“But why did he choose Josephine? That’s the question I keep coming back to. Of all the Egyptologists he could have hired, all the freshly minted PhDs who must have applied, why was she hired?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the choice, but I saw no point in arguing because I had the impression that he’d already made up his mind, and there was nothing I could do to change it.” Robinson sighed and looked out the window. “And then I met her,” he said softly. “And I realized there was no one else I’d rather work with. No one else I’d rather…” He fell silent.
On that street of modest homes, the sound of traffic was constant, yet this living room seemed to be a trapped in a different and more genteel era, a time when a rumpled eccentric like Nicholas Robinson might contentedly grow old while surrounded by his books and maps. But he had fallen in love, and there was no contentment in his face, only anguish.
“She’s alive,” he said. “I need to believe that.” He looked at Jane. “ Youbelieve it, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. She looked away before he could read the rest of the answer in her eyes. But I don’t know if we can save her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
That evening, Maura dined alone.
She had planned a romantic dinner for two, and a day earlier she had cruised the grocery store aisles gathering Meyer lemons and parsley, veal shanks and garlic, all the ingredients she needed to make Daniel’s favorite, osso buco. But the best-laid plans of illicit lovers can crumble in an instant with a single phone call. Only hours ago, Daniel had apologetically delivered the news that he was expected to dine that night with visiting bishops from New York. The call had ended as it so often did. I’m sorry, Maura. I love you, Maura. I wish I could get out of this.
But he never could.
Now those veal shanks were stored in her freezer, and instead of osso buco, she was resigned to dining alone on a grilled cheese sandwich and a stiff gin and tonic.
She imagined where Daniel was at that moment. She pictured a table with men dressed in somber black, the preliminary bowing of heads, the murmured blessing over the food. The subdued clink of silverware and china as they discussed matters of importance to the church: declining seminary enrollments, the graying of the priesthood. Every profession conducted its own business dinners, yet when theirs was finished, these men would not go home to wives and families, but to their lonely beds. She wondered: As you sip your wine, as you look around the table at your colleagues, are you troubled at all by the absence of women’s faces, women’s voices?
Are you thinking at all of me?
She pressed the cheese sandwich onto the hot skillet and watched as butter sizzled, as the bread crisped. Like scrambled eggs, a grilled cheese sandwich was one of her meals of last resort, and the scent of browning butter brought back all the exhausted nights she’d known as a medical student. It was also the scent of those wounded evenings after her divorce, when planning a meal took more effort than she could muster. The smell of a grilled cheese sandwich was the scent of defeat.
Outside, darkness was falling, mercifully cloaking the neglected vegetable garden that she had planted so optimistically in the spring. Now it was a jungle of weeds and bolting lettuce and unpicked peapods that hung dry and leathery on tangled vines. Someday, she thought, I’ll follow through. I’ll keep it weeded and neat. But this summer’s garden was a waste, yet another victim of too many demands and too many distractions.
Daniel, most of all.
In the window, she saw herself reflected in the glass, her lips downturned, her eyes tired and pinched. That unhappy image was as startling as a stranger’s face. In ten years, twenty years, would the same woman still be staring back at her?
The pan was smoking, the bread starting to burn black. She turned off the burner and opened the window to air out the smoke, then carried her sandwich to the kitchen table. Gin and cheese, she thought as she refilled her drink. All the necessary food groups for a melancholy woman. As she sipped, she sorted through the mail she’d brought in that evening, setting aside unwanted catalogs for the recycling bin and stacking together the bills that she’d pay this weekend.
She paused at an envelope with her typewritten name and address. It had no return address. She slit it open and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Instantly she dropped the page as though scalded.
Printed in ink were the same two words she had seen painted in blood on the door in the Crispin Museum.
FIND ME
She shot to her feet, knocking over the glass of gin and tonic. Ice cubes clattered onto the floor but she ignored them and crossed straight to the phone.
Within three rings, her call was answered by a brisk voice. “Rizzoli.”
“Jane, I think he wrote me!”
“What?”
“It just came in my mail. It’s a single sheet of paper-”
“Slow down. I’m having trouble hearing you in this traffic.”
Maura paused to collect her nerves and managed to say, more calmly: “The envelope is addressed to me. Inside there’s a sheet of paper with only two words: Find me. ” She drew a breath and said, quietly: “It has to be him.”
“Is there anything else written on that page? Anything at all?”
Maura turned the page over and frowned. “There are two numbers on the other side.”
Over the phone, she heard a car honk, and Jane muttered an oath. “Look, I’m stuck on Columbus Avenue right now. You’re at home?”
“Yes.”
“I’m heading right there. Is your computer on?”
“No. Why?”
“Turn it on. I need you to check something for me. I think I know what those numbers are.”
“Hold on.” Carrying the phone and the note, Maura hurried down the hall to her office. “I’m booting up right now,” she said as the monitor flickered on and the hard drive hummed to life. “Tell me about these numbers,” she said. “What are they?”
“I’m guessing they’re geographic coordinates.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Josephine told us she got a note just like yours with numbers that turned out to be the coordinates for Blue Hills Reservation.”
“That’s why she went hiking there that day?”
“The killer sent her there.”
The hard drive had stopped spinning. “Okay. I’m booted up. What do you want me to do?”
“Go to Google Earth. Type in those numbers for latitude and longitude.”
Maura looked at the note again, suddenly struck by the significance of the words Find me. “Oh God,” she murmured. “He’s telling us where to find her body.”
“I hope to hell you’re wrong. Have you typed in those numbers?”
“I’ll do it now.” Maura set down the receiver and began tapping on the keyboard, entering the numbers for latitude and longitude. On the screen, the global map began to shift, moving toward the coordinates she’d specified. She picked up the receiver and said, “It’s starting to zoom in.”
“What’s it showing?”
“Northeastern U.S. It’s Massachusetts…”
“Boston?”
“It looks like-no, wait…” Maura stared as the details sharpened. Her throat suddenly went dry. “It’s in Newton,” she said softly.
“Where in Newton?”
Maura reached for the mouse. With each new click the image was magnified. She saw streets, trees. Individual rooftops. Suddenly she realized which neighborhood she was looking at, and a chill raised every hair on the back of her neck. “It’s my house,” she whispered.
“What?”
“These coordinates are for my house. ”
“Jesus. Listen to me! I’m going to get a cruiser right over there. Is your house secure? I want you to check all your doors. Go, go!”
Maura sprang from her chair and ran to the front door. It was locked. She ran to the garage door-also locked. She turned toward the kitchen and suddenly froze.