The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

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    Peter said, “Who the hell would send you something like this? It’s sick.”
    “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.
    “Have you gotten stuff like this before?”
    “No.”
    “Then why are the police involved?”
    “Please
stop
, Peter. I don’t want to discuss it!”
    A pause. “You mean you don’t want to discuss it with me.”
    “Not now. Not tonight.”
    “But you will talk about it with the police?”
    “Dr. Falco,” said Moore, “it really would be better if you left now.”
    “Catherine? What do you want?”
    She heard the hurt in his voice, but she did not turn to look at him. “I’d like you to go. Please.”
    He didn’t answer. Only when the door closed did she know Peter had left.
    A long silence passed.
    “You haven’t told him about Savannah?” asked Moore.
    “No. I could never bring myself to tell him.”
Rape is a subject too intimate, too shameful, to talk about. Even with someone who cares about you.
    She asked: “Who is the woman in the picture?”
    “I was hoping you could tell me.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t know who sent it, either.”
    The chair creaked as he stood up. She felt his hand on her shoulder, his warmth penetrating the green silk. She had not changed clothes and was still dressed up, glossied up for the evening. The whole idea of stepping out on the town now struck her as pitiful. What had she been thinking? That she could go back to being like everyone else? That she could be whole again?
    “Catherine,” he said. “You need to talk to me about this photo.”
    His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware that he’d called her by her first name. He was standing close enough for her to feel his breath warm her hair, yet she did not feel threatened. Any other man’s touch would have seemed like an invasion, but Moore’s was genuinely comforting.
    She nodded. “I’ll try.”
    He pulled up another chair and they both sat down in front of the computer. She forced herself to focus on the photograph.
    The woman had curly hair, splayed out like corkscrews on the pillow. Her lips were sealed beneath a silvery strip of duct tape, but her eyes were open and aware, the retinas reflecting bloodred in the camera’s flash. The photograph showed her from the waist up. She was bound to the bed, and she was nude.
    “Do you recognize her?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “Is there anything about this photo that strikes you as familiar? The room, the furniture?”
    “No. But . . .”
    “What?”
    “He did it to me, too,” she whispered. “Andrew Capra took photos of me. Tied to my bed . . .” She swallowed, humiliation washing over her, as though it were her own body so intimately exposed to Moore’s gaze. She found herself crossing her arms over her chest, to shield her breasts from further violation.
    “This file was transmitted at seven fifty-five P.M. And the sender’s name, SavvyDoc—do you recognize it?”
    “No.” She focused again on the woman, who stared back with bright red pupils. “She’s awake. She knows what he’s about to do. He waits for that. He
wants
you to be awake, to feel the pain. You have to be awake, or he won’t enjoy it. . . .” Although she was talking about Andrew Capra, she had somehow slipped into the present tense, as though Capra were still alive.
    “How would he know your e-mail address?”
    “I don’t even know who
he
is.”
    “He sent this to
you
, Catherine. He knows what happened to you in Savannah. Is there anyone you can think of who might do this?”
    Only one, she thought. But he’s dead. Andrew Capra is dead.
    Moore’s cell phone rang. She almost jumped out of her chair. “Jesus,” she said, her heart pounding, and sank back again.
    He flipped open the phone. “Yes, I’m with her now. . . .” He listened for a moment and suddenly looked at Catherine. The way he was staring alarmed her.
    “What is it?” asked Catherine.
    “It’s Detective Rizzoli. She says she traced the source of the e-mail.”
    “Who sent it?”
    “You did.”
    He might as well have slapped her in the face. She could only shake her head, too shocked to respond.
    “The name ‘SavvyDoc’ was created this evening, using
your
America Online account,” he said.
    “But I keep two separate accounts. One is for my personal use—”
    “And the other?”
    “For my office staff, to use during . . .” She paused. “The office. He used the computer in my
office
.”
    Moore