Last to Die

EIGHTEEN

I’M A LITTLE HAZY ON MY GEOGRAPHY, RIZZOLI, SO HELP ME OUT HERE,” said Detective Crowe. “The last time I checked, New Hampshire was not in our jurisdiction.”

Jane looked around the table at the detectives who’d gathered for the team conference. Frost and Moore sat facing her, but neither one seemed eager to butt heads with Crowe this morning. The whole team, in fact, looked weary of conflict. Crowe had beaten them all down, and she was the only one prepared to challenge him. The only one who actually relished a knock-down, drag-out battle.

“I just listed all the parallels to the Ackerman case,” she said. “Two years ago, the Yablonskis die when a bomb takes down their private plane.”

“Which crashed in Maryland,” pointed out Crowe.

“Also two years ago, Claire Ward’s parents are shot to death—”

“In London.” Crowe laughed. “A different country, for Chrissakes.”

“—and both events take place the very same week that Teddy Clock’s family is attacked in Saint Thomas. Three families, Crowe. All killed within days of each other. Now it’s two years later, and the sole survivors of those families are all attacked again. It’s like someone’s determined to wipe out the bloodlines. And these three kids will be the last to die.”

“What do you propose, Rizzoli? You want to fly to Maryland and run their investigation for them?”

“Flying to Maryland would be a start.”

“What’s next, London? Boston PD will be thrilled to foot that bill. Oh, and let’s not forget Saint Thomas. Someone needs to check out that incident.”

Frost raised a hand. “I volunteer for Saint Thomas.”

“I’m not asking for junkets to London and Saint Thomas,” said Jane. “I’d just like to spend some time on this. I think there are connections that we just aren’t seeing. Something that ties together the Wards, the Yablonskis, and the Clocks.”

“A vast international conspiracy,” said Crowe. “Right.”

“It warrants a deeper look.”

“No. We stay focused on Andres Zapata. Suddenly he’s nowhere to be seen, which sounds like a guilty man to me.” Crowe looked at Frost. “What do we have on his phone calls?”

Frost shook his head. “Hasn’t used his cell phone since the Ackermans were killed. I’m guessing he tossed it, or he’s already back in Colombia. Maria’s phone calls don’t trip any alarms for me.”

“Then she has some other way she contacts him. Email. A go-between. So we move on to friends of friends. Any new tips since this morning’s broadcast?”

Moore nodded. “We’re trying to keep up with all of them.”

“You know what Master Yoda says. There’s no try, only do.” Crowe glanced at his watch and abruptly stood up, straightening his tie. “Got a reporter waiting for me,” he said and walked out of the room.

“Do you think we should widen that doorway now?” said Jane. “Before his head gets too big to fit through?”

“I think it’s too late,” said Moore. Legendary for his patience, even he looked disgusted as he gathered his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. Lately he’d been talking a lot about retirement; this might be the case that finally pushed him out the door.

“What do you think about Zapata?” Jane asked him.

“Andres Zapata has everything that Crowe loves in a suspect. Access, opportunity, a rap sheet. And no green card.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Neither do I have a convincing argument to rebut it. For now, Zapata’s our man.” Moore snapped the briefcase shut and trudged out the door like a weary bureaucrat.

“Geez,” she said to Frost. “What happened to him?”

“You don’t know what it’s been like around here the past few days,” said Frost. “You haven’t had the pleasure of Crowe’s company.”

She sat tapping her pen on the files she’d brought into the meeting. Thought about all the hours she’d devoted to researching the Wards and Yablonskis. “Tell me I’ve got a point, Frost. Tell me there’s something weird about it all.”

“There’s something weird.”

“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t mean it ties in here. I did that VICAP search. Looked at hundreds of family annihilations across the country. I’m sorry to say, these three families have a lot of company.”

“But it’s the second attacks that make these three stand out. It’s like the Grim Reaper won’t give up until He finishes the job. How do we explain it?”

“Not every crazy thing has an explanation. Sometimes it just is.”

“I never liked that answer. It’s the kind of thing I tell my kid.”

“And Regina’s okay with it, right?”

“Doesn’t mean I am.”

Her cell phone rang. She saw Crowe’s number on the display and groaned. Rolled her eyes at Frost as she answered: “Rizzoli.”

“They spotted Zapata, an apartment in Roxbury. Surveillance tails Maria there, and the fucking moron shows up. Get here now, we’re moving in.”

TEN MINUTES LATER JANE and Frost pulled up next to a chain-link fence and scrambled out of their car. Crowe was already there, strutting like General MacArthur exhorting his troops, which consisted of Detectives Arbato and Moore and two patrolmen.

“Front entrance is around the corner,” said Arbato, pointing to the four-story redbrick apartment building. “Cahill’s watching the front door. Hasn’t seen the suspect come out yet.”

“Are we sure it is Zapata?” asked Moore.

“If not, then he’s got a double. Maria stepped off the bus two blocks from here, walked straight to this address. Half an hour later, Zapata cuts across that parking lot, enters the building.”

“You got a list of the tenants?” asked Jane.

“Yeah. There are twenty-four apartments, five of them vacant.”

“Any Hispanic names?” said Crowe. “We’ll check those first.”

One of the patrolmen laughed. “Hey man, that’s profiling!”

“So sue me.”

“Can I see that list?” Frost asked, and he scanned down the names. “There’s a Philbrook living here.”

“Yeah, that’s real Hispanic,” the patrolman said.

“Maria has a sister.” Frost looked up. “She’s married to a Philbrook.”

“That’s gotta be it,” said Crowe. “Which apartment?”

“It says Two Ten.”

“That’d be the rear of the building,” said Arbato. “Security code for the entrance keypad is one two seven.”

“Arbato,” snapped Crowe, “you and these two officers stay on the exits. Rest of us, in.”

Anyone who spotted them would know something was about to go down as Crowe and Moore, Frost and Jane moved together toward the front entrance. But those in Apartment 210, which faced the rear of the building, would be blind to what was coming their way. Crowe punched 1-2-7 on the entrance keypad, and the lock clicked open. As Jane followed him inside, her heart was thumping, her hands starting to sweat. This could go down easy, or it could turn into a bloody disaster. Which meant these might be the last seconds she’d ever register, her shoes moving up scuffed stairs, the weight of the Glock in her hands. Frost’s back was just ahead of her, his Kevlar vest bulging beneath his shirt. All these details she took in with click-click efficiency, a dozen impressions at once.

They reached the second-floor landing. Apartment 210 was down the hall. Behind her, a door suddenly opened and Jane whirled, weapon swinging around. A young woman stared back, baby clutched in her arms, dark eyes wide with terror.

“Stay inside!” Jane hissed. Instantly the woman retreated and the door slammed shut.

Crowe was already at Apartment 210. He paused, shot his team a glance. “Rizzoli,” he whispered. “Your show. Get us in there.”

She knew why he’d chosen her. Female face and voice, not as threatening. She took a breath and rang the door buzzer. Stood close enough to the peephole that she’d fill the view. Unfortunately that also made it easier for anyone inside to blow off her head. She spied a flicker of movement in the peephole; someone was staring at her.

The door swung open. A Hispanic woman appeared, round-faced, in her forties, with a strong enough resemblance to the Ackerman’s housekeeper that Jane knew this must be Maria’s sister.

“Mrs. Philbrook?” said Jane.

The woman spotted the other detectives in the hall and screamed: “Maria!”

“Go, go!” barked Crowe as he shoved past Jane and burst into the apartment.

Too many things happened at once. Detectives barreling through the apartment. Maria’s sister shouting, wailing in Spanish. As Jane ran through, toward the next room, she caught glimpses of a stained carpet, a striped sofa, a playpen.

Kids. There are kids in this apartment.

Jane darted into a bedroom, where heavy curtains cast a gloom so deep she almost missed the huddled shapes in the corner. A woman was hugging two toddlers, her body curled around the children as though insulating them from harm with her own flesh.

Maria.

Footsteps clanged on metal.

Jane ducked through another doorway, into a second bedroom where Moore was scrambling through the open window, onto the fire escape.

“Zapata?” Jane asked.

“Headed up the ladder!”

Why up?

She stuck her head out the window and saw Arbato and Cahill standing in the alley below, their weapons drawn. She looked up, spotted her three teammates clambering up the ladder in pursuit.

She sprinted back through the apartment and dashed for the stairwell. If Zapata made it to the roof, that’s where she’d intercept him. She took the steps two at a time, saw a door pop open and slam shut as she hurtled past, up the final flight, her heart whomping, her chest heaving.

She burst through the door to the rooftop and emerged into the glare of midday. Saw Zapata scramble over the edge and land with both feet onto the roof.

“Freeze!” she yelled. “Police!”

He halted, staring at her. He was empty-handed. Faded blue jeans, wrinkled buttondown shirt with a ripped sleeve. For a few seconds it was just the two of them on that rooftop. She saw desperation in his eyes, watched it harden to grim determination.

“Hands in the air!” Crowe shouted as he and Frost dropped onto the rooftop behind Zapata.

There was nowhere for him to run. One cop in front of him, two behind him, all of them armed. Jane saw Zapata’s legs wobble, thought he was about to drop to his knees in surrender. His next move shocked her.

He sprang to his left and ran toward the roof’s far edge. Toward the narrow alley that cut between buildings. Only an Olympic-class leap could take a man safely across that gulf.

Yet leap he did, flinging himself from the roof’s edge toward the next building. For a moment he seemed to hang in midair, his body stretched out in a swan dive that almost carried him across the chasm.

Jane scrambled to the edge. Saw Zapata clinging desperately to the rain gutter of the other building as his legs scissored above a four-story drop.

“Jesus, is he nuts?” said Frost.

“Arbato, get next door!” Crowe yelled down at the street, and the two detectives on the ground sprinted across the alley.

Still dangling from the rain gutter, Zapata tried to pull himself up, feet fighting for purchase against the wall. He swung up one leg, missed. Swung again. Just as his shoe made it up over the edge, the gutter tore away from the roof.

Jane closed her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the squeal of collapsing metal, or the thud of Zapata’s body hitting the pavement.

Somewhere, a woman was screaming.