The Silent Girl

of a bullet.”
    “Can’t be all that small if you’re bringing in outside people to mop up now.”
    “What?”
    Jane glanced at Donohue’s two bodyguards. “I’m going to reach into my pocket for some pictures, okay? Don’t freak out, boys.” She pulled out two morgue photos and slid them across the coffee table toward Donohue. “Your hired help just can’t keep their heads on straight.”
    Donohue stared. Of all the morgue photos Jane could have brought, she’d chosen the two that were most graphically grotesque. Jane Doe with her slashed throat gaping open. John Doe’s severed head lying beside his torso on the autopsy table. The images had their desired effect: Donohue’s face had turned as pasty as the corpses.
    “Why the fuck are you showing me this?” he demanded.
    “Why did you hire these two killers?”
    The lawyer cut in. “This conversation has come to an end. Sean, Colin. Escort Detective Rizzoli out of the house.”
    “Shut up,” said Donohue.
    “Mr. Donohue, it’s not in your best interests to—”
    “I’m gonna answer her question, okay?” Donohue looked at Jane. “I didn’t hire ’em. I don’t even know who that woman is.” He eyed Jane Doe’s morgue photo with new interest and grunted. “Nice-looking gal. What a waste.”
    “And the man? Do you recognize him?”
    “Maybe. Looks a little familiar. What do you think, Sean?”
    His man Sean eyed the photo. “I think I seen him around. Don’t know his name, but he’s local. Ukrainian or Russian.”
    Donohue shook his head. “Bad news, those boys. Completely lacking any moral conscience. I can tell you, this guy never worked for me.” He looked up at Jane. “Now I guess he never will.”
    “Why don’t I believe you?” she said.
    “Because you’ve already decided I’m guilty. Even though I’ll swear on my mother’s Bible that I didn’t hire these two.” After the initial shock of seeing the morgue photos, his color and his cockiness had returned. “So you might wanna think of backing off.”
    “Are you threatening me, Mr. Donohue?”
    “You’re a smart girl. What do you think?”
    “I think you’re scared. I think you know you’re cornered.”
    “By you?” He laughed. “
You
are the least of my worries.”
    “You called me a bulldog, remember? Well, I’m going to keep on digging in your backyard because that’s where I’ll find Joey Gilmore’s bones.”
    “Come on. The cook killed those people and pulled a chuck. Everyone knows it was suicide, but Joey’s old hag of a mother just can’t let it go. That’s why she sent me that fucking note.”
    Jane went very still. “You got one?”
    “Few weeks ago, got a copy of Joey’s obit. Plus some stupid message that she wrote on the back.
I know what really happened
. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    “If Mrs. Gilmore is the reason you’re investigating Mr. Donohue,” said the attorney, “don’t waste your time.”
    “How do you know Mary Gilmore’s sending these notes?” Jane asked. “Did she sign yours? Was there a return address?”
    The attorney frowned as he suddenly registered what Jane had said. “Notes, as in plural? Are you saying she’s sent more than one?”
    “There have been others. Mailings sent to all the family members of the Red Phoenix victims. The notes are similar to what Mr. Donohue received.”
    The attorney looked confused. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would Mrs. Gilmore harass other people with these mailings?”
    “Maybe she’s not the one sending them,” said Jane.
    The attorney and Donohue looked at each other. “We need to rethink this,” said the attorney. “Obviously, something else is going on. If Mary Gilmore isn’t doing this …”
    Donohue’s fingers rolled into two plump fists. “I want to know who the hell is.”

M AURA AWAKENED JUST AFTER DAWN, AND WAS HAPPY TO SEE that the sun was shining. She’d cook pancakes and sausages for the boy, and then they’d set off to tour Boston. First on the schedule was the Freedom Trail and the North End, then they’d go for a picnic and a run with the dog at Blue Hills Reservation. She’d planned a day packed with so many activities that there would be little time for awkward silences, for all the reminders that they were still very much strangers. Six months ago, in the Wyoming mountains, she had trusted Julian “Rat” Perkins with her life. Now she had to acknowledge that this hulking teenager with the enormous feet was