Palmer was already sitting quietly at the table the next morning when Elizabeth entered the interrogation room. She had a folder in her hand and a dark blue discolored swelling the size of an ice cube over her right temple, at which Palmer stared. He didn't notice, however, that Elizabeth was struggling to keep her balance as she pulled out a chair across from him and sat down. "Looks like you had a bad fall," Palmer said quietly.

"Yes, sir, that's right," Elizabeth replied. Politeness was part of her strategy.

"What you are doing to me is inhumane and probably illegal, detective."

"You may think that, Mr. Palmer, but it's not illegal. And as for inhumane, I hardly think you have the right to make such a judgment."

"Detective and whoever else is watching," Palmer said, pointing to the one-way mirror, "I swear I thought you were just posing as a cop."

Elizabeth pulled out her badge and tossed it on the table. "That's why," she said, "I showed you my badge when I identified myself to you as a cop last night. You refused to acknowledge the evidence, and that's why you're sitting here right now."

"Yes, and speaking of that, is Chief of Police Farrell in his office? Maybe I could talk to him for a minute because he's a personal friend of mine."

"Yes, I believe you mentioned that last night," Elizabeth reminded him. She had prepared herself for this request. An hour ago, immediately after her discharge from the hospital, she and Jane had met with the Chief of Police in his spacious office. Over coffee from BPD cups, they laid out for him everything they knew about Victor Palmer, with the result that Farrell not only visibly winced but also faced reality.

"If it turns out you guys are right, I'm going to have to resign," he tried to joke. "Palmer has been to every major event I've invited him to, and there are dozens of pictures of us together."

What an irony, Elizabeth reflected. A few hours ago I thought my career was over, and now all of a sudden the Chief of Police's ass is on the line. She leaned forward. Despite having spent the night in a holding cell, Palmer looked rested, his shirt was wrinkle-free, and the stubbles were barely visible in the tanned face. "The Chief of Police already knows you're here," the detective now informed him. "However, he has refused to come joining us. Friend or no friend, he's not exactly thrilled about anyone beating up his people."

Palmer tried to shrug it off with his usual nonchalance. "I understand, of course. He's a busy man. He'll change his mind if it all turns out to be a tragic mistake."

"Tragic, yes. But I assure you it is no mistake."

Palmer blinked, for the first time since he'd been here. "I don't know what that means," he said slowly. "You can't possibly assume that I was trying to rob my own neighborhood. I've never even gotten a parking ticket."

Elizabeth pulled the corners of her mouth down and nodded slowly before looking at her counterpart with furrowed brows. "Our police have long memories, Mr. Palmer. You were arrested for assault several years ago."

Palmer glared at Elizabeth and burst out laughing. "Now cut it out, detective. That was more than forty years ago. I was a teenager. And the girl was lying. It was nothing."

Nothing compared to the sick shit you've done since.

Palmer probably assumed Elizabeth only knew about this one arrest, and without details. But the police computer, in Maura and Katherine's late-night search, had spit out the file on an old case that, according to Katherine, fit Palmer's profile, a deep-seated anger toward women.

"There can hardly be any question of nothing," Elizabeth said, opening the folder, "so let me refresh your memory for a moment. You punched a teenage girl in the face three times, so hard that she lost most of her teeth and suffered a fractured skull," she read aloud. "The cops who arrested you said you tried to pull down the girl's pants."

If it had any effect on Palmer that Elizabeth knew about the case, he didn't let on. "Please, detective," he said, "if we're going to waste our time on inanities, let's at least not be so formal. Call me Victor."

Elizabeth flipped the folder closed and nodded curtly. "I'd be happy to, Victor. Unless you'd rather be called Vittorio." She looked Palmer in the eye to punctuate her words. For the first time, anger that was unquestionably bubbling inside Palmer crept to the surface. It was all part of Katherine's plan. Immediately before Elizabeth had entered the interrogation room, the doctor had explained the strategy that she hoped would trap Palmer. Now Katherine watched through the one-way mirror as her sister put the plan into action.

"Vittorio Palmieri died a long time ago," Palmer pressed out. "And I'm not responsible for anything he did."

That's the way a true psychopath talks, Katherine thought.

Elizabeth paused, then seemed to relax a little. "You should at least be proud of some of the things he's done. Or his parents. I couldn't get enough of the food at their place."

Somehow, that struck a nerve with Palmer. "You were there?"

"Have I been there?" said Elizabeth with a slight grin. "I practically lived there when I was a kid. My ma's a cop here, too. My mom used to take me and my sister there, and we'd have dinner with Ma when she had to work long shifts. They always wanted Chinese food, but I begged to go to Palmieri's Pasta House, and every once in a while they'd give in."

„When was that?"

"A little over twenty years. My ma went there a lot more than I did. She's 5'9", long dark curly hair -"

"The restaurant was always packed with cops," Palmer interrupted, exasperated and in a sharp tone. As if Elizabeth were wasting his time. "And I was working as a cook in the kitchen at the time, so I certainly didn't know your mother."

"Sorry. Sounds like I hit a sore spot," Elizabeth said quickly, in a sincere tone. "But I swear that Parmesan chicken there was the best dish I've ever eaten."

Palmer seemed to relax on that. "No, I'm the one who needs to apologize," he said. "I should be honored that you have such fond memories of my work."

You don't know the half of it, Elizabeth thought.

Katherine knew it was part of the plan to lure Palmer up before her sister struck. Part of her, though, wished she could go in and shake Palmer up with a few direct, pointed questions. But Elizabeth knew her job. Just be patient. Liz will get to the point. In her own way.

Elizabeth seemed to grow sad. "Too bad there were no cops around when those Genoa guys brutally beat up your dad."

A strange expression flitted across Palmer's face. "You remember that?"

"My Ma told us when she got home that night," the detective replied. Katherine involuntarily wondered if it was true since she couldn't remember it.

Palmer had slumped lower and lower in his chair and now straightened up. He scratched his temple. "It was mid-morning," he said now. "I was at school. He was setting up for lunch with my mother. I didn't find out until later."

"You mean that he was hurt or who did it?"

"Both," Palmer answered matter-of-factly. "But everybody knew what was going on. There wasn't a restaurant in Little Italy that didn't pay protection money. It was the price of being allowed to run a place. I thought it was stupid of my father to refuse."

"Maybe so," Elizabeth retorted. "But don't you think it was a little foolish, too, to attack that girl out of revenge?"

"Not then, and not now. My father limped for the rest of his life."

"Your father should have told you not to mess with the Italian mob. It's like the rules in a war. Soldiers fight, but families are off-limits."

"They broke the rules first," Palmer replied. "And it was my family they hurt."

"They're the ones with the guns and no conscience," Elizabeth said slowly. "Did your father ever tell you that he knew about the killer they sent after you?"

Palmer narrowed his eyes. He took the bait, Katherine thought.

"Yes," he said just as slowly, letting the held air escape his lungs. "After the charges against me were dropped. Mom picked me up from the precinct, and I said I was proud of myself for getting back at them and getting off scot-free. She slapped me and called me an idiot. She said she just wanted me out of jail so they couldn't kill me."

"And that's why your dad had to pay them ninety percent of the sales the restaurant made, right? So you wouldn't go six feet under?"

Palmer slid around in his chair, the spell of memory gone. "What does any of this have to do with what happened last night?"

"I was just trying to get the facts straight," Elizabeth replied, giving her counterpart a long look.

"Yes," Palmer finally conceded. "He paid for the rest of his miserable life. But since you, know all that, you probably know that we lost the house here in Boston and had to move into an apartment above the restaurant."

"And when your parents retired, that's why they gave the restaurant to your brother because they lost their one true love because of you."

"No, it was because I didn't want it," Palmer immediately retorted, upset.

"And I don't buy that," Elizabeth said calmly. "Because you were a born talent as a chef, and you earned the place four stars in the American Restaurant Guide when you were only seventeen."

"I got lucky," Palmer replied defensively. "A guy came in and ordered scaloffine. I was in charge of sauces that night. I didn't know he was a food critic. And I'm flattered that you read my resume."

"It was an interesting read. You're a fascinating person, you really are. But you know what I didn't find in it and would like to know?"

"I can't wait to find out."

"Why you changed your name."

"I thought Victor Palmer sounded a little more expansive," he said dryly.

"Maybe if there had been reality TV back then, you would have thought differently."

"Reality TV?" asked Palmer angrily. "What does that have to do with anything now?"

"Well," Elizabeth said almost casually, "I have two daughters, and you know what they like to do? They like to watch cooking shows. When I'm home, I watch it with them. And all of a sudden I hear names like Bobby Flay, Paula Deen, Mario Batali. And then I look at you and think: Here's a fellow who didn't even get a proper education, made it to the top in his profession, and then he changes his name? It's a shame. Victor Palmer could be anyone. But Vittorio Palmieri? Now, that sounds like one of those famous chefs on TV, don't you think?"

Palmer rolled his eyes, fed up with Elizabeth's drivel. "Fine, if you say so," he growled.

Elizabeth leaned forward. "You know what I think? That you were so pissed off when your parents gave the restaurant to your brother that you changed your name to disown them."

To Elizabeth's surprise, Palmer didn't even try to deny it. "I was the firstborn. I gave the restaurant a reputation. It was my birthright. You're damn right I was pissed."

"Not that you weren't successful anyway," Elizabeth said, continuing her efforts to keep Palmer in a positive mood. "I don't know many people who can afford a townhouse. I'm sure you have to work a lot and hard to do that."

Palmer waved his hand. "Another remarkable stroke of luck in my life," he said. "When Guillermo Rodriguez came into the place one night."

"Who's that?" asked Elizabeth, though she already knew.

"My godfather," Palmer replied, laughing. "Unlike the Italian mob, he literally made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He paid me a fortune to come to his luxury resort in Costa Rica and cook at his five-star restaurant."

"And you bought it when he died?" the detective posed ignorantly.

Palmer laughed; this time it was for real. "Guillermo didn't have any children. He was like a father to me. He left me the resort in his will. I was completely blindsided, as you can imagine. To this day, I can't believe he did something like that."

"Costa Rica is supposed to be amazing. I've always wanted to go there."

"You should, detective."

"Please call me Liz."

"Well, Liz, if you ever go, I get along great with the people I sold it to. If I tell them, lodging and food are free for you. All you'd have to pay for is airfare."

"Sounds like an offer I can't refuse," Elizabeth replied, taking a deep breath. "And I wish to God I didn't have to. My girls and I could really use a vacation. It's been a rough year for us."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Palmer said.

"Oh, it's just that they lost their other mother two years ago, and then my mother-in-law died a few months ago, and she took care of them after that."

Katherine thought it was great the direction Elizabeth took the conversation. She would have made an excellent psychiatrist, too, she thought.

"I know what you're going through," Palmer said. "My wife died right before I moved back to Boston."

"My condolences," Elizabeth replied, trying hard to sound sincere. "What was her name?"

"Martha," he replied wistfully.

Elizabeth picked up on the longing in Palmer's voice. "Four years we were married."

"What happened?" asked Palmer, his posture expressing genuine interest. "Cancer?"

"Suicide," Elizabeth explained, surprised at how quickly it crossed her lips.

"My God," it escaped the man.

"I'm surprised you didn't read about it," Elizabeth said. "It was in the paper at length."

"Yes, I remember now. You were suspected of murder."

"Yeah, it was fucked up," Elizabeth replied, sliding around in her chair. "I was beginning to think I was going to jail for a while."

"How did you prove your innocence?" asked Palmer, intrigued.

"It was more like the prosecutor didn't have enough evidence to charge me."

Palmer's interest was now piqued. "Am I hearing a cop confess to murder here?"

"Oh, come on," Elizabeth said with a throwaway hand gesture, though she wanted Palmer to think they might have a murder in common. "She shot herself with my service weapon. That automatically put me under suspicion." She pretended to change the subject. "But what happened to your wife?"

"That's a good question," Palmer replied, leaning back. He seemed to feel more comfortable after the common ground he had just discovered. "She left for a walk on the beach one night and never came back."

"Then how do you know she's dead?"

"The local police found her bones about two weeks later on a beach on the other side of Costa Rica."

"Just the bones? Nothing else?" Palmer lowered his eyes as if it might drive away the memory. Elizabeth knew he didn't want to talk about it anymore and needed an out. "It's all right. We don't have to talk about it."

But Palmer's gaze went blank. "I met her when she was fourteen," he said. "I worked in the kitchen at that hotel. She was a beauty. Long brown hair, eyes like almonds, a look that went right through you. The moment we met, it was like we had known each other for a lifetime."

"Was she from Costa Rica?" asked Elizabeth, who just wanted the man to keep talking.

"Chicago," Palmer replied. "Her parents brought her and her brother to the hotel every year for vacation."

"So that's how you guys stayed in touch?"

"Even after she was already married. "

"She had been married before?"

"To a lawyer from Detroit. They met in college in Michigan. They also came to Costa Rica together. Nice guy. He died in a car accident. Very young. A tragedy."

"Yes, that's terrible," Elizabeth said, lowering her eyes. It would never have occurred to Palmer that not only did she already know all this, but she had been informed that the accident had not, in fact, been one. It had been a hit-and-run case, a car had hit him as he was crossing the street in front of his law office in Chicago. And the culprit had not been identified to this day. Elizabeth wondered if Palmer was somehow behind it, too, but she didn't want to let him digress too far. "May I ask how you finally got together, then?"

Palmer considered for a moment. "Martha's friends came to Costa Rica with her a few months after her husband died. I was the manager of the hotel by then and made sure she got nothing but the best. I put her up in our presidential suite and paid for her entire stay, including meals. For her girlfriends as well."

"That's quite a gesture," Elizabeth replied, sounding convincingly impressed.

Palmer didn't even look at her. "She obviously thought so, too, because she came back a few months later. And that's when we ... got together."

"And it didn't seem to you somehow ... how shall I say ... like a dust-up story?"

Palmer didn't even look at the detective. "We talked about it, but she said she was in love with me from day one."

"You must have had one hell of a wedding."

Palmer smiled at the memory. "Five hundred guests, on the hotel beach. Even the president of Costa Rica was there," he said proudly.

Elizabeth had to steer the conversation back toward the original topic. "Do the police know what happened to her?"

"No," Palmer replied. "They have no idea."

Finally, Elizabeth thought. She had caught the man in a lie she could prove. She looked him in the eye and was dramatically silent for a moment. "Victor," she then said with furrowed brows, "we both know that's not true."

Palmer's gaze abruptly slanted upward, the unmistakable sign that he was making up a story. "What are you talking about?"

"Costa Rican police say she was dismembered."

"Of course I know that," he burst out. "I meant they don't know who did it or why. And if you think I enjoy talking about it, think again."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth apologized. "I didn't mean to upset you -"

"Why on earth are you talking to the Costa Rican police about me?" interrupted Palmer.

"I wasn't," the detective replied without a trace of uncertainty. "I just Googled you and came across this information." That put Palmer at ease. Elizabeth saw that he was breathing easier, mollified. But she knew she had to work fast. It was time to begin the second act of the play she had written with Katherine. She leaned back as if talking about the nasty weather. "Victor," she said, "I just have to do one little thing quickly before we go on talking. I must tell you that you have the right to remain silent and that anything you say can be used against you if you don't exercise that right. That you have the right to an attorney while I question you, and that the court will provide you with an attorney if you cannot afford one. But we both know you can, don't we?"

Palmer smiled. "Of course. But only guilty people need lawyers, Liz."

"So you understand your rights, then, and you'll waive them?"

"I don't need a lawyer for this story. I don't have anything to hide. I already told you I didn't believe you were a cop when I hit you. And that I was sorry. I was scared and acted inappropriately."

"I'm going to need you to sign a form a little later."

"I'll be happy to provide that as soon as you let me out of here," Palmer replied amiably, if with a slightly impatient undertone.

"We just need to talk about a few more things."

"What on earth could there possibly be to talk about?"

"Why you pulled a knife in the street in front of the other woman and me."

"That's what I said. I was scared," he replied, now with a trace of petulance again.

"Sorry. I meant why did you have a knife in your travel bag in the first place?"

Palmer sighed loudly. "You know I'm a cook."

"Yes," Elizabeth replied with a nod, "but you no longer work as one."

"When I saw that glow and decided to leave the house, I thought I'd better take a knife. In case someone is watching me to attack me for some reason, I know how to defend myself with a knife no matter what."

"Why did you think someone might want to attack you?"

"How should I know," Palmer growled. "I've got a bunch of money. You could have been someone trying to kidnap me for ransom."

Elizabeth smiled broadly and placed her elbows on the table. "But Victor, if someone were to kidnap you, who would pay the ransom?" Palmer maintained eye contact but remained silent. Elizabeth knew it was pure pomposity. She had Palmer on the hook, if only temporarily. It was the moment she had been working toward, the climax of her second act, and the knock she now heard at the door matched the curtain rising on the third act. "What is it?" she called out.

The door opened, and Katherine came in. "Detective, "she said, her agreed-upon greeting. Her curt tone made Palmer jerk his head up in shock.

"We're in the middle of a conversation," Elizabeth growled, pretending to mind Katherine's presence. They both immediately noticed Palmer avoiding Katherine's gaze.

"What is she doing here?" he asked the detective.

"I don't know," the latter replied. "She's not supposed to be here."

Palmer still didn't acknowledge the doctor. "Who the hell is she?"

"A shrink," Elizabeth replied, rolling her eyes in mock contempt.

"I'm a psychiatrist," Katherine said. She spoke in a commanding voice, assuming Palmer disliked women in positions of authority. "My name is Dr. Katherine Isles. And if you have any questions about me, you can ask me yourself, not Detective Rizzoli."

"Fine, Doctor," Palmer said with genuine disdain. "Why are you here?"

"Are you carrying around a lot of charm, Mr. Palmer?"

"What for? And you haven't answered my question."

"Because of the murder of your wife. And I'm asking the questions here -"

Palmer's look turned angry. "You were eavesdropping?"

"Every word."

"You threatened me with a tire iron in front of my house!" exclaimed Palmer.

"That's not quite true, is it?" replied Katherine. "And I want an answer to my question. Right now, please."

Palmer glowered angrily at her. "Why should I be ashamed of my wife's death?"

"Because no one should know what you did to her."

Their eyes met, and that was the moment Katherine saw realization set in. "You think I murdered her?"

"Her bones were boiled so all the flesh came off. Like chicken soup," Katherine replied gruffly.

"But the Costa Rican police cleared me of any suspicion!"

"Yes, they told us they questioned you for five hours. They said you were cooperative and scared to death, and they concluded you weren't a suspect."

"So why the hell are you starting it now?"

"Because you're a fascinating man, Mr. Palmer," Katherine said, leaning against the wall a bit away from him. "I've read a lot about you since we met on the street last night," she said. "Do you know what I found most fascinating?"

"I don't care, but I'm sure you'll tell me anyway."

"That so many years after you left the kitchen and took over the management of the hotel, you still went to the farmer's market in Santa Cruz or Tamarindo every day."

"I was very proud of the food we served and my talent for picking it out," Palmer returned gruffly. "And I liked starting my day that way. That this intrigues you make me doubt your qualifications."

He sounded strange, however, as he finished his speech while Katherine pulled a chair as close as she dared to him and sat on it. "I want to tell you why you interest me so keenly," she put in the decisive blow. "Because for over twenty years and today, the bones of twenty-three women have been found in the various places on the east and west coasts of Costa Rica. All of them were murdered, but the police don't know how and don't have an official cause of death because the perpetrator dismembered them and cooked them so the flesh would separate from the bones. Don't you find that interesting?"

"Why?" hissed Palmer. "Because my wife was murdered the same way?"

"No. I believe you are the murderer because, except for your spouse, all of these women were last seen at the farmers' markets of either Santa Cruz or Tamarindo. The very two you visited every day during the time you lived in Costa Rica."

Palmer stubbornly looked straight ahead and remained silent.

"That was your hunting ground," Katherine said. "Every serial killer has one. And you know why I know it was you? Because the whole story you told Detective Rizzoli about your wife Martha, you never once said you loved her. If you did at all."

"Of course I loved her," cried Palmer, quite the bad actor he was. "And why are we talking about crimes that happened in Costa Rica? They're none of your business."

"But crimes in Boston are ours," Elizabeth calmly replied, opening the folder and sliding a photo across the table. "This guy. What significance does he have to you?"

Palmer stared at the mug shot of Jonah Welch and laughed. "None," he replied. "I've never seen him before."

"Emigrant hasta," Katherine said quickly, right in his face.

"What?" returned Palmer, and for the first time, there was fear in his eyes.

"You heard me."

"Emigrant hasta? What the hell does that mean?"

"I think you know," Katherine said.

"And I think you're both crazy!" now shouted Palmer.

Katherine pulled the folder on the table toward her, opened it, and pulled out more photos, laying them out calmly in front of Palmer. Rosa Castillo. Her bones. The bones from the burned-out building in South Boston. And finally, the two victims from twenty years ago. "Until we found you, the police had no idea whose remains these were. Two victims, nameless for more than twenty years."

"Go to hell," Palmer hissed, refusing to look at the pictures.

"So we did a little digging into your past," Katherine continued. "You had problems in school, didn't you? Problems with girls. You liked to touch them. In inappropriate ways."

"You don't know what you're saying," Palmer exclaimed, holding onto the seat of his chair as if he feared falling off.

"We actually didn't know that for a while, but we sure as hell do now. We have your school records. Six incidents where you fondled girls' breasts. One you hit when she wouldn't let you fondle her. Then you started cutting school. The subway police picked you up cruising all over Boston when you weren't working at your parents' restaurant. Did it make you mad enough to kill two of those school girls who didn't want you?"

Palmer didn't say anything. He just smiled.

"You remembered their names," the doctor continued. "Even when they moved away. But you waited. And then you struck. Celia Donato and Camille Panza." If Palmer recognized the names, he didn't let on. Katherine continued. "The police never found out their identities because the two of them had moved to Connecticut before you killed them and buried their remains in Boston. They were never reported missing. Their parents are dead. They'll never know that we found their daughters and their killer."

Palmer played with his fingers and cracked his knuckles. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Elizabeth pointed to the photo of Rosa's bones, then pulled the photo out from the receipt and practically slapped it in Palmer's face. "What does emigrant hasta mean?" she asked.

But Palmer just stared at her blankly. "That's not my handwriting for crying out loud!" he said more loudly and emphatically while pointing to the two words. "And why would I write down words from two different languages that together make no sense? What's wrong with you?"

Elizabeth glanced at her sister and saw that they were both thinking the same thing: However insincere Palmer's denial might be, by the way, on this point it seemed driven by pure fear and sounded genuine. Too genuine. That's why the detective went all out and slapped her palm on the photos of the human remains. "Twenty-five years, twenty-four murders, all committed in the same way in places where you were when they happened. If I alone present this to a jury, they will see the pattern."

"Go ahead and try, then," Palmer said circumstantially as if it were a done deal. "But I have no idea why you are accusing me of such horrible crimes, including the murder of my wife, whom I loved and adored. I've already admitted to beating you, Detective, and I told you why I did it. And yes, I am ashamed of it, and I ask you to forgive me. But that's all." His gaze now went back and forth between the two women like a ping pong ball. As if to make sure they also heard what he was about to say to them next. "As long as I live, I will never confess to anything I didn't do."