Last to Die

by Tess Gerritsen

“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 Ackermans’ 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.

  MARIA SALAZAR SAT hunched at the interview table, head drooping as she wiped tears from her eyes. As a young woman, Maria would have been strikingly beautiful. At forty-five she was still handsome, but through the one-way mirror Jane could see the gray roots peeking through on the crown of Maria’s head. Her arms, propped up on the table, were heavy but solid with muscles built up from years of housework. While she had scrubbed and polished and swept other people’s houses, what resentments had bubbled up inside her? As she’d dusted the Ackermans’ antique furniture, vacuumed the Persian carpets, had it ever occurred to her that just one of their paintings, one emerald necklace from Mrs. Ackerman’s jewelry box, could make all her financial woes disappear?

  “Never,” Marie moaned in the next room. “I never steal anything!”

  Crowe, playing bad cop to Moore’s good cop, leaned in close, his teeth bared with undisguised aggression. “You disarmed the security system for your boyfriend.”

  “No.”

  “Left the kitchen door unlocked.”

  “No.”

  “Gave yourself a rock-solid alibi, babysitting your sister’s kids, while Andres slipped into the Ackermans’ house. Was he just going to rob them that night, or was murder always the plan?”

  “Andres, he never hurt anyone!”

  “His fingerprints are on the kitchen door. They’re inside the kitchen.” Crowe bent even closer and Maria shrank away. Jane almost felt sorry for the woman because there were few sights uglier than Darren Crowe’s snarl, shoved into your face. “He was in the house, Maria. Just walked through that kitchen door.”

  “He brought my cell phone! I left it home that morning, so he comes to the house.”

  “And left his fingerprints inside the kitchen?”

  “I give him coffee. I clean the stove, and he sits for a minute.”

  “And Mrs. Ackerman’s okay with that? A strange man, sitting in her kitchen?”

  “She don’t mind. Mrs. Ackerman, she’s always nice to me.”

  “Come on. Weren’t the Ackermans like every other rich ass-hole? Paid you almost nothing, while you’re on your knees scrubbing their toilets.”

  “No, they treat me good.”

  “They had all the money in the world, and look at you, Maria. Struggling to pay your bills. It’s so unfair. You deserve more, don’t you think?”

  She shook her head. “You make this up. It’s not the truth.”

  “The truth is, Andres had a criminal record in Colombia.
Drug smuggling. Burglary.”

  “He never hurt anyone.”

  “There’s always a first time. Gotta be tempting when we’re talking about people as rich as the Ackermans. All those nice things, there for the taking.” He pulled an evidence bag out of the box he’d brought into the room. “We found these in your apartment, Maria. Nice pearl earrings. How did you afford these?”

  “Mrs. Ackerman, she gave them to me. For Christmas.”

  “Gave them to you? Sure.”

  “She did.”

  “They’re worth about five hundred bucks. Pretty nice bonus.”

  “She didn’t want them anymore. Said I could have them.”

  “Or did she suddenly find out you’d stolen them? Maybe that’s the reason Andres had to kill them. To keep them quiet so you wouldn’t get arrested.”

  Maria’s head came up, her eyes swollen and damp, her face flushed with rage. “You are a devil!”

  “I’m just trying to keep this city safe.”

  “By making up lies? You don’t know me. You don’t know Andres.”

  “I know he was a criminal. I know he ran from us. That tells me he was guilty.”

  “He was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Colombia. He couldn’t go back to Colombia. They would kill him there.”

  “So he chose to die here, instead?”

  Maria dropped her face in her hands. “He wanted to live,” she sobbed. “He wanted to be left alone.”

  “Tell the truth, Maria.”

  “That is the truth.”

  “Tell the truth, or …” Crowe paused at Moore’s touch on his shoulder. Though no words were exchanged between the two men, Jane saw the look that passed between them. Saw Moore’s disapproving shake of the head, answered by Crowe’s glare.

  Abruptly Crowe straightened. “Think about it, Maria,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  “Man,” Frost muttered beside Jane. “That’s one asshole on steroids.”

  Through the one-way mirror, Jane watched as Moore sat with Maria. He offered no comforting touch, no reassuring words, as the woman continued to sob, hugging herself as though to stop her shaking.

  “There’s not enough evidence here,” said Jane.

  “The fingerprints on the kitchen door?” said Frost. “The fact he ran from us?”

  “Give me a break. You sound like Crowe.”

  “And those earrings. Who gives their housekeeper an expensive gift like that?”

  “Maybe it’s true. Maybe Mrs. Ackerman was a generous woman. We can’t disprove it. And think about that house, all the things Zapata could have stolen, if this really was a robbery. Even the jewelry box was left.”

  “He got spooked. Ran before he could take anything.”

  “Does that sound plausible? It’s gotta bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”

  In the next room, Maria slowly rose to her feet, steadied by Moore’s hand. As he guided the housekeeper out the door, Jane said quietly: “It bothers Moore, too.”

  “The trouble is, you don’t have anything else to go on. Just a bad feeling.”

  That wasn’t enough, but it was also something she couldn’t ignore. A bad feeling was your subconscious telling you you’d missed something, a vital detail that could change the course of an investigation.

  It could change lives.

  Her phone rang. When she looked at the caller’s name, she had another bad feeling. “Frankie,” she answered with a sigh.

  “I’ve called you twice and you didn’t pick up.”

  “I’ve been busy.” Chasing suspects. Watching a man die.

  “Yeah, well, now it’s too late. It’s all hitting the fan.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re at Mom’s, and Korsak’s just arrived.”

  “We? You mean Dad’s there, too?”

  “Yeah. They’re all yelling at each other.”

  “Jesus, Frankie. You’ve gotta keep Dad and Korsak apart. And get one of them out of there.”

  “I swear they’re gonna kill each other, Jane.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be right there.” She hung up.

  “Remember. There’s nothing more dangerous than a domestic call,” said Frost, spectacularly unhelpful.

  “I just hope I won’t have to call a lawyer.”

  “For your dad?”

  “For me. After I kill him.”

  AS JANE STEPPED out of her car, she could already hear the shouting. She hurried past three familiar vehicles parked at crazy angles in front of her mother’s house and banged on the front door. Banged again when no one answered, probably because they’d gone deaf inside from the racket.

  “Finally, the police arrive,” said a cranky voice behind her.

  Jane turned to see Angela’s next-door neighbor, Mrs. Kaminsky, glaring at her from the sidewalk. The woman had looked ancient twenty years ago, and the passage of decades had changed nothing, as if she’d been frozen in time, her face forever cemented in a scowl.

  “This neighborhood’s gone all to pot,” said Mrs. Kaminsky. “All this running around with strange men.”

  “Excuse me?” said Jane.

  “Your mother used to be respectable. A good married woman.”

  “My dad left her.”

  “So that’s an excuse to run wild?”

  “Wild? My mom?”

  The front door opened. “Thank God you’re here!” said Korsak. “It’s two against one!” He grabbed Jane’s hand. “Come help me.”

  “You see?” said Mrs. Kaminsky, pointing at Korsak. “He’s what I’m talking about!”

  Jane followed Korsak into the house, relieved to close the front door against the neighbor’s disapproving stare. “What do you mean, two against one?”

  “I’m all on my own here. Your dad and Frankie keep hammering away, trying to get your mom to dump me.”

  “What does Mom say?”

  “Who knows what she’ll do? Any minute now, she’s gonna snap.”

  Kicking all these guys out of her house would be a good first step, thought Jane as she followed the sound of voices toward the kitchen. Of course this battle would have to be in the kitchen, where a sharp knife was always handy.

  “It’s like you’ve been taken over by pod people, and now you can’t think for yourself,” Jane’s father said.

  “Ma, we don’t know you anymore,” Frankie chimed in.

  “I just want my old Angela back. My wife and me together, the way we used to be.”

  Angela was sitting at the table, clutching her head as though to shut out the voices assaulting her.

  “Dad, Frankie,” said Jane. “Leave her alone.”

  Angela looked up at her daughter with desperate eyes. “What do I do, Janie? They’re making me so confused!”

  “There’s no confusion here,” said Frank. “We’re married, and that’s that.”

  “Last week, you were getting divorced,” said Korsak.

  “That was a misunderstanding.”

  “And her name was Sandie,” muttered Angela.

  “She meant nothing!”

  “Not what I heard,” said Korsak.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” said Jane’s brother. “Why are you still here, asshole?”

  “’Cause I love this woman, okay? After your dad walked out, I was the one who stood by her. I was the one who made her laugh again.” Korsak placed a possessive hand on Angela’s shoulder. “Now your dad needs to move on.”

  “Don’t touch my wife.” Frank slapped Korsak’s hand away from Angela.

  Korsak bristled. “Did you just hit me?”

  “What, you mean that little tap?” Frank gave Korsak’s arm a hard shove. “Or did you mean that?”

  “Dad, don’t,” said Jane.

  Korsak’s face flushed a dangerous red. With both hands he shoved Frank Rizzoli backward against the kitchen counter. “That was assaulting a police officer.”

  Jane’s brother shoved himself between the
two older men. “Hey. Hey.”

  “You ain’t a police officer now!” Frank Senior yelled. “And no wonder! Fat ass with a bad ticker!”

  “Dad,” Jane pleaded as she swept the nearby wood block of kitchen knives out of his reach. “Stop it. Both of you!”

  Korsak gave his shirt collar a tug. “I’ll overlook what just happened here, for Angela’s sake. But don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

  “Get outta my house, asshole,” said Frank Senior.

  “Your house? You walked out on her,” pointed out Korsak. “That makes this her house.”

  “Which I’ve been paying the mortgage on for the past twenty years. Now you think you can just horn in on my property?”

  “Property?” Angela suddenly snapped straight, as if that word had driven a spear down her spine. “Property? Is that what I am to you, Frank?”

  “Ma,” said Frankie. “Dad didn’t mean it that way.”

  “He most certainly did.”

  “No I didn’t,” said Frank. “I’m just saying …”

  Angela shot him a thousand-volt look. “I am nobody’s property. I am my own woman.”

  “You tell him, babe,” said Korsak.

  Frank and Frankie snapped simultaneously: “You shut up.”

  “I want you out of here,” Angela said, rising from her seat at the table, a Valkyrie ready for battle. “Go,” she ordered.

  Frank and Korsak looked at each other uncertainly.

  “Well, you heard her,” said Korsak.

  “I mean both of you. All of you,” said Angela.

  Korsak shook his head in bewilderment. “But Angie—”

  “You’re giving me a headache with all this tugging and yelling. It’s my kitchen, my house, and I want it back. Now.”

  “Ma, that sounds like a good idea,” said Frankie. “A great idea.” He gave his father a pat on the back. “Come on, Dad. Give her time and she’ll come back to her senses.”

  “That,” said Angela, “will not help your father’s case.” She glared at the interlopers in her kitchen. “Well, what are you all waiting for?”

  “He leaves first,” said Frank, pointing at Korsak.

  “Why should it be me?”

  “We’re all leaving, Ma,” said Jane. She took Korsak’s arm and pulled him toward the front door. “Frankie, you get Dad out of here.”