The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

it leads me. At the moment, it’s pointing straight at your son.”
    “Oh, I’ve learned all about you, Detective Rizzoli. You have a history of making snap judgments. Like shooting to death an unarmed man on that rooftop a few years ago.”
    At the mention of that painful incident, Jane stiffened. Kimball saw it and drove the knife deeper.
    “Did you give that man a chance to defend himself? Or did you play judge and jury and just pull the trigger, the way you’re doing to Bradley?”
    Marquette said, “Mr. Rose, that shooting isn’t relevant to this situation.”
    “Isn’t it? It’s all about this woman, who’s some kind of loose cannon. My son is innocent. He had nothing to do with this kidnapping.”
    “How can you be so certain of that?” asked Marquette. “You can’t even tell us where your son is.”
    “Bradley’s not capable of violence. If anything, violence is more likely to be done against
him.
I know my boy.”
    “Do you?” asked Jane. She opened the file she’d brought into the room and pulled out a photo, which she slapped down in front of him. He stared at the grotesque image of the
tsantsa,
its eyelids stitched shut, its lips pierced by braided threads.
    “You do know what this thing is called, don’t you, Mr. Rose?” she asked.
    He said nothing. Through the closed door they could hear phones ringing and detectives’ voices in the homicide unit, but in Marquette’s office, the silence stretched on.
    “I’m sure you’ve seen one of these before,” said Jane. “A well-traveled archaeology buff like you has certainly been to South America.”
    “It’s a
tsantsa,
” he finally said.
    “Very good. Your son would know that, too, wouldn’t he? Since I assume he’s traveled all over the world with you.”
    “And that’s all you got against him? That my son is an archaeologist?” He snorted. “You’ll have to do better than that in a courtroom.”
    “What about the woman he stalked? Medea Sommer filed a complaint against him in Indio.”
    “So what? She dropped those charges.”
    “And tell us about that private treatment program he attended in Maine. The Hilzbrich Institute. I understand they specialize in a certain class of troubled young men.”
    He stared at her. “How the hell did you—”
    “I’m not an imbecile, either. I ask questions, too. I hear the institute was very exclusive, very specialized. Very discreet. I guess it had to be, considering the clientele. So tell me, did the program work for Bradley? Or did it just introduce him to some equally perverted friends?”
    He looked at Marquette. “I want her off this case or you’re gonna hear from my lawyers.”
    “Friends like Jimmy Otto,” continued Jane. “You do remember the name Jimmy Otto?”
    Kimball ignored her and kept his attention on Marquette. “Do I have to go to your police commissioner? ’Cause I’ll do that. I’ll do whatever it takes, bring in everyone I know. Lieutenant?”
    Marquette was silent for a moment. A long moment during which Jane came to appreciate just how overwhelming Kimball Rose could be—not just his physical presence, but his unstated power. She understood the pressure Marquette was under, and she braced herself for the outcome.
    But Marquette did not disappoint her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” he said. “Detective Rizzoli is the lead investigator and she calls the shots.”
    Kimball glared at him, as though unable to believe that two mere public servants would defy him. Flushing dangerously red, he turned to Jane. “Because of
your
investigation, my wife is in the hospital. Three days after you came asking about Bradley, she collapsed. I had her flown here yesterday, to Dana-Farber hospital. She may not survive this, and I blame you. I will be watching you, Detective. You won’t be able to turn over a single rock without my knowing about it.”
    “That’s probably where I’ll find Bradley,” said Jane. “Under a rock.”
    He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
    “That,” said Marquette, “was not a smart thing to say.”
    She sighed and picked up the photo from his desk. “I know,” she admitted.
    “How certain are you that Bradley Rose is our man?”
    “Ninety-nine percent.”
    “You’d better be ninety-nine point nine percent certain. Because you just saw who we’re dealing with. Now his wife’s in the hospital and he’s gone ballistic. He has the money—and the connections—to permanently make our lives miserable.”
    “Then