Last to Die

TEN

IT WAS A STRANGE PLACE TO MEET.

Jane stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the blacked-out windows where the words ARABIAN NIGHTS were stenciled in flaking gold letters over the painted figure of a buxom woman in harem pants. The door suddenly opened and a man stumbled out. He wobbled for a moment, squinting in the daylight, and headed unsteadily down the street, trailing the sour scent of booze.

As Jane stepped into the establishment, an even stronger whiff of alcohol hit her full in the face. Inside, it was so dim that she could barely make out the silhouettes of two men hunched at the bar, nursing their drinks. Gaudy cushions and camel bells decorated the velvet-upholstered booths, and she half expected a belly dancer to come tinkling by with a tray of cocktails.

“Get ya something, miss?” the bartender called out, and the two patrons swiveled around to stare at her.

“I’m here to meet someone,” she said.

“I’m guessing you want that guy in the back booth.”

A voice called out: “I’m here, Jane.”

She nodded to the bartender and headed to the back booth where her father was sitting, almost swallowed up among poufy velvet cushions. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the table in front of him. It wasn’t even five P.M. and he was already drinking, something she’d never seen him do before. Then again, Frank Rizzoli had recently done a lot of things she’d never thought he’d do.

Like walk out on his wife.

She slid onto the bench across from him and sneezed as she settled on dusty velvet. “Why the hell are we meeting here, Dad?” she asked.

“It’s quiet. Good place to talk.”

“This is where you hang out?”

“Lately. You want a drink?”

“No.” She looked at the glass in front of him. “What’s that all about?”

“Whiskey.”

“No, I mean what’s with drinking before five?”

“Who the hell made up that rule, anyway? What’s so magic about five o’clock? Anyway, you know how the song goes. It’s always five o’clock somewhere. Smart man, Jimmy Buffett.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I called in sick. So sue me.” He took a sip of whiskey but didn’t seem to enjoy it, and set the glass back down. “You don’t talk to me much these days, Jane. It hurts.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m your father. That hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, but you’re like a pod person. You do things that my dad—my old dad—wouldn’t do.”

He sighed. “Insanity.”

“That sounds about right.”

“No, I mean it. The insanity of lust. Fucking hormones.”

“My old dad wouldn’t have used that word.”

“Your old dad’s a lot wiser now.”

“Is he?” She leaned back, and her throat itched from the dust puffing up from the velvet upholstery. “Is that why you’re trying to reconnect with me?”

“I never cut you off. You did.”

“It’s hard to keep connected when you’re shacked up with another woman. There were weeks when you never bothered to call, even once. To check on any of us.”

“I didn’t dare. You were too pissed at me. And you took your mom’s side.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You have two parents, Jane.”

“And one of them walked out. Broke Mom’s heart and ran off with a bimbo.”

“Your mom doesn’t look too heartbroken to me.”

“You know how many months it took for her to get to this point? How many nights she spent crying her eyes out? While you were out partying with what’s-her-face, Mom was trying to figure out how to survive on her own. And she did it. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s landed on her feet and is doing fine. Great, in fact.”

Those words seemed to hit him as hard as if she’d actually thrown a punch. Even in the gloom of that cocktail lounge she could see his face crumple, his shoulders fold forward. His head dropped into his hands, and she heard what sounded like a sob.

“Dad? Dad.”

“You gotta stop her. She can’t marry that man, she can’t.”

“Dad, I—” Jane glanced down at the cell phone vibrating on her belt. A quick glance told her it was a Maine area code, a number she didn’t recognize. She let it go to voice mail and refocused on her father. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“It was a mistake. If I could just turn back the clock …”

“I thought you were engaged to what’s-her-name.”

He took a deep breath. “Sandie called it off. And she kicked me out.”

Jane didn’t say a word. For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of ice cubes and the rattle of the cocktail shaker at the bar.

Head drooped, he murmured into his chest. “I’m staying at a cheap hotel around the corner from here. That’s why I asked you to meet me here, ’cause this is where I hang out now.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “The fucking Arabian Nights cocktail lounge!”

“What happened between you two?”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Life. Boredom. I don’t know. She said I couldn’t keep up with her. That I was acting like an old fart, wanting my dinner cooked every night, and what was she, the maid?”

“Maybe now you appreciate Mom.”

“Yeah, well, nobody beats your mom’s cooking, that’s for damn sure. So maybe I was unfair, expecting Sandie to measure up. But she didn’t have to twist the knife, you know? Calling me old.”

“Ouch. That’s gotta sting.”

“I’m only sixty-two! Just ’cause she’s fourteen years younger doesn’t make her some spring chicken. But that’s how she sees me, too old for her. Too old to be worth …” He dropped his head in his hands again.

Lust fades and then you see your new and exciting lover in the harsh light of day. Sandie Huffington must have woken up one morning, looked at Frank Rizzoli, and noticed the lines in his face, the sag of his jowls. When the hormones were spent, what was left was sixty-two years old, and going flabby and bald. She’d snagged another woman’s husband and now she wanted to throw back the catch.

“You gotta help me,” he said.

“You need money, Dad?”

His head snapped up. “No! I’m not asking for that! I got a job, why would I need your money?”

“Then what do you need?”

“I need you to talk to your ma. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“She should hear that from you.”

“I tried to tell her, but she doesn’t want to hear me out.”

Jane sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.”

“And … and ask her when I can come home.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What’s that look on your face?”

“You expect Mom to let you move back in?”

“Half the house is mine.”

“You’ll kill each other.”

“A bad idea to have your parents together again? What kind of thing is that for a daughter to say?”

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was slowly and clearly. “So you want to go back to Mom and be the way you were before. Is that what you’re saying?” She rubbed her temples. “Holy shit.”

“I want us to be a family again. Her, me, you and your brothers. Christmas and Thanksgiving together. All those great times, great meals.”

Mostly the great meals.

“Frankie’s on board,” he said. “He wants it to happen. So does Mike. I just need you to talk to her, because she listens to you. You tell her to take me back. Tell her it’s the way things were meant to be.”

“What about Korsak?”

“Who gives a shit about him?”

“They’re engaged. They’re planning the wedding.”

“She’s not divorced yet. She’s still my wife.”

“It’s only a matter of paperwork.”

“It’s a matter of family. A matter of what’s right. Please, Jane, talk to her. And we can go back to being the Rizzolis again.”

The Rizzolis. She thought about what that meant. A history. All the holidays and birthdays, together. Memories shared by no one else but them. There was a sacredness to that, something that should not be easily cast aside, and she was sentimental enough to mourn what had been lost. Now it could be reconstructed and made whole, Mom and Dad together again, as they’d always been. Frankie and Mike wanted it. Her dad wanted it.

And her mother? What did she want?

She thought of the pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress that Angela had so happily presented to her. Remembered the last time she and Gabriel had gone to her mother’s house for dinner, when Angela and Korsak had giggled like teenagers and played footsie under the table. She looked across at her father and could not remember him ever playing footsie. Or giggling. Or slapping Angela’s butt. What she saw was a tired and beaten man who’d gambled on a flaky blonde and lost. If I were Mom, would I take him back?

“Janie? Talk to her for me,” he pleaded.

She sighed. “Okay.”

“Do it soon. Before she gets too tight with that jerk.”

“Korsak’s not a jerk, Dad.”

“How can you say that? He walked in and took what isn’t his.”

“He walked in because there was a vacancy. You understand, don’t you, that things have changed since you left? Mom’s changed.”

“And I want her back the way she used to be. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. You tell her that. Tell her it’ll be just like old times.”

Jane looked down at her watch. “It’s dinnertime. I’ve gotta go.”

“You promise you’ll do this for your old dad?”

“Yeah, I promise.” She slid out of the booth, glad to escape the dusty cushions. “Take care of yourself.”

He smiled at her, the first smile she’d seen since she’d arrived, and a hint of Frank Rizzoli’s old cockiness returned. Dad, reclaiming his territory. “I will. Now that I know everything’s gonna be okay.”

I wouldn’t count on it, she thought as she walked out of the Arabian Nights. She dreaded the conversation with Angela, dreaded her mother’s reaction. Yelling would probably be involved. No matter what her mother decided, someone was going to get hurt. Either Korsak or her dad. And Jane had just gotten accustomed to the thought of Korsak joining the family. He was a big man with a big heart, and he loved Angela, of that there was no doubt. Who will you choose, Mom?

The looming conversation plagued her all the way home, darkening her mood through dinner, through Regina’s bath time, through their evening rituals of the storybook and five bedtime kisses. When she finally closed Regina’s bedroom door and walked to the kitchen to call Angela, it felt like a march to Death Row. She picked up the phone, hung up again, and sank with a sigh into a kitchen chair.

“You do know you’re being manipulated,” said Gabriel. He closed the dishwasher and started the wash cycle. “You don’t have to do this, Jane.”

“I promised Dad I’d call her.”

“He’s perfectly capable of calling Angela himself. It’s wrong to put you in the middle of this. Their marriage is their problem.”

She groaned and put her head in her hands. “Which makes it my problem.”

“I’ll just say it. Your dad’s a coward. He screwed up big time, and now he wants you to fix things.”

“What if I’m the only one who can?”

Gabriel sat down, joining her at the kitchen table. “By talking your mother into taking him back?”

“I don’t know what’s best.”

“Your mom’s going to have to choose.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “What do you think she should do?”

He considered the question as the dishwasher swished and hummed in the background. “I think she seems pretty happy right now.”

“So you’d vote for Korsak.”

“He’s a decent man, Jane. He’s kind to her. He won’t hurt her.”

“But he’s not my dad.”

“And that’s why you shouldn’t get involved. You’re being forced to choose sides, and that’s wrong for your father to do. Look what he’s putting you through.”

After a moment, she sat up straight. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have to do this. I’m going to tell him to call her himself.”

“Don’t feel guilty about it. If your mom wants your advice, she’ll ask you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Now what the hell’s his new phone number?” She reached into her purse and dug out her cell phone to check the contacts list. Only then did she notice the message on her screen: ONE NEW VOICE MAIL. It was the call that had come in while she was talking to her father.

She played the message and heard Maura’s voice:

… two children here, a girl named Claire Ward and a boy, Will Yablonski. Jane, their stories are like Teddy Clock’s. Real parents killed two years ago. Foster parents killed just last month. I don’t know if this is related, but it’s damn weird, don’t you think?

Jane replayed the recording twice, then dialed the number that Maura had called from.

After six rings, a woman answered: “Evensong School. This is Dr. Welliver.”

“I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. I’m trying to reach Dr. Maura Isles.”

“I’m afraid she’s gone for an evening canoe on the lake.”

“I’ll try her cell phone.”

“We don’t have a cell signal out here. That’s why she used our landline.”

“Then have her call me back when she can. Thank you.” Jane hung up and stared at her phone for a moment, all thoughts of her parents temporarily forgotten. Instead she thought of Teddy Clock. The unluckiest boy in the world, Moore called him. But now she knew of two others just like him. Three unlucky children. Maybe there were more she didn’t know about, foster children in other cities, being hunted even now.

“I have to go out,” she said.

“What’s going on?” asked Gabriel.

“I need to see Teddy Clock.”

“Is there a problem?”

She grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. “I hope not.”

It was dark by the time she reached the suburban foster home where Teddy had been temporarily placed. The house was an older but neatly kept white Colonial set back from the street and screened by leafy trees. Jane parked in the driveway and stepped out, into a warm night that smelled of freshly mown grass. It was quiet on this road, with only an occasional car passing by. Through the trees she could barely glimpse the lights of the neighbors next door.

She climbed the porch steps and rang the bell.

Mrs. Nancy Inigo answered, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her smiling face was streaked with flour, and gray hairs had come loose from her braid. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafted from inside, and Jane heard the sound of girls’ laughter.

“You made it here in record time, Detective,” said Nancy.

“I’m sorry if my phone call alarmed you.”

“No, the girls and I are having a fine old time baking cookies. We just got the first batch out of the oven. Come on in.”

“Is Teddy okay?” Jane asked softly as she stepped into the foyer.

Nancy gave a sigh. “I’m afraid he’s hiding upstairs right now. Not really in the mood to join us in the kitchen. That’s how he’s been since he got here. Eats dinner, then goes into his room and shuts the door.” She shook her head. “We asked the psychologist if we should coax him out, maybe take away his computer time and make him join us for family activities, but she said it’s too soon. Or maybe Teddy’s just afraid to get attached to us, because of what happened to the last …” Nancy paused. “Anyway, Patrick and I are taking it slow with him.”

“Is Patrick here?”

“No, he’s at Trevor’s soccer practice. With four kids, there’s never a moment to sit still.”

“You two are really something, you know that?”

“We just like having kids around, that’s all,” Nancy said with a laugh. They walked into the kitchen, where two flour-dusted girls of about eight were pressing cookie cutters into a sheet of dough. “Once we got started taking them in, we couldn’t seem to stop. Did you know we’re already about to attend the fourth wedding? Patrick’s walking another foster daughter down the aisle next month.”

“That’s going to add up to a lot of grandkids for you two.”

Nancy grinned. “That’s the whole idea.”

Jane glanced around the kitchen, where countertops were covered with homework papers and schoolbooks and scattered mail. The happy disorder of a busy family. But she’d seen how instantly normal could vanish. She had stood in kitchens transformed by blood splatters, and just for an instant she imagined splatters on these cabinets. She blinked and the blood was gone and once again she saw two eight-year-olds with sticky hands cutting star-shaped cookies.

“I’m going up to see Teddy,” she said.

“Upstairs, second bedroom on the right. The one with the closed door.” Nancy slid another cookie sheet into the oven and turned to look at her. “Be sure to knock first. He’s particular about that. And don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to talk. Just give him time, Detective.”

We may not have much time, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Not if other foster families were being attacked. She paused outside the boy’s room and listened for the sound of a radio or TV, but heard only silence through the closed door.

She knocked. “Teddy? It’s Detective Rizzoli. Can I come in?”

After a moment, the button lock clicked and the door swung open. Teddy’s owlish pale face regarded her through the gap, blinking rapidly, his glasses askew as if he’d just woken up.

As she entered the room, he stood silent, thin as a scarecrow in his baggy T-shirt and jeans. It was a pleasant room painted lemon yellow, the curtains printed with African savanna scenes. The shelves contained children’s books for various age levels, and on the walls hung cheery posters of Sesame Street characters, décor that was certainly too young for a smart fourteen-year-old like Teddy. Jane wondered how many other traumatized children had taken refuge in this room, had found comfort in this secure world created by the Inigos.

The boy had still not spoken.

She sat in a chair by Teddy’s laptop computer, where a screensaver traced geometric lines across the monitor. “How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Why don’t you sit down, so we can talk.”

Obediently he sank onto the bed and sat with shoulders folded inward, as though he wanted to make himself as small and inconsequential as possible.

“Do you like it here with Nancy and Patrick?”

He nodded.

“Is there anything you need, anything I can bring you?”

A shake of the head.

“Teddy, don’t you have anything to say?”

“No.”

At last a word, even if it was only one.

“Okay.” She sighed. “Then maybe I should just get to the point. I need to ask you about something.”

“I don’t know anything else.” He seemed to shrink deeper into himself and mumbled into his chest. “I told you everything I remembered.”

“And you helped us, Teddy. You really did.”

“But you haven’t caught him, have you? So you want me to tell you more.”

“This isn’t about that night. It’s not even about you. It’s about two other children.”

Slowly his head lifted, and he looked at her. “I’m not the only one?”

She stared at eyes so colorless they seemed transparent, as if she could look right through him. “Do you think there are other kids like you?”

“I don’t know. But you just said there were two other kids. What do they have to do with me?”

The boy might not say much, but obviously he listened and understood more than she realized. “I’m not sure, Teddy. Maybe you can help me answer that question.”

“Who are they? The other kids?”

“The girl’s name is Claire Ward. Have you ever heard that name?”

He considered this for a moment. From the kitchen came the sounds of the oven door banging shut, the girls squealing, noises of a happy family. But in Teddy’s room there was silence as the boy sat thinking. Finally, he gave a small shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Anything’s possible. That’s what my dad used to say. But I can’t be sure.”

“There’s also a boy named Will Yablonski. Does that ring any bells?”

“Is his family dead, too?”

The question, asked so softly, made her heart ache for the boy. She moved close beside him, to place her arm around his pitifully thin shoulders. He sat stiffly beside her, as if her touch was simply something to endure. She kept her arm around him anyway as they sat on the bed, two mute companions joined by a tragedy neither could explain.

“Is the boy alive?” Teddy asked softly.

“Yes, he is.”

“And the girl?”

“They’re both safe. You are, too, I promise.”

“No I’m not.” He looked at her, his gaze clear-eyed and steady, his voice matter-of-fact. “I’m going to die.”

“Don’t say that, Teddy. It’s not true, and—”

Her words were cut off as the lights suddenly went out. In the darkness she heard the boy breathing loud and fast, and felt her own heart banging in her chest.

Nancy Inigo called out from the kitchen: “Detective Rizzoli? I think we must have blown a fuse!”

Of course that’s all it is, thought Jane. A blown fuse. Things like this happen all the time.

The crack of shattering glass made Jane leap to her feet. In an instant she had her holster unsnapped, her hand on her Glock.

“Nancy!” she yelled.

Frantic footsteps came thumping up the stairs, and the two girls burst in, followed by the heavier footfalls of Nancy Inigo.

“It came from the front of the house!” said Nancy, her voice almost drowned out by the girl’s panicked whimpers. “Someone’s breaking in!”

And they were all trapped upstairs. Their only escape was through Teddy’s window, which led to a two-story drop.

“Where’s the nearest telephone?” Jane whispered.

“Downstairs. In my bedroom.”

And Jane’s cell phone was in her purse, which she’d left in the kitchen.

“Stay here. Lock the door,” Jane ordered.

“What are you doing? Detective, don’t leave us!”

But Jane was already headed out of the room. She heard the door close softly behind her, heard Nancy snap the button lock. That lock was next to useless; it would delay an intruder for only the seconds it would take to kick down the flimsy door.

First, he has to get past me.

Gripping her weapon, she crept up the dark hallway. Whoever had broken the window was silent now. She heard only her own heartbeat and the rush of blood through her ears. At the top of the stairs she halted and dropped to a crouch. This was as far as she’d go. Only a fool would try to stalk a killer in the darkness, and her only priority was protecting Nancy and the children. No, she’d wait right here and pick him off as he climbed the stairs. Come to Mama, asshole.

Her eyes had finally adjusted to the gloom, and she could just make out the silhouette of the banister spiraling down into shadow. The only light was the faint glow through a downstairs window. Where was he, where was he? She heard no sound, no movement.

Maybe he’s no longer downstairs. Maybe he’s already on the second floor, standing right behind me.

In panic, her head snapped around, but she saw no monster looming behind.

Her attention swiveled back to the stairs just as an approaching car’s headlights flared through the window. Car doors slammed shut, and she heard children’s voices, footsteps thumping up the steps. The front door swung open and a man stood framed in the doorway.

“Hey, Nancy? What’s with the lights?” he called out. “I’ve got half the soccer team here, expecting cookies!”

The invasion of little boys sounded like a cattle stampede as they came clomping in, laughing and hooting in the darkness. Still crouched at the top of the stairs, Jane slowly lowered her weapon.

“Mr. Inigo?” she called out.

“Hello? Who’s up there?”

“Detective Rizzoli. Do you have your cell phone?”

“Yeah. Where’s Nancy?”

“I want you to call nine one one. And get those boys out of the house.”