“Or end up dead,” said Jane.
The sun had shifted, its glare now slanting under the umbrella, onto Jane’s shoulder. Sweat trickled down her breast. It’s too hot for you up here, baby, she thought, looking down at Regina’s pink face.
It’s too hot for all of us.
THIRTY-TWO
Detective Moore looked up at the clock as the time closed in on eight P.M. The last time Jane had sat in the homicide unit’s conference room, she’d been nine months pregnant, weary and irritable and more than ready for maternity leave. Now she was back in the same room, with the same colleagues, but everything was different. The room felt charged, the tension winding tighter with each passing minute. She and Gabriel sat facing Moore; Detectives Frost and Crowe sat near the head of the table. At their center was the object of their attention: Jane’s cell phone, connected to a speaker system. “We’re getting close,” Moore said. “Are you still comfortable with this? We can have Frost take the calls.”
“No, I have to do it,” Jane said. “If a man answers, it could scare her off.”
Crowe gave a shrug. “If this mystery girl calls at all.”
“Since you seem to think this is such a big waste of time,” snapped Jane, “you don’t have to hang around.”
“Oh, I’ll stay just to see what happens.”
“We wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Three minutes, guys,” interjected Frost. Trying, as usual, to play peacemaker between Jane and Crowe.
“She may not even have seen the ad,” said Crowe.
“The issue’s been on the stands for five days,” said Moore. “She’s had a chance to see it. If she doesn’t call, then it’s because she’s chosen not to.”
Or she’s dead, thought Jane. Something that surely crossed all their minds, though no one said it.
Jane’s cell phone rang, and everyone’s gaze instantly swung to her. The caller ID showed a number from Fort Lauderdale. This was merely a phone call, yet Jane’s heart was pounding with a kick as powerful as fear.
She took a deep breath and looked at Moore, who nodded. “Hello?” she answered.
A man’s voice drawled over the speaker. “So what’s this all s’posed to be about, huh?” In the background was laughter, the sounds of people enjoying a jolly good joke.
“Who are you?” Jane asked.
“We’re all just wondering here. What’s it s’posed to mean? ‘The die is cast’?”
“You’re calling to ask me that?”
“Yeah. This some kinda game? We s’posed to guess?”
“I don’t have time to talk to you now. I’m waiting for another call.”
“Hey. Hey, lady! We’re calling long distance, goddammit.”
Jane hung up and looked at Moore. “What a jerk.”
“If that’s your typical Confidential reader,” said Crowe, “this is gonna be one hell of a fun night.”
“We’re probably going to get a few more of those,” warned Moore.
The phone rang. This call was from Providence.
A fresh jolt of adrenaline had Jane’s pulse racing once again. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a female voice said brightly. “I saw your ad in the Confidential, and I’m doing a research paper on personal ads. I wanted to know if yours is for the purpose of romance, or is this a commercial enterprise?”
“Neither,” snapped Jane, and disconnected. “God, what is it with people?”
At 8:05, the phone again rang. A Newark caller, asking: “Is this some kind of contest? Do I get a prize for calling?”
At 8:07: “I just wanted to find out if someone would really answer this number.”
At 8:15: “Are you, like, a spy or something?”
By 8:30, the calls finally stopped. For twenty minutes, they stared at a silent phone.
“I think that’s it,” said Crowe, rising to his feet and stretching. “I’d call that a valuable use of our evening.”
“Wait,” said Frost. “We’re coming up on central time.”
“What?”
“Rizzoli’s ad didn’t specify which time zone. It’s almost eight P.M. in Kansas City.”
“He’s right,” said Moore. “Let’s all sit tight here.”
“All time zones? We’ll be here till midnight,” said Crowe.
“Even longer,” pointed out Frost. “If you include Hawaii.”
Crowe snorted. “Maybe we should bring in some pizza.”
In the end, they did. During the lull between ten and eleven P.M., Frost stepped out and returned with two large pepperonis from Domino’s. They popped open cans of soda and passed around napkins and sat watching the silent phone. Though Jane had been away from her job for over a month, tonight it was almost as if she had never left. She was sitting around the same table, with the same tired cops, and as usual, Darren Crowe was annoying the hell out of her. Except for the fact Gabriel had joined the team, nothing had changed. I’ve missed it, she thought. Crowe and all. I’ve missed being part of the hunt.
The ringing phone caught her with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. She grabbed a napkin to wipe the grease from her fingers and glanced up at the clock. Eleven P.M. sharp. The caller ID display showed a Boston number. This call was three hours too late.
“Hello?” she answered.
Her greeting was met with silence.
“Hello?” Jane said again.
“Who are you?” It was a female voice, barely a whisper.
Startled, Jane looked at Gabriel and saw that he’d registered the same detail. The caller has an accent.
“I’m a friend,” said Jane
“I don’t know you.”
“Olena told me about you.”
“Olena is dead.”
It’s her. Jane glanced around the table and saw stunned faces. Even Crowe had rocked forward, his face tense with anticipation.
“Mila,” said Jane. “Tell me where we can meet. Please, I need to talk to you. I promise, it will be perfectly safe. Anywhere you want.” She heard the click of the receiver hanging up. “Shit.” Jane looked at Moore. “We need her location!”
“You got it yet?” he asked Frost.
Frost hung up the conference room phone. “West End. It’s a pay phone.”
“On our way,” said Crowe, already out of his chair and headed toward the door.
“By the time you get there, she’ll be long gone,” said Gabriel.
Moore said, “A patrol car could be there in five minutes.”
Jane shook her head. “No uniforms. She sees one, she’ll know it’s a setup. And I’ll lose any chance of connecting with her again.”
“So what are you saying we should do?” said Crowe, pausing in the doorway.
“Give her a chance to think about it. She has my number. She knows how to reach me.”
“But she doesn’t know who you are,” said Moore.
“And that’s got to scare her. She’s just playing it safe.”
“Look, she might never call back,” said Crowe. “This could be our one and only chance to bring her in. Let’s do it now.”
“He’s right,” said Moore, looking at Jane. “It could be our only chance.”
After a moment, Jane nodded. “All right. Go.”
Frost and Crowe left the room. As the minutes passed, Jane stared at the silent phone, thinking: Maybe I should have gone with them. I should be the one out there, looking for her. She pictured Frost and Crowe navigating the warren of streets in the West End, searching for a woman whose face they didn’t know.
Moore’s cell phone rang and he snapped it up. Just by his expression, Jane could tell that the news was not good. He hung up and shook his head.
“She wasn’t there?” said Jane.
“They’ve called in CSU to dust the pay phone for prints.” He saw the bitter disappointment in her face. “Look, at least we now know she’s real. She’s alive.”
“For the moment,” said Jane.
Even cops needed to shop for milk and di
apers.
Jane stood in the grocery store aisle, Regina snug against her chest in a baby sling, and wearily surveyed the cans of infant formula on the shelves, studying the nutritional contents of every brand. They all offered one hundred percent of a baby’s daily needs from A to zinc. Any one of these would be perfectly adequate, she thought, so why am I feeling guilty? Regina likes formula. And I need to clip on my beeper and get back to work. I need to get off the couch and stop watching those reruns of Cops.
I need to get out of this grocery store.
She grabbed two six-packs of Similac, moved down another aisle for the Pampers, and headed to the cashier.
Outside, the parking lot was so hot she broke into a sweat just loading the groceries into her trunk. The seats could sear flesh; before strapping Regina into her infant seat, Jane paused with the doors open to air out the car. Grocery carts rattled by, pushed by perspiring shoppers. A horn honked, and a man yelled: “Hey, watch where you’re going, asshole!” None of these people wanted to be in the city right now. They all wanted to be at the beach holding ice cream cones, not trapped elbow to elbow with other cranky Bostonians.
Regina began to cry, her dark curls sweaty against her pink face. Yet another cranky Bostonian. She kept screaming as Jane leaned into the backseat and buckled her in, was still screaming blocks later as Jane inched through traffic, the AC going full blast. She hit another red light and thought: Lord, get me through this afternoon.
Her cell phone rang.
She could have just let it continue ringing, but she ended up fishing it out of her purse and saw on the display a local number that she did not recognize.
“Hello?” she answered.
Through Regina’s angry wails, she could barely hear the question: “Who are you?” The voice was soft and instantly familiar.
Jane’s muscles all snapped taut. “Mila? Don’t hang up! Please don’t hang up. Talk to me!”
“You are police.”
The traffic light turned green, and behind her, a car honked. “Yes,” she admitted. “I’m a policewoman. I’m only trying to help you.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I was with Olena when . . .”
“When the police killed her?”
The car behind Jane’s blasted its horn again, an unrelenting demand that she get the hell out of its way. Asshole. She goosed the accelerator and drove through the intersection, the cell phone still pressed to her ear.
“Mila,” she said. “Olena told me about you. It was the last thing she said—that I should find you.”
“Last night, you sent policemen to catch me.”
“I didn’t send—”
“Two men. I saw them.”
“They’re my friends, Mila. We’re all trying to protect you. It’s dangerous for you to be out there on your own.”
“You do not know how dangerous.”
“Yes I do!” She paused. “I know why you’re running, why you’re scared. You were in that house when your friends were shot to death. Weren’t you, Mila? You saw it happen.”
“I’m the only one left.”
“You could testify in court.”
“They will kill me first.”
“Who?”
There was silence. Please don’t hang up again, she thought. Stay on the line. She spotted an open space at the curb and abruptly pulled over. Sat with the phone pressed to her ear, waiting for the woman to speak. In the backseat Regina kept crying and crying, angrier by the minute that her mother dared ignore her.
“Mila?”
“What baby is crying?”
“It’s my baby. She’s in the car with me.”
“But you said you are police.”
“Yes, I am. I told you I am. My name is Jane Rizzoli. I’m a detective. You can confirm that, Mila. Call the Boston Police Department and ask them about me. I was with Olena when she died. I was trapped in that building with her.” She paused. “I couldn’t save her.”
Another silence passed. The AC was still going full blast, and Regina was still crying, determined to make gray hairs pop out on her mother’s brow.
“Public gardens,” said Mila.
“What?”
“Tonight. Nine o’clock. You wait by the pond.”
“Will you be there? Hello?”
No one was on the line.
THIRTY-THREE
The weapon felt heavy and strangely unfamiliar on Jane’s hip. Once an old friend, it had sat locked up and ignored in a drawer these past few weeks. Only reluctantly had she loaded it and snapped it into her holster. Though she’d always regarded her weapon with the healthy respect due any object that could blast a hole in a man’s chest, never before had she hesitated to reach for it. This must be what motherhood does to you, she thought. I look at a gun now, and all I can think of is Regina. How one twitch of a finger, one wayward bullet, could take her from me.
“It doesn’t have to be you,” said Gabriel.
They were sitting in Gabriel’s parked Volvo on Newbury Street, where fashionable shops were preparing to close for the night. The Saturday restaurant crowd still lingered in the neighborhood, well-dressed couples strolling past, happily sated with dinner and wine. Unlike Jane, who’d been too nervous to eat more than a few bites of the pot roast her mother had brought to their apartment.
“They can send in another female cop,” said Gabriel. “You can just sit this one out.”
“Mila knows my voice. She knows my name. I have to do it.”
“You’ve been out of the game for a month.”
“And it’s time for me to get back in.” She looked at her watch. “Four minutes,” she said into her comm unit. “Is everyone ready?”
Over the earpiece, she heard Moore say: “We’re in place. Frost is at Beacon and Huntington. I’m in front of the Four Seasons.”
“And I’ll be behind you,” said Gabriel.
“Okay.” She stepped out of the car and tugged down the light jacket she was wearing, so it would cover the bulge of her weapon. Walking up Newbury Street, heading west, she brushed past Saturday night tourists. People who did not need guns on their belts. At Arlington Street she paused to wait for traffic. Across the street were the public gardens, and to her left was Beacon Street, where Frost was posted, but she did not glance his way. Nor did she hazard a look over her shoulder, to confirm that Gabriel was behind her. She knew he was.
She crossed Arlington and strolled into the public gardens.
Newbury Street had been bustling, but here there were few tourists. A couple sat on a bench by the pond, arms wrapped around each other, heedless of anyone outside their own fevered universe. A man was hunched over a trash bin, picking out aluminum cans and dropping them into his clanking sack. Sprawled on the lawn, shadowed by trees from the glow of streetlights, a circle of kids took turns strumming a guitar. Jane paused at the pond’s edge and scanned the shadows. Is she here? Is she already watching me?
No one approached her.
She made a slow circuit around the pond. During the day there would be swan boats gliding in the water, and families eating ice cream, and musicians pounding on bongo drums. But tonight the water was still, a black hole reflecting not even a shimmer of city lights. She continued to the north end of the pond and paused, listening to traffic along Beacon Street. Through the bushes she saw the silhouette of a man loitering beneath a tree. Barry Frost. She turned and continued her circle around the pond, and finally came to a halt beneath a streetlamp.
Here I am, Mila. Take a good long look at me. You can see that I’m alone.
After a moment, she settled onto a bench, feeling like the star of a one-woman stage play, with the lamplight shining down on her head. She felt eyes watching her, violating her privacy.
Something rattled behind her, and she jerked around, automatically reaching for her weapon. Her hand froze on the holster when she saw it was only the scruffy man with the trash bag of clanking aluminum cans. Heart pounding, she again settled ba
ck against the bench. A breeze blew through the park, rippling the pond, raking its surface with sequins of reflected light. The man with the cans dragged his bag to a trash receptacle beside her bench and began to poke through the rubbish. He took his time excavating treasure, each find announced by a cymbal’s clash of aluminum. Would the man never go away? In frustration, she rose to her feet to escape him.
Her cell phone rang.
She thrust a hand in her pocket and snapped up the phone. “Hello? Hello?”
Silence.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m sitting by the pond, where you told me to wait. Mila?”
She heard only the throb of her own heartbeat. The connection was dead.
She spun around and scanned the park, spotting only the same people she’d seen before. The couple necking on the bench, the kids with the guitar. And the man with the sack of cans. He was motionless, hunched over the trash receptacle, as though eyeing some minute jewel in the mound of newspapers and food wrappings.
He’s been listening.
“Hey,” Jane said.
The man instantly straightened. He began to walk away, the sack of cans clanking behind him.
She started after him. “I want to talk to you!”
The man did not look back, but kept walking. Faster now, knowing that he was being pursued. She sprinted after him, and caught up just as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Grabbing the back of his windbreaker she yanked him around. Beneath the glare of the streetlight, they stared at each other. She saw sunken eyes and an unkempt beard streaked with gray. Smelled breath soured by alcohol and rotting teeth.
He batted away her hand. “What’re you doing? What the hell, lady?”
“Rizzoli?” Moore’s voice barked over her earpiece. “You need backup?”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
“Who ya talking to?” the bum said.
Angrily, she waved him off. “Go. Just get out of here.”