The Silent Girl

Frankie?” came an equally irritated retort. “Listen, Rizzoli, I’ve had enough of this Red Phoenix crap and I want you to make it stop.” There was no mistaking Kevin Donohue’s gravelly voice. Or his delightful vocabulary.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Donohue,” she said.
    “I got another one this afternoon. This time they shoved it under my windshield wiper. Can you believe they had the nerve to touch my
fucking car
?”
    “You got another what?”
    “Another copy of Joey’s obituary.
Enjoyed basketball and target shooting, survived by his loving mother and sister
, blah blah blah. And there’s a message on the back.”
    “What does it say?”
    “It’s coming for you.”
    “And you think it’s worth taking seriously?”
    “Two people have been chopped up by some freak monkey creature, and you think I shouldn’t take this seriously?”
    She said, evenly: “What monkey creature are you talking about?”
    “What, I’m not supposed to know about that?”
    “That information isn’t public.”
    “I ain’t
the public
, okay? I’m a taxpaying citizen whose life is being threatened.”
    He has a channel into our investigation, she thought. He’s found a way into Boston PD. It shouldn’t surprise her. A man as powerful as Donohue could buy eyes and ears everywhere, including City Hall and Schroeder Plaza.
    “Do your job, Detective,” said Donohue. “You’re supposed to serve and protect, remember?”
    Too bad that includes protecting garbage like you
. She took a breath and managed to sound civil. “I’ll need to examine the latest note. Where are you right now?”
    “I’m at my warehouse on Jeffries Point. I’m not gonna wait around long, so get here soon.”

D ARKNESS HAD FALLEN WHEN JANE DROVE THROUGH THE OPEN gate of Donohue Wholesale Meats and parked between a BMW and a silver Mercedes. Mobsters did seem to like their flashy imports. As she climbed out, she heard the roar of a jet taking off from nearby Logan Airport; she looked up to watch as it banked and headed south. She thought of Florida beaches and rum punches and palm trees. How nice it would be to take a sunny vacation from murder.
    “Detective Rizzoli.”
    Turning, she recognized one of the burly bodyguards she’d met at Donohue’s residence a few days ago. Sean was his name.
    “He’s waiting inside,” Sean said, and eyed her holstered weapon. “First, you’re gonna have to hand that over.”
    “Mr. Donohue didn’t mind me carrying the other day.”
    “Yeah, well, he’s a lot more nervous now. On account of that message on his windshield.” He held out his hand.
    “I don’t surrender my weapon to anyone. So you tell Mr. Donohue he can come see me at police headquarters. I’ll be happy to talk to him there.” She turned toward her car.
    “Okay, okay,” the man relented. “But just so you know, I’ll be watching you like a hawk.”
    “Yeah. Whatever.”
    She followed him into the warehouse, and as the insulated door thudded shut behind her, she suddenly wished she’d brought a heavier jacket. It was freezing inside, a windowless cavern that was so cold she could see her own breath swirl. Sean led her through a curtain of slitted plastic, into the refrigerated area beyond. From ceiling hooks hung enormous sides of beef, row upon row of them, a forest of suspended corpses. The chill mist stank of blood and slaughtered flesh, a smell she feared would cling to her hair and clothes long after she left this place. They walked through that forest of hanging meat to an office at the rear of the building, and her escort knocked on the door.
    It swung open and she recognized the second bodyguard, who waved her in. Jane walked into the windowless room, and the door gave a solid thud as it closed behind her. She was trapped in a fortress within a meat locker, guarded by armed thugs, yet she felt less nervous about the situation than her host appeared to be. This was what it meant to be a prince of the Irish mob, permanently afflicted by paranoia and fear. Wielding power meant always dreading the moment when you’d lose it.
    Kevin Donohue looked more bloated than before, sitting behind his desk, his sausage-like fingers resting on the ziplock bag containing the latest message. He held up the bag. “Unfortunately,” he said, “my brilliant associates here got their fingerprints all over it before they showed it to me.”
    “These notes never have any fingerprints,” she said, taking