Frost swung open the gate, and they walked up the shoveled path. The flagstones were icy, and Jane was trying so hard not to slip that by the time she reached the porch steps, she already felt off balance and unsure of her footing. Not the best way to face Joyce O’Donnell. Nor did it help that when the front door opened, O’Donnell was looking her usual elegant self, blond hair cut in a sleek bob, her pink button-down shirt and khaki slacks perfectly tailored to her athletic frame. Jane, in her tired black pantsuit, with her trouser cuffs damp from melted snow, felt like the supplicant at the manor house door. Exactly how she wants me to feel.

O’Donnell gave a cool nod. “Detectives.” She did not immediately step aside, a pause intended to demonstrate that here, on her own territory, she was in command.

“May we come in?” Jane finally asked. Knowing that, of course, they would be allowed in. That the game had already begun.

O’Donnell waved them into the house. “This isn’t how I care to spend Christmas day,” she said.

“It’s not exactly how we want to spend it either,” Jane countered. “And I’m sure it’s not what the victim wanted.”

“As I told you, the recording’s already been erased,” said O’Donnell, leading the way into her living room. “You can listen to it, but there’s nothing to hear.”

Not much had changed since the last time Jane had visited this house. She saw the same abstract paintings on the walls, the same richly hued Oriental carpets. The only new feature was the Christmas tree. The trees of Jane’s childhood had been decorated with haphazard taste, the branches hung with the mismatched assortment of ornaments hardy enough to have survived earlier Rizzoli Christmases. And there’d been tinsel-lots and lots of it. Vegas trees, Jane used to call them.

But on this tree, there was not a single strand of tinsel. No Vegas in this house. Instead, the branches were hung with crystal prisms and silver teardrops, reflecting wintry sunshine on the walls, like dancing chips of light. Even her damn Christmas tree makes me feel inadequate.

O’Donnell crossed to her answering machine. “This is all I have now,” she said, and pressed Play. The digital voice announced: “You have no new messages.” She looked at the detectives. “I’m afraid the recording you asked about is gone. As soon as I got home last night, I played all my messages. Erased them as I went. By the time I got to your message, about preserving the recording, it was too late.”

“How many messages were there?” asked Jane.

“Four. Yours was the last.”

“The call we’re interested in would have come in around twelve-ten.”

“Yes, and the number’s still there, in the electronic log.” O’Donnell pressed a button, cycling back to the 12:10 call. “But whoever called at that time didn’t say anything.” She looked at Jane. “There was no message at all.”

“What did you hear?”

“I told you. There was nothing.”

“Extraneous noises? TV, traffic?”

“Not even heavy breathing. Just a few seconds of silence, and then the hang-up click. That’s why I immediately erased it. There was nothing to hear.”

“Is the caller’s number familiar to you?” asked Frost.

“Should it be?”

“That’s what we’re asking you,” Jane said, the bite in her voice unmistakable.

O’Donnell’s gaze met hers and Jane saw, in those eyes, a flash of disdain. As though I’m not even worth her attention. “No, I didn’t recognize the phone number,” said O’Donnell.

“Do you know the name Lori-Ann Tucker?”

“No. Who’s that?”

“She was murdered last night, in her own home. That call was made from her telephone.”

O’Donnell paused and said, reasonably, “It could have been a wrong number.”

“I don’t think so, Dr. O’Donnell. I think the call was meant to reach you.”

“Why call me and then say nothing? It’s more likely that she heard the recording on my answering machine, realized she’d made a mistake, and simply hung up.”

“I don’t believe it was the victim who called you.”

Again, O’Donnell paused, this time longer. “I see,” she said. She moved to an armchair and sat down, but not because she was shaken. She looked perfectly unruffled sitting in that chair, an empress holding court. “You think it was the killer who called me.”

“You don’t sound at all worried by that possibility.”

“I don’t know enough yet to be worried. I don’t know anything about this case. So why don’t you tell me more?” She gestured to the couch, an invitation for her visitors to sit down. It was the first hint of hospitality that she’d offered.

Because now we have something interesting to offer her, thought Jane. She’s caught a whiff of blood. It’s exactly what this woman craves.

The couch was a pristine white, and Frost paused before settling onto it, as though afraid to smudge the fabric. But Jane didn’t give it a second glance. She sat down in her snow-dampened slacks, her focus on O’Donnell.

“The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman,” said Jane. “She was killed last night, around midnight.”

“Suspects?”

“We’ve made no arrests.”

“So you have no idea who the killer is.”

“I’m only saying that we’ve made no arrests. What we’re doing is following leads.”

“And I’m one of them.”

“Someone called you from the victim’s home. It could well have been the perp.”

“And why would he-assuming it’s a he-want to talk to me?”

Jane leaned forward. “We both know why, Doctor. It’s what you do for a living. You probably have a nice little fan club out there, all the killers who consider you their friend. You’re famous, you know, among the murderer set. You’re the lady shrink who talks to monsters.”

“I try to understand them, that’s all. Study them.”

“You defend them.”

“I’m a neuropsychiatrist. I’m far more qualified to testify in court than most expert witnesses. Not every killer belongs in prison. Some of them are seriously damaged people.”

“Yeah, I know your theory. Bonk a kid on the head, screw up his frontal lobes, and he’s absolved of all responsibility for anything he does from then on. He can kill a woman, chop her up into pieces, and you’ll still defend him in court.”

“Is that what happened to this victim?” O’Donnell’s face had taken on a disturbing alertness, her eyes bright and feral. “Was she dismembered?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’d just like to know.”

“Professional curiosity?”

O’Donnell sat back in her chair. “Detective Rizzoli, I’ve interviewed a lot of killers. Over the years, I’ve compiled extensive statistics on motives, methods, patterns. So yes, it is professional curiosity.” She paused. “Dismemberment is not that unusual. Especially if it’s to aid in disposal of the victim.”

“That wasn’t the reason for it in this case.”

“You know that?”

“It’s pretty clear.”

“Did he purposefully display the body parts? Was it staged?”

“Why? You happen to have any sicko pals who’re into that kind of thing? Any names you want to share with us? They write to you, don’t they? Your name’s out there. The doctor who loves to hear all the details.”

“If they write me, it’s usually anonymous. They don’t tell me their names.”

“But you do get letters,” said Frost.

“I hear from people.”

“Killers.”

“Or fabricators. Whether they tell the truth or not is impossible for me to determine.”

“You think some of them are just sharing their fantasies?”

“And they’ll probably never act on them. They just need a way to express unacceptable urges. We all have them. The mildest-mannered man occasionally daydreams about things he’d like to do to women. Things so twisted he doesn’t dare tell anyone. I bet that even you entertain a few inappropriate thoughts, Detective Frost.” She kept her gaze on him, a look that was meant to make him uncomfortable. Frost, to his credit, did not even flush.