John Doe Read Free Page B

Rizzoli.”
    Jane stood up and slid the chair against the table. “Well, this Jane Rizzoli has a job to do.”

    Christopher Scanlon’s residence was a rented two-bedroom town house on a leafy street in Braintree. Mr. Siegel, the rental agent who met them at the address, kept shaking his head and murmuring “Awful, just awful,” as they climbed the steps to the front door. “He was a dream tenant. Kept the property in immaculate shape.” He waved at the manicured lawn. “You can see how neat the front yard is.”
    “He never gave you any problems?” Frost asked.
    “Never. He moved in about nine, ten months ago. Passed the financial screen with flying colors. Excellent credit rating. Hundred thousand in his bank account. Paid me three months’ rent in advance.” Siegel unlocked the door. “The kind of tenant every rental agent hopes for.”
    Until you find out that perfect tenant is a rapist .
    Jane and Frost stepped into the residence and saw a black leather couch, a big-screen TV, a chrome-and-glass coffee table. A manpad, Jane thought, with no softtouches. If any woman had ever lived here, there was no trace of her in this room with its cold and polished décor.
    “See how orderly everything is?” said Mr. Siegel. “Kept it in perfect shape.”
    “He certainly did,” said Jane, focusing on the huge framed photo that dominated one wall. It was a leopard, staring from the grass, eyes agleam, powerful muscles tensed to leap. The consummate predator.
    “I guess you folks are looking for leads, huh?” asked Mr. Siegel as Jane and Frost continued their inspection of the residence, moving from kitchen to study to master bedroom, all of it furnished in stark black and white.
    “You have any info on next of kin?” asked Frost.
    “Never mentioned any. And he was single.”
    “Friends? Contacts?”
    “I’m just the rental agent. Not my job to get chummy with the tenants.” He frowned as Jane opened dresser drawers, revealing neatly folded socks and underwear and sweaters. “What’s the story with his death, anyway? Was it a mugging or something?”
    “It’s under investigation,” she said.
    “Was he shot? Stabbed? What?”
    She ignored his questions and focused on the laptop computer on the nightstand. Turning it on, she saw it was password-protected.
    “I’m getting the feeling it wasn’t just a mugging,” Mr. Siegel said. “Is there something I should be worried about here? Like, was he into something illegal?” He frowned at Jane’s stony expression and groaned. “Oh Jesus. I thought he was too good to be true! All that rent in advance. Was he a drug dealer or what?”
    “Rizzoli!” Frost called out from the bathroom.
    She found him kneeling by the under-sink cabinet. He rose to his feet, holding a ziplock bag. “Look what I found. It was hidden way in the back, behind the cleaning stuff.”
    Through clear plastic, she saw blister packs of white tablets stamped with the pharmaceutical company’s name: Roche. She looked at Frost. “Rohypnol.”
    “What? Roofies? ” Mr. Siegel said. “Why the hell would he have something like that?”
    “I can think of one reason,” said Jane, turning to the rental agent. “Tell me everything about Christopher Scanlon.”
    “I did tell you. He was a good tenant.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Paid his rent, kept the lawn mowed. Did he ever bring women here? Did neighbors complain of any disturbances?”
    “No, never. No parties, no loud music. In fact, he was hardly here at night. I thought he was over at some girlfriend’s house, but he told me he didn’t have a girlfriend.”
    Frost’s cell phone rang, and he stepped out of the bathroom to answer the call.
    “What about his job? You said he was a software developer.”
    “Self-employed, told me he worked from home. I figured I didn’t need to see his federal tax return, ’cause he had so much in his bank account. You think that wasn’t true? That he worked in software?”
    “I can’t be sure