Tess Gerritsen by Jane Rizzoli - Maura Isles 06 - The Mephisto Club

Author:Jane Rizzoli - Maura Isles 06 - The Mephisto Club
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2006-12-24T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

Joyce O’Donnell’s porch light was on, but no one answered the door.

Sansone tried the knob. “It’s locked,” he said, and took out his cell phone. “Let me try calling her one more time.”

As he dialed, Maura backed away from the porch and stood on the walkway, gazing up at O’Donnell’s house, at a second-floor window that cast its cheery glow into the night. Faintly, she heard a phone ringing inside. Then, once again, silence.

Sansone disconnected. “Her answering machine picked up.”

“I think it’s time to call Rizzoli.”

“Not yet.” He produced a flashlight and headed along the shoveled walkway toward the side of the house.

“Where are you going?”

He continued toward the driveway, black coat melting into the shadows. The beam of his light skimmed across flagstones and disappeared around the corner.

She stood alone in the front yard, listening to the rattle of dead leaves in the branches above her. “Sansone?” she called out. He didn’t answer. She heard only the pounding of her own heart. She followed him around the corner of the house. There she halted in the deserted driveway, the shadow of the garage looming before her. She started to call his name again, but something silenced her: the creeping awareness of another presence watching her, tracking her. She turned and quickly scanned the street. She saw a scrap of windblown paper tumble down the road like a fluttering wraith.

A hand closed around her arm.

Gasping, she stumbled away. She found herself staring at Sansone, who had silently materialized right behind her.

“Her car’s still in the garage,” he said.

“Then where is she?”

“I’m going around to the back.”

This time she did not let him leave her sight, but followed right at his heels as he moved through the side yard, tramping through deep and unbroken snow alongside the garage. By the time they emerged in the backyard, her trousers were soaked, and melted snow had seeped into her shoes, chilling her feet. His flashlight beam skittered across shrubs and deck chairs, all covered in a velvety blanket of white. No footprints, no disturbed snow. A vine-covered wall enclosed the yard, a private space completely hidden from the neighbors. And she was here alone, with a man she scarcely knew.

But he was not focused on her. His attention was on the kitchen door, which he could not get open. For a moment he stared at it, debating his next move. Then he looked at Maura.

“You know Detective Rizzoli’s number?” he asked. “Call her.”

She pulled out her cell phone and moved toward the kitchen window for more light. She was about to dial when her gaze suddenly focused on the kitchen sink, just inside the window.

“Sansone,” she whispered.

“What?”

“There’s blood—near the drain.”

He took one glance, and his next move shocked her. He grabbed one of the deck chairs and hurled it against the window. Glass shattered, shards exploding into the kitchen. He scrambled inside, and seconds later the door swung open.

“There’s blood down here on the floor, too,” he said.

She looked down at smears of red on the cream tiles.

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