The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

don’t even care about him—then seeing him now shouldn’t be all that painful. Should it?”
    “I don’t know!” was Rizzoli’s exasperated response. “I don’t know what I feel about him!”
    “Does it depend on whether he loves you?”
    “I’m sure not going to ask him.”
    “It’s one way to get a straight answer.”
    “How does that old saying go?
If you don’t want to hear the answer, then you shouldn’t ask the question?
”
    “You never know. The answer might surprise you.”
    At Schroeder Plaza, they stopped in the cafeteria to pick up coffee and carried their cups upstairs, to the conference room. While waiting for Crowe and Dean to arrive, Maura watched Rizzoli rustle through papers and search through files as though they held some secret she was desperate to uncover. At two fifteen, they finally heard the faint chime of the elevator bell, and then Crowe’s laughter in the hall. Rizzoli’s spine went rigid. As the men’s voices drew nearer, her gaze remained fixed on the papers. When Dean appeared in the doorway, she did not immediately look up, as though refusing to acknowledge his power over her.
    Maura had first met Special Agent Gabriel Dean in late August, when he had joined the homicide team investigating the slayings of wealthy couples in the Boston area. A man of imposing stature and quiet intelligence, he had quickly come to dominate that team, and his conflict with Rizzoli, the lead investigating officer, was almost guaranteed from the start. Maura had been the first to watch that conflict transform into attraction. She had noticed the first sparks of their affair, had seen their gazes meet over the bodies of victims. She had taken note of Rizzoli’s blushes, her uncertainty. The first stages of love were always fraught with confusion.
    As were the last stages of love.
    Dean came into the room, and his gaze immediately fixed on Rizzoli. He was dressed in a suit and tie, his crisp appearance a contrast to Rizzoli’s wrinkled blouse and unruly hair. When at last she looked up at him, it was almost with an air of defiance.
So here I am. Take it or leave it.
    Crowe swaggered to the head of the table. “Okay, the gang’s all here. It’s time for show and tell.” He looked at Rizzoli.
    “Let’s hear from the FBI first,” she said.
    Dean opened the briefcase he’d carried into the room. He took out a folder and slid it across the table to Rizzoli.
    “That photograph was taken ten days ago, in Providence, Rhode Island,” he said
    Rizzoli opened the folder. Maura, sitting beside her, had a full view of the photograph. It was a death scene photo, taken of a man curled into a fetal position inside the trunk of a car. Blood was splattered across the fawn-colored carpet. The face of the victim was surprisingly intact, the eyes open, the dependent skin suffused purple from lividity.
    “The victim’s name was Howard Redfield, age fifty-one, a divorced white male from Cincinnati,” said Dean. “The cause of death was a single gunshot wound, fired through the left temporal bone. In addition, he had multiple fractures of both kneecaps, administered with a blunt weapon, possibly a hammer. There were also severe burns to both hands, which were bound with duct tape behind his back.”
    “He was tortured,” said Rizzoli.
    “Yes. At great length.”
    Rizzoli swayed back in her chair, her face pale. Maura was the only person in the room who knew the reason for that pallor, and she watched her with concern. She saw the desperate battle play out on her face, saw her struggle against nausea.
    “He was found dead in the trunk of his own car,” Dean continued. “The car was parked about two blocks from the bus station in Providence. That’s only about an hour, hour-and-a-half drive from here.”
    “But a different jurisdiction,” said Crowe.
    Dean nodded. “That’s why this death didn’t come to your attention. The killer could very well have driven that car down to Providence with the victim in his trunk, left it there, and caught a bus back to Boston.”
    “
Back
to Boston? Why do you think this is where he started from?” asked Maura.
    “It’s just a guess. We don’t know where the killing actually took place. We can’t even be sure of Mr. Redfield’s movements over the last few weeks. His home is in Cincinnati, but he turns up dead in New England. He left no credit card trail, no record of where he’s been staying. We do know he withdrew a large amount of cash from