TWENTY-ONE

Everybody lies, thought Jane. But few people managed to inhabit their lies as completely and successfully as had Josephine Pulcillo.

As she and Frost drove to the hospital, she wondered what confabulations Josephine would tell them today, what new tales she’d invent to explain away the undeniable facts that they’d uncovered about her. She wondered if Frost would let himself be seduced once again by those lies.

“I think that maybe you should let me do the talking when we get there,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’d just like to handle this myself.”

He looked at her. “Any particular reason you feel the need to do it this way?”

She took her time responding because she couldn’t truthfully answer the question without widening the breach between them, a breach caused by Josephine. “I just think I should deal with her. Since my instincts about her have been pretty spot-on.”

“Instincts? Is that what you call it?”

“You trusted her. I didn’t. I was right about her, wasn’t I?”

He turned toward the window. “Or jealous of her.”

“What?” She turned into the hospital parking lot and shut off the engine. “Is that what you think?”

He sighed. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” He shoved open the car door. “Let’s go,” he said.

She stepped out of the car and slammed her door shut, wondering if there was even a thin vein of truth in what Frost had just said. Wondering if the fact that she herself was not beautiful made her resentful of how easily attractive women navigated the world. Men worshiped pretty women, catered to them, and, most important, listened to them. While the rest of us plug on as best we can. But even if she were jealous, it didn’t change the essential fact that her instincts had been right.

Josephine Pulcillo was a fraud.

She and Frost were silent as they walked into the hospital, as they rode the elevator to the surgical wing. Never before had she felt such a gulf between them. Though they were side by side, there was now a continent separating them, and she didn’t even glance at him as they headed up the hall. Grimly, Jane pushed open the door to room 216 and stepped inside.

The young woman they’d known as Josephine stared at them from the bed. In her flimsy hospital gown, she looked fetchingly vulnerable, a doe-eyed maiden in need of rescue. How the hell did she do it? Even with her unwashed hair and her leg in a clunky cast, she managed to look beautiful.

Jane didn’t waste time. She crossed straight to the bed and said, “Do you want to tell us about San Diego?”

At once, Josephine’s gaze dropped to the sheets, avoiding Jane’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You would’ve been about fourteen years old then. Old enough to remember what took place that night.”

Josephine shook her head. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

“Your name was Susan Cook at the time. You were a student at William Howard Taft Middle School and you lived with your mother, who called herself Lydia Newhouse. One morning, you both packed up and abruptly left town. That was the last time anyone heard of Susan and her mother.”

“And I suppose that’s illegal, to suddenly leave town?” Josephine retorted, her gaze at last snapping up to meet Jane’s in an act of sheer nerve.

“No. That isn’t.”

“So why are you asking me about it?”

“Because it’s very illegal to shoot a man in the back of the head.”

Josephine’s expression went as smooth as glass. “What man?” she said calmly.

“The man who died in your bedroom.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment. And Jane thought: Maybe Frost can’t see through you, but I sure as hell can.

“Have you ever heard of a chemical called luminol?” Jane asked.

Josephine shrugged. “Should I have?”

“It reacts with the iron in old blood. When you spray it on a surface, any blood residue lights up in the dark like neon. No matter how hard you clean up after someone bleeds, you can’t wash away all the traces. Even after you and your mother wiped down the walls, mopped the floors, the blood was still there, hiding in the cracks. In the baseboards.”

This time Josephine stayed silent.

“When the San Diego police searched your old house, they sprayed luminol. One bedroom lit up like crazy. It was your bedroom. So don’t tell me you know nothing about it. You must have been there. You know exactly what happened.”

Josephine had paled. “I was fourteen,” she said softly. “That was a long time ago.”

“There’s no statute of limitations for murder.”

“Murder? Is that what you think it was?”

“What happened that night?”

“It wasn’t murder.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was self-defense!”

Jane nodded in satisfaction. They’d made progress. At last she’d admitted that a man had died in her bedroom. “How did it happen?” she asked.

Josephine glanced at Detective Frost, as though seeking his support. He had been standing near the door, his expression cool and unreadable, and clearly she could expect no favors from him, no sympathy.

“It’s time to come clean,” said Jane. “Do it for Gemma Hamerton. She deserves justice, don’t you think? I’m assuming she was a friend?”

At the mention of Gemma’s name, Josephine’s eyes glazed over with tears. “Yes,” she whispered. “More than a friend.”

“You do know she’s dead?”

“Detective Abbott told me. But I already knew,” Josephine whispered. “I saw her lying on the floor.…”

“I’m guessing these two events are connected. Ms. Hamerton’s death, and that shooting in San Diego. If you want justice for your friend, you’ll answer my questions, Josephine. Or maybe you’d rather be called Susan Cook? Since that was the name you went by in San Diego.”

“My name is Josephine now.” She gave a weary sigh, all pretenses gone. “It’s the name I’ve had the longest. The one I’m used to now.”

“How many names have there been?”

“Four. No, five.” She shook her head. “I don’t even remember anymore. There was a new one every time we moved. I thought Josephine would be the last.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does. What name were you born with? You might as well tell us the truth, because I promise you, we’ll find out eventually.”

Josephine’s head drooped in surrender. “My last name was Sommer,” she said softly.

“And your first name?”

“Nefertari.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

Josephine gave a tired laugh. “My mother never made conventional choices.”

“Wasn’t that the name of some Egyptian queen?”

“Yes. The wife of Ramses the Great. Nefertari, for whom the sun doth shine.”

“What?”

“It’s something my mother used to say to me. She loved Egypt. All she talked about was going back.”

“And where is your mother now?”

“She’s dead,” Josephine said softly. “It was three years ago, in Mexico. She was hit by a car. When it happened, I was in graduate school in California, so I can’t tell you much more than that …”

Jane pulled over a chair and sat down by the bed. “But you can tell us about San Diego. What happened that night?”

Josephine sat with shoulders slumped. They had her cornered, and she knew it. “It was summertime,” she said. “A warm night. My mother always insisted we close the windows, but that night I left mine open. That’s how he broke into the house.”

“Through your bedroom window?”

“My mother heard a noise, and she came into my room. He attacked her, and she defended herself. She defended me.” She looked at Jane. “She had no choice.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I was asleep. The gunshot woke me.”

“Do you remember where your mother was standing when it happened?”

“I didn’t see it. I told you, I was asleep.”

“Then how do you know it was self-defense?”

“He was in our house, in my room. That makes it justified, doesn’t it? When someone breaks into your house, don’t you have a right to shoot him?”

“In the back of the head?”

“He turned! He knocked her down and turned. And she shot him.”

“I thought you didn’t see it.”

“That’s what she told me.”

Jane leaned back in her chair but her gaze remained fixed on the young woman. She let the minutes pass, let the silence have its effect. A silence that emphasized the fact Jane was examining every pore, every twitch in Josephine’s face.

“So now you and your mother have a dead body in your bedroom,” said Jane. “What happened next?”

Josephine took a breath. “My mother took care of everything.”

“Meaning she cleaned up the blood?”

“Yes.”

“And buried the body?”

“Yes.”

“Did she call the police?”

Josephine’s hands tightened into knots. “No,” she whispered.

“And the next morning, you left town.”

“Yes.”

“Now, that’s the part I don’t understand,” said Jane. “It seems to me your mother made a strange choice. You claim she killed that man in self-defense.”

“He broke into our house. He was in my bedroom.”

“Let’s think about that. If a man breaks into your house and attacks you, you have a right to use deadly force and defend yourself. A cop might even give you a pat on the back for it. But your mother didn’t call the police. Instead, she dragged the body out into the backyard and buried it. Cleaned up the blood, packed up her daughter, and left town. Does that make sense to you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t make any sense to me.” Jane leaned in close, an aggressive move meant to invade the young woman’s personal space. “She was your mother. She must have told you why she did it.”

“I was scared. I didn’t ask questions.”

“And she never gave you answers?”

“We ran, that’s all. I know it doesn’t make sense now, but that’s what we did. We left town in a panic. And after you do that, you can’t go to the police. You look guilty just because you ran.”

“You’re right, Josephine. Your mother does look pretty damn guilty. The man she killed was shot in the back of the head. It didn’t look like self-defense to the San Diego police. It looked like a cold-blooded murder.”

“She did it to protect me.”

“Then why didn’t she call the police? What was she running from?” Jane leaned in even closer, getting right into the woman’s face. “I want the truth, Josephine!”

The breath seemed to whoosh out of Josephine’s lungs. Shoulders sagging, she hung her head in defeat. “Prison,” she whispered. “My mother was running from prison.”

This was what they’d been waiting for. This was the explanation. Jane could see it in the young woman’s posture, could hear it in the conquered voice. Josephine knew the battle was lost, and she was finally handing over the spoils: the truth.

“What crime did she commit?” asked Jane.

“I don’t know the details. She said I was just a baby when it happened.”

“Did she steal something? Kill someone?”

“She wouldn’t talk about it. I didn’t even find out about it until that night in San Diego. When she told me why we couldn’t call the police.”

“And you just packed up and left town with her because she told you to be a good little girl?”

“What would you expect me to do?” Josephine’s head lifted, defiance in her eyes. “She was my mother and I loved her.”

“Yet she told you she committed a crime.”

“Some crimes are justified. Sometimes you have no choice. Whatever she did, she had a reason for it. My mother was a good person.”

“Who was running from the law.”

“Then the law is wrong.” She stared at Jane, refusing to concede an inch. Refusing to accept that her mother was capable of evil. Could a parent ask for a more loyal child? It might be misguided loyalty, blind loyalty, but there was something to admire here, something that Jane herself would want from her own daughter.

“So your mother dragged you from town to town, from name to name,” said Jane. “And where was your father in all this?”

“My father died in Egypt, before I was born.”

“Egypt?” Jane arched forward, her attention riveted on the young woman. “Tell me more.”

“He was from France. One of the archaeologists at the dig.” Josephine’s lips turned up in a wistful smile. “She said he was brilliant and funny. And most of all, kind. That’s what she liked most about him, his kindness. They planned to get married, but there was an awful accident. A fire.” She swallowed. “Gemma was burned as well.”

“Gemma Hamerton was with her in Egypt?”

“Yes.” At the mention of Gemma, Josephine blinked away a sudden flash of tears. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? My fault she’s dead.”

Jane looked at Frost, who appeared just as startled by this information as she was. Though he had been silent so far through the interview, now he could not resist asking a question.

“This excavation you mentioned, where your parents met. Where was it in Egypt?”

“Near Siwa Oasis. It’s in the western desert.”

“What were they looking for?”

Josephine shrugged. “They never found it.”

“It?”

“The lost army of Cambyses.”

In the silence that followed, Jane could almost hear the puzzle pieces click into place. Egypt. Cambyses. Bradley Rose. She turned to Frost. “Show her his photo.”

Frost pulled the snapshot from the file folder that he’d brought into the room and handed it to Josephine. It was the image that Professor Quigley had lent them, the photo taken at Chaco Canyon of a young Bradley staring at the camera lens, his eyes pale as a wolf’s.

“Do you recognize this man?” asked Frost. “It’s an old picture. He’d be about forty-five now.”

Josephine shook her head. “Who is he?”

“His name is Bradley Rose. Twenty-seven years ago he was in Egypt, too. At the same archaeological dig where your mother worked. She would have known him.”

Josephine frowned at the photo, as though struggling to see something about that face that she could recognize. “I’ve never heard that name. She never mentioned him.”

“Josephine,” said Frost, “we think this is the man who’s been stalking you. The man who attacked you two nights ago. And we have reason to believe this is the Archaeology Killer.”

She looked up, startled. “He knew my mother?”

“They were at the same excavation. They must have known each other. It could explain why he’s now fixated on you. Your photo appeared twice in The Boston Globe, remember? Back in March, soon after you were hired by the museum. And then a few weeks ago, just before the CT scan of Madam X. Maybe Bradley saw the resemblance. Maybe he looked at your photo and saw your mother’s face. Do you look like her?”

Josephine nodded. “Gemma said I look exactly like my mother.”

“What was your mother’s name?” asked Jane.

For a moment, Josephine didn’t respond, as though that particular secret had been buried so long, she could not even remember it. When she finally did answer, it came out so softly that Jane had to lean forward to hear it.

“Medea. Her name was Medea.”

“The name on the cartouche,” said Frost.

Josephine stared down at the photo. “Why didn’t she tell me about him? Why have I never heard his name?”

“Your mother seems to be the key to everything,” said Jane.

“The key to what drives this man to kill. Even if you don’t know about him, he certainly knows about you, and he’s probably been in your life for some time, right on the periphery of your vision. Maybe he drove past your building every day. Or sat on the bus you rode to work. You just haven’t noticed him. When we get you back to Boston, we’re going to need a list of every place you frequent. Every café, every bookstore.”

“But I’m not going back to Boston.”

“You have to come back. We can’t protect you otherwise.”

Josephine shook her head. “I’m better off somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“This man tracked you all the way here. You think he can’t repeat that trick?” Jane’s voice was quiet and relentless. “Let me tell you what Bradley Rose does to his victims. He cripples them first, so they can’t escape. The way he’s crippled you. The way he crippled Madam X. For a while, he kept her alive. He kept her someplace where no one could hear her. He held her captive for weeks, and God knows what he did to her during that time.” Jane’s voice was softer, almost intimate. “And even when she died, she remained his possession. He preserved her as a keepsake. She became part of his harem, Josephine, a harem of dead souls.” She added, softly: “You’re his next victim.”

“Why are you doing this?” Josephine cried. “You think I’m not already scared enough?”

“We can keep you safe,” said Frost. “Your locks have already been replaced, and every time you leave your building, we’ll arrange an escort. Someone will go with you, anywhere you need to go.”

“I don’t know.” Josephine hugged herself, but it was not enough to still her shaking. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We know who the killer is,” said Jane. “We know how he operates, so the advantage is all ours.”

Josephine was silent as she considered her choices. Run or fight. There were no in-betweens, no half measures.

“Come back to Boston,” said Jane. “Help us put an end to it.”

“If you were me, is that really what you would do?” Josephine asked softly. She looked up.

Jane stared straight back at her. “It’s exactly what I would do.”