Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Doyle’s was a favorite Boston PD haunt, and on any evening, the bar was usually packed with off-duty cops. But at three P.M. , only a lone woman was perched at the counter, sipping a glass of white wine as ESPN flickered on the overhead TV. Jane walked straight through the bar and headed into the adjoining dining area, where memorabilia of Boston’s Irish heritage adorned the walls. Newspaper clippings about the Kennedys and Tip O’Neill and Boston’s finest had hung here so long that they were now brittle with age, and the Irish flag displayed above one booth had acquired the dirty tinge of nicotine yellow. In this lull between lunch and dinner, only two booths were occupied. In one sat a middle-aged couple, clearly tourists, judging by the Boston map spread out between them. Jane walked past the couple and continued to the corner booth, where Moore and Gabriel were sitting.
    She slipped in beside her husband and looked down at the file folder lying on the table. “What do you have to show me?”
    Moore didn’t answer, but glanced up with an automatic smile as the waitress approached.
    “Hey, Detective Rizzoli. You’re all skinny again,” the waitress said.
    “Not as skinny as I’d like to be.”
    “I heard you had a baby girl.”
    “She’s keeping us up all night. This may be my only chance to eat in peace.”
    The waitress laughed as she took out her order pad. “Then let’s feed you.”
    “Actually, I’d just like some coffee and your apple crisp.”
    “Good choice.” The waitress glanced at the men. “How ‘bout you fellas?”
    “More coffee, that’s all,” said Moore. “We’re just going to sit here and watch her eat.”
    They maintained their silence while their cups were refilled. Only after the waitress had delivered the apple crisp and walked away did Moore finally slide the folder across to Jane.
    Inside was a sheet of digital photos. She immediately recognized them as micrographs of a spent cartridge case, showing the patterns left by the firing pin hitting the primer, and by the backward thrust of the cartridge against the breechblock.
    “This is from the hospital shooting?”she asked.
    Moore nodded. “That cartridge came from the weapon that John Doe carried into Olena’s room. The weapon she used to kill him. Ballistics ran it through the IBIS database, and they got back a hit, from ATF. A multiple shooting in Ashburn, Virginia.”
    She turned to the next set of photos. It was another series of cartridge micrographs. “They’re a match?”
    “Identical firing pin impressions. Two different cartridges found at two different death scenes. They were both ejected from the same weapon.”
    “And now we have that weapon.”
    “Actually, we don’t.”
    She looked at Moore. “It should have been found with Olena’s body. She was the last one to have it.”
    “It wasn’t at the takedown scene.”
    “But we processed that room, didn’t we?”
    “There were no weapons at all left at the scene. The federal takedown team confiscated all ballistics evidence when they left. The took the weapons, Joe’s knapsack, even the cartridges. By the time Boston PD got in there, it was all gone.”
    “They cleaned up a death scene? What’s Boston PD going to do about this?”
    “Apparently,” said Moore, “there’s not a thing we can do. The feds are calling it a matter of national security, and they don’t want information leaks.”
    “They don’t trust Boston PD?”
    “No one trusts anybody. We’re not the only ones being shut out. Agent Barsanti wanted that ballistics evidence as well, and he was none too happy when he found out the special ops team took it. This has turned into federal agency versus federal agency. Boston PD’s just a mouse watching two elephants battle it out.”
    Jane’s gaze returned to the photomicrographs. “You said this matching cartridge came from a crime scene in Ashburn. Just before the takedown, Joseph Roke tried to tell us about something that happened in Ashburn.”
    “Mr. Roke may very well have been talking about this.” Moore reached into his briefcase and pulled out another folder, which he set on the table. “I received it this morning, from Leesburg PD. Ashburn’s just a small town. It was Leesburg who worked the case.”
    “It’s not pleasant viewing, Jane,” said Gabriel.
    His warning was unexpected. Together they had witnessed the worst the autopsy room could offer, and she’d never seen him flinch. If this case has