The Sinner: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

belong in this picture,” she said.
    “Dr. Isles?”
    “There’s a logical reason why Howard Redfield was killed. He may be a whistle-blower in an SEC investigation. The evidence of torture tells us his death wasn’t just a case of robbery gone wrong. The killer wanted something from him. Retribution, maybe. Or information. But how does our Jane Doe—most likely an illegal immigrant—fit in? Why would anyone want her dead?”
    “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dean looked at Rizzoli. “I understand you have a case which may tie into this as well.”
    His gaze seemed to rattle her. She gave a nervous shake of the head. “It’s another one that seems completely unrelated.”
    “Detective Crowe told me that two nuns were attacked in their convent,” said Dean. “In Jamaica Plain.”
    “But that perp didn’t use a firearm. The nuns were bludgeoned, we think with a hammer. It looked like a rage attack. Some wacko who hates women.”
    “Maybe that’s what he wanted you to think. To hide any connection to these other homicides.”
    “Yeah, well, it worked. Until Dr. Isles came up with Jane Doe’s diagnosis of leprosy. It turns out one of the nuns who was attacked, Sister Ursula, used to work in a leper village, in India.”
    “A village that no longer exists,” Maura said.
    Dean looked at her. “What?”
    “It may have been a religious massacre. Nearly a hundred people were slaughtered, and the village was burned to the ground.” She paused. “Sister Ursula is the only one from that village who survived.”
    She had never seen Gabriel Dean look so taken aback. Usually, Dean was the one who held the secrets and doled out the revelations. This new information temporarily stunned him into silence.
    She hit him with another one. “I believe our Jane Doe may have been from that same village in India.”
    “You told me earlier you thought she was Hispanic,” said Crowe.
    “It was only a guess, based on her skin pigmentation.”
    “So are you changing the guess to make it fit the circumstances?”
    “No, I’m changing it because of what we found at autopsy. Remember that strand of yellow thread adhering to her wrist?”
    “Yeah. Hair and Fiber said it was cotton. Probably just a piece of string.”
    “Wearing a loop of string around your wrist is supposed to ward off the evil eye. It’s a Hindu custom.”
    “India again,” said Dean.
    Maura nodded. “It does keep going back to India.”
    “A nun and an illegal immigrant with leprosy?” said Crowe. “How do we link them to a corporate hit?” He shook his head. “Professionals don’t get hired unless someone has a lot to gain.”
    “Or a lot to lose,” said Maura.
    “If these are all contract killings,” said Dean, “you can be sure of one thing. That the progress of your investigations will be tracked very carefully. You need to control any and all information about these cases. Because someone’s watching everything Boston P.D. is doing.”
    Watching me too, thought Maura, chilled at the thought. And she was so visible. At crime scenes, on the TV news. Walking to her car. She was accustomed to being in the eye of the media, but now she considered the other eyes that might be watching her. Tracking her. And she remembered what she had felt in the darkness at Mama Cortina’s: the prey’s cold sense of dread when it suddenly realizes it is being stalked.
    Dean said, “I need to see that other death scene. The convent, where the nuns were attacked.” He looked at Rizzoli. “Could you take me through it?”
    For a moment, Rizzoli did not respond. She sat unmoving, her gaze fixed on the death photo of Howard Redfield, curled in the trunk of his car.
    “Jane?”
    She took a breath and sat up straight, as though she’d suddenly found some new well of courage. Of fortitude.
    “Let’s go,” she said, and rose to her feet. She looked at Dean. “I guess we’re a team again.”

F IFTEEN
     
    I CAN DEAL WITH THIS . I can deal with him
.
    Rizzoli drove to Jamaica Plain with her eyes on the road, but her mind on Gabriel Dean. Without warning, he had stepped back into her life, and she was still too stunned to make sense of what she was now feeling. Her stomach was knotted, her hands numb. Only a day ago, she had thought that she was over the worst of missing him, that with a little time and a lot of distraction she could put their affair behind her. Out of sight, out of mind.
    Now he was back in her sight, and very much on her