico?”
    Jane lifted her head. “It’s right over the state line. Why?”
    “It happened in July. The same year that Lorraine Edgerton vanished.”
    Jane reeled back in her chair, stunned by this last piece of information.
Both Jimmy and Bradley were near Chaco Canyon at the same time.
    “That’s it,” she said softly.
    “You think they were hunting partners?”
    “Until Jimmy got killed in San Diego.” She looked at Frost.
    “This is finally coming together now. We have a connection. Jimmy Otto and Bradley Rose.”
    He nodded. “And Josephine,” he said.

TWENTY
     
    Josephine fought her way back to consciousness and came awake with a gasp, her nightgown soaked with sweat, her heart thudding. Thin curtains rippled in a ghostly film over the moonlit window, and in the woods outside Gemma’s house, tree branches rattled and fell still. She pushed off the damp bedcovers and stared up at the darkness as her heart slowed, as the sweat cooled on her skin. After only a week at Gemma’s place, her bad dream was back. A dream of gunfire and blood-splattered walls.
Always pay attention to your dreams,
her mother had taught her.
They’re voices telling you what you already know, whispering advice you haven’t yet heeded.
Josephine knew what this dream meant: It was time to move on. Time to run. She had lingered in Gemma’s house longer than she should have. She thought of the cell phone call she’d made from the mini-mart. She thought of the young patrolman who’d chatted with her in the parking lot that night, and the taxi driver who’d driven her to this road. There were