The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

that about right?”
    Jane glanced at her mother, who was eagerly listening in. “Maybe we should talk about this another time. I don’t want Mom to get upset.”
    “Oh, go ahead,” said Angela. “I love it when Vince talks about his old job. He’s taught me so much about police work. In fact, I’m going to buy one of those police radios.” She smiled at Korsak.
    “And he’s going to teach me how to shoot a gun.”
    “Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?” said Jane.
    “Guns are dangerous, Ma.”
    “Well, you have one.”
    “I know how to use it.”
    “I will, too.” Angela leaned closer. “Now what about this perp? How does he choose these women?”
    Had her mom just used the word
perp
?
    “There must be something these ladies all have in common,” said Angela. She looked at Korsak. “What was that word you used, about studying victims?”
    “Victimology.”
    “That’s what it was. What does the victimology show?”
    “Same hair color,” said Korsak. “That’s what I hear. All three victims had black hair.”
    “Then you need to be extra careful, Janie,” said Angela. “If he likes dark-haired girls.”
    “The world is full of dark-haired girls, Ma.”
    “But you’re right in his face. If he’s paying any attention to the news—”
    “Then he knows enough to stay out of Jane’s way,” said Korsak. “If he knows what’s good for him.” Korsak started pulling the finished steaks off the grill and plopping them onto the platter.
    “It’s been a week since you brought that girl home, right? And nothing’s happened.”
    “There’ve been no sightings.”
    “Then he’s probably left town. Moved on to easier hunting grounds.”
    “Or he’s just waiting for things to quiet down,” said Jane.
    “Yeah, that’s the problem, isn’t it? It takes resources to keep up surveillance. How do you know when to pull back your protection? When’s that girl going to be safe?”
    Never, thought Jane. Josephine will always be looking over her shoulder.
    “Do you think he’ll kill again?” said Angela.
    “Of course he will,” said Korsak. “Maybe not in Boston. But I guarantee you, right at this moment he’s out there hunting somewhere.”
    “How do you know?”
    Korsak loaded the last steak onto the platter and shut off the flame. “Because that’s what hunters do.”

TWENTY-THREE
     
    All Sunday afternoon, the storm had been building, and now they were caught in the worst of it. As Josephine sat in her windowless office, she could hear the crash of thunder. The reverberations shook the walls with such violence that she did not notice Nicholas approach her doorway. Only when he spoke did she realize he had been standing nearby.
    “Is someone driving you home this afternoon?” he asked.
    He hesitated in the doorway, as though afraid to step into her space, afraid that approaching any closer might be forbidden. Days before, Detective Frost had briefed the museum staff on security, and had shown them the photo of Bradley Rose, digitally aged to replicate the passage of two decades. Since Josephine’s return, the staff had been treating her like fragile goods, politely keeping their distance. No one was comfortable working around a victim.
    And I’m not comfortable being one.
    “I just wanted to make sure you’ve got a ride home,” said Robinson. “Because if you don’t, I’d be happy to drive you.”
    “Detective Frost is coming to get me at six.”
    “Oh. Of course.” He lingered in the doorway as though he had something else to say, but did not have the nerve to speak. “I’m glad you’re back” was all he managed before he turned to leave.
    “Nicholas?”
    “Yes?”
    “I owe you an explanation. About a number of things.”
    Although he stood only a few feet away, she found it hard to meet his gaze. Never before had he made her feel so uncomfortable. He was one of the few people with whom she usually felt at ease, because they inhabited the same esoteric little corner of the universe and shared the same unlikely passion for obscure facts and amusing oddities. Of all the people she’d deceived, she felt the most guilty about Nicholas, because he, more than anyone, had tried the hardest to be a friend.
    “I haven’t been honest with you,” she said, and gave a sad shake of the head. “In fact, most of what you know about me is a lie. Starting with—”
    “Your name isn’t really Josephine,” he said softly.
    Startled, she looked up at