“What?”

They stared at each other for a moment. The night air was not unpleasant, and the grass smelled cool and sweet. But dread was thick as nausea in her stomach.

“I know what she’s feeling,” she said softly. “I know what she’s going through.”

“Mrs. Yeager?”

“You have to find her. You have to pull out all the stops.”

“Her face is all over the news. We’re following up every phone tip, every sighting.” Korsak shook his head and sighed. “But you know, at this point, I gotta wonder if he’s kept her alive.”

“He has. I know he has.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She hugged herself to quell the trembling and looked at the house. “It’s what Warren Hoyt would have done.”

THREE

Of all her duties as a detective in Boston’s homicide unit, it was the visits to the unobtrusive brick building on Albany Street that Rizzoli disliked most. Though she suspected she was no more squeamish than her male colleagues, she in particular could not afford to reveal any vulnerability. Men were too good at spotting weaknesses, and they would inevitably aim for those tender places with their barbs and their practical jokes. She had learned to maintain a stoic front, to gaze without flinching upon the worst the autopsy table had to offer. No one suspected how much sheer nerve it took for her to walk so matter-of-factly into that building. She knew the men thought of her as the fearless Jane Rizzoli, the bitch with the brass balls. But sitting in her car in the parking lot behind the M.E.‘s office, she felt neither fearless nor brassy.

Last night, she had not slept well. For the first time in weeks, Warren Hoyt had crept back into her dreams, and she had awakened drenched in sweat, her hands aching from the old wounds.

She looked down at her scarred palms and suddenly wanted to start the car and drive away, anything to avoid the ordeal that awaited her inside the building. She did not have to be here; this was, after all, a Newton homicide-not her responsibility. But Jane Rizzoli had never been a coward, and she was too proud to back down now.

She stepped out of the car, slammed the door shut with a fierce bang, and walked into the building.

She was the last to arrive in the autopsy lab, and the other three people in the room gave her quick nods of greeting. Korsak was draped in an extra-large O.R. gown and wearing a bouffant paper cap. He looked like an overweight housewife in a hairnet.

“What have I missed?” she asked as she, too, pulled on a gown to protect her clothes from unexpected splatter.

“Not much. We’re just talking about the duct tape.”

Dr. Maura Isles was performing the autopsy. The Queen of the Dead was what the homicide unit had dubbed her a year ago, when she’d first joined the Commonwealth of Massachusetts medical examiner’s office. Dr. Tierney himself had lured her to Boston from her plum faculty position at the U.C. San Francisco Medical School. It did not take long for the local press to start calling her by her Queen of the Dead nickname as well. At her first Boston court appearance, testifying for the M.E.‘s office, she had arrived dressed in Goth black. The TV cameras had followed her regal figure as she strode up the courthouse steps, a strikingly pale woman with a slash of red lipstick, shoulder-length raven hair with blunt bangs, and an attitude of cool imperviousness. On the stand, nothing had rattled her. As the defense attorney flirted, cajoled, and finally resorted in desperation to outright bullying, Dr. Isles had answered his questions with unfailing logic, all the while maintaining her Mona Lisa smile. The press loved her. Defense attorneys dreaded her. And homicide cops were both spooked and fascinated by this woman who’d chosen to spend her days in communion with the dead.

Dr. Isles presided over the autopsy with her usual dispassion. Her assistant, Yoshima, was equally matter-of-fact as he quietly set up instruments and angled lights. They both regarded the body of Richard Yeager with the cool gaze of scientists.

Rigor mortis had faded since Rizzoli had seen the body yesterday, and Dr. Yeager now lay flaccid. The duct tape had been cut away, the boxer shorts removed, and most of the blood rinsed from his skin. He lay with arms limp at his sides, both hands swollen and purplish, like bruise-colored gloves, from the combination of tight bindings and livor mortis. But it was the slash wound across his neck that everyone now focused on.

“Coup de grâce,” said Isles. With a ruler she measured the dimensions of the wound. “Fourteen centimeters.”

“Weird, how it doesn’t seem all that deep,” said Korsak.

“That’s because the cut was made along Langer’s Lines. Skin tension pulls the edges back together so it hardly gapes. It’s deeper than it looks.”

“Tongue depressor?” said Yoshima.

“Thanks.” Isles took it from him and gently slipped the rounded wooden edge into the wound, murmuring under her breath: “Say ah…”

“What the hell?” said Korsak.

“I’m measuring wound depth. Nearly five centimeters.”

Now Isles pulled a magnifier over the wound and peered into the meat-red slash. “The left carotid artery and the left jugular have both been transected. The trachea has also been incised. The level of tracheal penetration, just below the thyroid cartilage, suggests to me that the neck was extended first, before the slash was made.” She glanced up at the two detectives. “Your unknown subject pulled the victim’s head back, and then made a very deliberate incision.”

“An execution,” said Korsak.

Rizzoli remembered how the Crimescope had picked up the glow of hairs adhering to the blood-spattered wall. Dr. Yeager’s hairs, torn from his scalp as the blade cut into his skin.

“What kind of blade?” she asked.

Isles did not immediately respond to the question. Instead, she turned to Yoshima and said, “Sticky tape.”

“I’ve already got the strips laid out here.”

“I’ll approximate the margins. You apply the tape.”

Korsak gave a startled laugh as he realized what they were doing. “You’re taping him back together?”

Isles shot him a glance of dry amusement. “You prefer Super Glue?”

“That supposed to hold his head on, or what?”

“Come on, Detective. Sticky tape wouldn’t hold even your head on.” She looked down through the magnifier and nodded. “That’s fine, Yoshima. I can see it now.”

“See what?” said Korsak.

“The wonders of Scotch tape. Detective Rizzoli, you asked me what kind of blade he used.”

“Please tell me it’s not a scalpel.”

“No, it’s not a scalpel. Take a look.”

Rizzoli stepped toward the magnifier and peered at the wound. The incised edges had been pulled together by the transparent tape, and what she now saw was a clearer approximation of the weapon’s cross-sectional shape. There were parallel striations along one edge of the incision.

“A serrated blade,” she said.

“At first glance, it does appear that way.”

Rizzoli looked up and met Isles’s quietly challenging gaze. “But it’s not?”

“The cutting edge itself is not serrated, because the other edge of the incision is absolutely smooth. And notice how these parallel scratches appear along only one-third of the incision? Not the entire length. Those scratch marks were made as the blade was being withdrawn. The killer started his incision under the left jaw, and sliced toward the front of the throat, ending the incision just on the far side of the tracheal ring. The scratch marks appear as he’s ending his cut, and slightly twisting the blade as he withdraws.”

“So what made those scratches?”

“It’s not from the cutting edge. This weapon has serrations on the back edge, and they made the parallel scratches as the weapon was pulled out.” Isles looked at Rizzoli. “This is typical of a Rambo or survival-type knife. Something a hunter might use.”