“Children exaggerate. Or they get a few details wrong. But they don’t lie, not about abuse.”
“They can be coached. Made to believe—”
“Don’t tell me you’re defending him?”
Her outburst made Frost flinch back in his chair. In the courtroom, this woman would probably fight like a gladiator, quick to strike, never retreating. Jane thought of young Martin Stanek, twenty-two years old, frightened, and doomed. This was what he faced on the witness stand, this relentless adversary circling in for the kill.
“I interviewed every one of those children,” said Erica. “I spoke to their parents. I examined the bruises and scratches on Holly’s arms. She’s the one who found Lizzie’s hat on the bus. She was the one brave enough to tell her mother what was happening at that daycare. Then Billy Sullivan confirmed it, and I knew it had to be true. The Staneks were a nest of vipers, and their victims were so terrified, they didn’t dare speak up until Holly and Billy did. It took weeks of interviews, repeated questioning, but little by little the secrets came out. What the children saw, and what was done to almost all of them.”
“How many children are we talking about?” said Jane.
“Many. But we chose not to use all the statements.”
“Because their stories were even more outlandish?”
“It’s been twenty years. Why are you questioning my work on the case?”
“There’s a journalist who says you implanted false memories in those children.”
“Bonnie Sandridge?” Erica snorted. “She calls herself a journalist. She’s nothing but a crackpot.”
“So you’re familiar with her.”
“I do my best to avoid her. She’s spent the last few years writing some book about ritual-abuse trials. She tried to interview me once, and it felt like an ambush. She has a twisted agenda, thinks these trials are all witch hunts.” Erica gave a dismissive wave. “Why should I care what she says?”
“Cassandra Coyle cared, and she wanted Bonnie to correct the record. Cassandra believed the Staneks were innocent all along, and she’d been calling the other children. Asking what they remembered.”
“Bonnie Sandridge told you this?”
“Phone records support her story. Cassandra Coyle did call Sarah Basterash and Timothy McDougal and Billy Sullivan. We needed to go back almost a year to find those phone logs, which is how we missed it the first time. The only person Cassandra didn’t call was Holly Devine, because no one knew how to find her.”
“Twenty years go by, and suddenly Cassandra wants to exonerate the Staneks?” Erica shook her head. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t it bother you if you realized you’d sent an innocent man to prison?”
“Well, I have no doubts. He was guilty, and the jury agreed with me.” Erica rose to her feet, a signal that their meeting was at an end. “Justice was served, and there’s nothing more to say.”
“ANOTHER VICTORY FOR THE CRIME-FIGHTING Rizzoli family!” declared Jane’s father. He popped the cork and prosecco bubbled out of the bottle, dribbling onto Angela’s favorite Tuscan yellow tablecloth.
“Dial it back, Dad,” said Jane. “This is not that big a deal.”
“Of course it is! Whenever our family name makes it into The Boston Globe, it’s always worth celebrating.”
Jane looked at her brother. “Hey, Frankie, you should go rob a bank. That’ll be worth a bottle of real champagne.”
“You just watch, our Frankie here will be in the news one of these days. I can see the headline now: Special Agent Frank Rizzoli, Jr., singlehandedly brings down international crime syndicate!” Frank, Sr., filled a champagne glass and handed it to his son. “I always knew my kids would make me proud.”
“Our kids,” said Angela. She set the platter of roast beef on the table. “I did have something to do with it.”
“Frankie’s gonna be in the FBI, and Jane’s already in the newspapers. Now, Mikey, well, he still needs to figure out what he’s gonna do with his life, but I know he’ll make me proud someday. Wish he could be here with us on this fine occasion, but having two of my three kids is celebration enough.”
“Our kids,” repeated Angela. “It’s not like you raised them all on your own.”
“Yeah, yeah. Our kids.” He lifted his glass of prosecco. “Here’s to Detective Jane Rizzoli. For taking down another scumbag.”
As her father and brother downed their glasses of prosecco, Jane glanced at Gabriel, who gave an amused shake of the head and dutifully took a sip. She’d had no inkling that tonight’s Rizzoli family dinner was a victory celebration for her work on “the Eyeball Killer case,” as her brother liked to call it. In truth she felt little sense of victory; how could she celebrate when her suspect was dead and too many questions remained unanswered? She couldn’t shake the feeling that the job was incomplete, that she’d overlooked something. The prosecco tasted bitter, certainly not the flavor of triumph, and after one sip she put it down. She noticed that Angela wasn’t drinking either. Leave it to her dad to buy a bottle of wine so cheap that no one with a functioning taste bud would want to drink it.
That wasn’t stopping Frank and Frank, Jr., from guzzling it down as they toasted the Rizzoli triumph. If this was justice, it had come at a terrible price. Jane thought of Earl Devine’s cancer-ridden corpse lying on the autopsy table, his tragic secret revealed. She thought of Martin Stanek, who had gone to his grave insisting that he was innocent.
What if he was telling the truth?
“Why the long face, Janie? You should get into the spirit of things,” her father said, as he sawed into the slice of beef on his plate. “Tonight’s all about celebrating!”
“It’s not like I achieved world peace or anything.”
“You don’t think a job well done is worth a champagne toast?”
“It’s prosecco,” muttered Angela, but no one seemed to hear her. She sat at the far end of the table, shoulders slumped, the food on her plate untouched. As her husband and son gorged on the meal she’d prepared, Angela had not even picked up her fork.
“It’s just bothering me,” Jane said. “How this case went down.”
“Dead perp, problem solved.” Her brother laughed and punched Jane in the arm.
“He hit Mommy!” protested Regina.
“I didn’t hit her, kid,” said Frankie. “I gave her a victory punch.”
“You hit her. I saw it!”
Jane kissed her outraged daughter on the head. “It’s okay, sweetie. Uncle Frankie’s only playing around with me.”
“ ’Cause that’s what grown-ups do,” said Frankie.
“You hit people?” Regina scowled at him.
Out of the mouths of babes.
“You’ve gotta learn to defend yourself, kiddo.” Frankie put up his fists and play-boxed with his niece. “C’mon. Show Uncle Frankie you can fight back.”
“Don’t,” said Angela.
“It’s just for fun, Ma.”
“She’s a little girl. She doesn’t have to learn how to fight.”
“Of course she does. She’s a Rizzoli.”
“Technically,” Jane said, looking at her ever-patient husband, “she’s a Dean.”
“But she’s got Rizzoli blood. And all Rizzolis know how to stand up for themselves.”
“No, we don’t,” said Angela. Her face was flushed, and there was a volcanic glow in her eyes. “Some of us don’t fight back. Some Rizzolis are cowards. Like me.”
His mouth stuffed with roast beef, Frankie frowned at his mother. “What you talking about, Ma?”
“You heard me. I’ve been a coward.”
Frank, Sr., set down his fork. “Just what is going on now?”
“You, Frank. Me. It’s all one big fucking mess.”
Regina looked at Gabriel. “Daddy, she said a bad word.”
Red-faced, Angela turned to her granddaughter. “Oh, honey, yes, I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Nonna needs a time-out.?
??
“You bet she does!” Frank yelled as Angela vanished into the kitchen. He looked around the table. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s so moody these days.”
Jane rose to her feet. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“No, leave her alone. She needs to pull herself together.”
“What she needs is someone to listen to her.”
“Suit yourself,” grunted Frank, and he reached once again for the bottle of prosecco.
Mom definitely needs a time-out. If only to avoid a murder rap.
In the kitchen, Jane found Angela standing by the counter, staring ominously at the block of chef’s knives.
“You know, Ma, poison would be a lot neater,” said Jane.
“What’s the fatal dose for strychnine?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to arrest you.”
“It’s not for him. It’s for me.”
“Ma?”
Angela turned to her daughter with a look of utter misery. “I can’t do this, Jane.”
“I hope to hell you can’t.”
“No, I mean, I can’t do this.” Angela waved at the dirty pots and pans in the sink, the grease-spattered stove, the pie waiting on the counter. “This is the same trap I was in before. It’s the way he wants things, but it’s not for me. I gave it a shot, I really did. And look where it got me.”
“Ready to swallow strychnine.”
“Exactly.”
Through the closed kitchen door, they heard men’s laughter. Frank and Frankie, yukking it up over Angela’s tenderly prepared meal. Did they taste the care she’d put into the roast beef and potatoes? Did they have any inkling that right now, behind the kitchen door, a decision was being made that would alter every future meal they’d eat at that dining table?
“I’m gonna do it,” said Angela. “I’m gonna leave him.”
“Oh, Ma.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it. Either I do this or I die. I swear, I’m gonna shrivel up and die.”
“I’m not going to talk you out of it. Here’s what I am gonna do.” She placed both her hands on her mother’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “I’m going to help you pack. And then I’m taking you to stay at our place.”
“Right now?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Angela’s eyes misted over with tears. “It’s what I want. But I can’t stay with you. Your apartment’s not big enough.”
“You can sleep in Regina’s room for now. She’ll love having her nonna there.”
“This’ll only be temporary, I swear it. Oh, God, your dad’s gonna make a scene.”
“We don’t have to say a thing to him. Let’s just go upstairs and pack.”
Together they walked out of the kitchen. Frank and Frankie were so deep in guy talk, they didn’t even notice the women crossing through the dining room, but Gabriel eyed Jane with a look of what’s going on? Of course her husband would be the one to notice. Gabriel noticed everything. She answered with a shake of the head and followed her mother to the stairway.
In her bedroom, Angela pulled open drawers and scooped out sweaters and underwear. She took only what she needed for a few nights; she would have to return for more clothes when Frank wasn’t home to get in her way. Two years ago, when Frank had suffered a brief bout of midlife insanity involving a bleached blonde, he’d walked out on Angela, but he was certainly not going to let Angela walk out on him, not without a fight. If they made this a quick exit, he might not even notice that his wife was walking out the door.
Jane carried the suitcase down the stairs, where she found Gabriel already waiting by the front door. “Can I help?” he asked quietly.
“Take this out to the car. Mom’s coming home with us.”
Gabriel didn’t argue, didn’t ask any questions. He’d already read the situation and understood what needed to be done, and without a word he carried the suitcase out of the house.
“I need to drive my own car,” Angela said. “I can’t leave it here. Why don’t I meet you at your place?”
“No, you need company right now, Ma. I’ll drive with you,” said Jane.
“Drive with her where?” said her father. Frank stood frowning at them from the hallway. “What’s with all the whispering? What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Mom’s coming to stay with us,” said Jane.
“Why?”
“You know why,” said Angela. “And if you don’t, you should.” She pulled her coat out of the closet. “Dessert’s in the kitchen, Frank. Blueberry pie. And there’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Ben and Jerry’s, just like you asked for.”
“Wait. You’re not walking out on me, are you?”
“You walked out.”
“But I came back! I did it for the family!”
“You did it because the Bimbo threw you out. I got one life to live, Frank, and I’m not gonna spend it being miserable.” She grabbed her purse from the hall table and walked out the door.
Frank snorted to Jane, “She’ll be back. You watch.”
I wouldn’t count on it.
Jane walked out to the driveway and found Angela sitting in her car, the engine already warming up. “Let me drive, Ma. You’re upset.”
“I’m fine. Just get in.”
Jane slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. “You sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Angela gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Let’s blow this joint.”
As they pulled out of the driveway, Jane glanced back at her parents’ house, the house where Angela had raised three children. That she would now abandon it told Jane how desperately unhappy her mother was. These past few months she’d seen that unhappiness in Angela’s drooping face, in her unkempt hair and perpetually slumped shoulders. Surely Frank had noticed the signs himself, but he never believed that Angela would act on those feelings. Even now he assumed his runaway wife would come home in a few days. He did not even bother to linger outside and watch her leave but had already walked back into the house and closed the door.
“I promise I won’t stay with you any longer than I have to,” said Angela. “I’ll be there just long enough to find my own place.”
“Ma, let’s not worry about that right now.”
“But I do worry about it. I worry about everything. A woman gets to be my age and suddenly she’s a burden to everyone. Or she’s a beast of burden. I don’t know what’s worse. Either way, it’s…” She glanced at the road sign and gave a soft moan.
“What?”
“That’s the turnoff to his place.” She didn’t need to say his name; Jane knew who he was: Vince Korsak, the man who had briefly slipped into her mother’s life after Frank walked out. “He must be seeing someone new by now,” Angela said quietly.
“Like I said, I don’t know, Ma.”
“Of course he is. A fine man like Vince.”
Korsak? Jane almost laughed. Retired detective Vince Korsak was a walking heart attack, overweight and hypertensive, a man with huge appetites and a painful lack of social skills. But he’d been genuinely in love with Angela and was devastated when she broke off their romance and went back to her husband.
Abruptly, Angela swerved the car around, her tires screeching as she made a mid-street U-turn.
“What’re you doing, Ma?” Jane yelled. “That is so illegal!”
“I gotta know.”
“Know what?”
“If there’s still a chance.”
“With Korsak?”
“I broke his heart when I left him, Jane. He might not ever forgive me.”
“He knew what you were up against. Dad. The family.”
“I don’t know if he’ll even talk to me.” Angela’s foot came off the gas pedal, as if she suddenly questioned this crazy impulse. Then, just as suddenly, she hit the gas again and the car lurched forward.
All Jane could do was hold on for the ride.
They screeched to a stop outside Korsak’s apartment building. Angela took a deep breath as she marshaled her courage.
“How about you just call him on the phone?” Jane suggested.
“No. No, I have to be able to see his face. I need to read his feelings when he looks at me.” Angela shoved open the car door. “Wait for me, Janie. This could be a very short visit.”
Jane watched her mother climb out of the car. Angela paused on the sidewalk to smooth her coat, run her fingers through her hair. She looked like a girl on her first date, and the transformation was startling—her shoulders no longer slumped in defeat, her chin tilted up to meet whatever might come. She opened the apartment door and vanished into the building.
Jane waited. And waited.
Twenty minutes later, Angela had still not returned.
Jane thought of all the possible reasons, most of them bad. What if Angela found Korsak with another woman, a jealous woman? She could be up there now, stabbed and bleeding. Or Korsak could be stabbed and bleeding. That was the downside of being a cop; her mind always went to the worst-case scenario, because she’d seen bad things happen so many times before.
She pulled out her cell phone to call her mother, then realized that Angela had left her purse and cell phone in the car. She dialed Korsak’s phone instead, and after four rings it went to voicemail.
They’re both stabbed and bleeding. And you’re just sitting out here.
With a sigh, she climbed out of the car.
It had been months since she’d last paid a visit to Korsak’s apartment, but nothing about his building had changed. The same fake palm tree was still in the lobby, the floor tiles were still cracked, and the elevator was still broken. She took the stairs to the second floor and knocked at 217. There was no answer, but through the closed door she could hear the TV blaring at full volume, a soundtrack of screams and shrieks accompanied by the ominous thump of drums.
The door was unlocked; she walked in.
The apartment was exactly as she remembered it: black leather sofa, a smoked-glass coffee table, a big-screen TV. Your classic bachelor cave. On the TV, an old black-and-white horror film was playing, and the only light in the darkened living room came from the flickering images of terrified faces staring up at something in the sky. UFOs. An alien-invasion movie.