Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I can’t predict that.”

  “That’s not a very helpful answer.”

  “I refuse to be responsible for what happens to you. I can’t predict what they’ll do. I don’t even know what they want.”

  He sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Now I have a question for you. I assume you know the answer.”

  “Your question is?”

  “Of all the journalists they could have asked for, why did they choose you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You must have had some contact with them before.”

  It was his hesitation that caught her attention. She leaned toward him. “You’ve heard from them.”

  “You have to understand, reporters hear from a lot of crazy people. Every week, I get at least a few bizarre letters or phone calls about secret government conspiracies. If it’s not the evil oil companies, then it’s black helicopters or UN plots. Most of the time I just ignore them. That’s why I didn’t really think much of it. It was just another screwy phone call.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago. One of my colleagues just reminded me of it, because he was the one who answered the phone. Frankly, when the call came in, I was too busy to pay much attention. It was late, and I was about to hit a deadline, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to some nutty guy.”

  “The call was from a man?”

  “Yeah. It came into the Tribune newsroom. The man asked if I’d looked at the package he sent me. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He said he’d mailed me something a few weeks before, which I never got. So he told me a woman would drop off another package at the front desk that night. That as soon as it arrived, I should go down to the lobby immediately and pick it up, because it was extremely sensitive.”

  “Did you ever get that second package?”

  “No. The guard at the front desk said no woman ever showed up that night. I went home and forgot all about it. Until now.” He paused. “I’m wondering if that was Joe who called me.”

  “Why choose you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “These people seem to know you.”

  “Maybe they’ve read my column. Maybe they’re fans.” At Maura’s silence, he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Fat chance, huh?”

  “Have you ever appeared on television?” she asked, thinking: He has the face, the dark good looks for it.

  “Never.”

  “And you’re only published in the Boston Tribune?”

  “Only? Nice put-down, Dr. Isles.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I’ve been a reporter since I was twenty-two. Started off freelancing for the Boston Phoenix and Boston Magazine. It was fun for a while, but freelancing is no way to pay the bills, so I was happy to land a spot at the Tribune. Started off on the city beat, spent a few years in DC as their Washington correspondent. Then came back to Boston when they offered me a weekly column. So yeah, I’ve been at this reporting gig for a while. I’m not making a fortune, but obviously I’ve got some fans. Since Joseph Roke seems to know who I am.” He paused. “At least I hope he’s a fan. And not some pissed-off reader.”

  “Even if he is a fan, this is a dangerous situation you’re walking into.”

  “I know.”

  “You understand the setup?”

  “A cameraman and me. It’ll be a live feed to some local TV station. I assume the hostage takers have some way of monitoring that we’re actually on the air. I also assume they won’t object to the standard five-second delay, just in case …” He stopped.

  In case something goes terribly wrong.

  Lukas took a deep breath. “What would you do, Dr. Isles? In my place?”

  “I’m not a journalist.”

  “So you’d refuse.”

  “A normal person doesn’t willingly walk into a hostage situation.”

  “Meaning, journalists aren’t normal people?”

  “Just think hard about it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. That four hostages could walk out of there alive if I do this. For once, something I do will be worth writing about.”

  “And you’re willing to risk your life?”

  “I’m willing to take the chance,” he said. Then added with quiet honesty: “But I’m scared as hell of it, too.” His frankness was disarming; few men were brave enough to admit they were afraid. “Captain Hayder wants my answer by nine P.M.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The cameraman’s already agreed to go in. That makes me feel like a coward if I don’t do it. Especially if four hostages could be saved. I keep thinking of all those reporters in Baghdad right now, and what they face every day. This should be a cakewalk in comparison. I go in, talk to the wackos, let them tell me their story, and then I walk out. Maybe that’s all they want—a chance to vent, to have people listen to them. I could end the whole crisis by doing this.”

  “You want to be a savior.”

  “No! No, I’m just …” He laughed. “Trying to justify taking this crazy chance.”

  “You called it that. I didn’t.”

  “The truth is, I’m no hero. I never saw the point of risking my life if I didn’t have to. But I’m as baffled about this as you are. I want to know why they chose me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine. I guess I’d better call Barsanti.” Rising to his feet, he turned toward the door. Suddenly paused and glanced back.

  Maura’s phone was ringing.

  She picked it up to hear Abe Bristol say: “Are you watching TV?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Turn it on, channel six. It’s not good.”

  As Lukas watched, she crossed to the TV, her heart suddenly pounding. What has happened? What’s gone wrong? She clicked on the remote, and the face of Zoe Fossey at once filled the screen.

  “… official spokesman has refused comment, but we have confirmed that one of the hostages is a Boston police officer. Detective Jane Rizzoli made national headlines just last month, during the investigation of a kidnapped housewife in Natick. We have no word yet as to the condition of any of the hostages, or how Detective Rizzoli happened to be among them …”

  “My god,” murmured Lukas, standing right beside her. She had not been aware that he had moved so close to her. “There’s a cop trapped in there?”

  Maura looked at him. “She could very well be a dead cop.”

  SIXTEEN

  That’s it. I’m going to die.

  Jane sat frozen on the couch, waiting for the gun’s blast as Joe turned from the TV to stare at her. But it was the woman who advanced on Jane, her steps slow and excruciatingly deliberate. Olena was the name Joe had called his partner. At least now I know the names of my murderers, thought Jane. She felt the orderly lean away from her, as though to avoid getting splattered with her blood. Jane’s gaze remained fixed on Olena’s face; she dared not look at the gun. She did not want to see that barrel rising toward her head, did not want to watch the hand tighten around the grip. Better that I can’t see the bullet coming, she thought. Better that I look this woman in the eye, that I force her to see the human being she’s about to blow away. She could read no emotions there; they were a doll’s eyes. Blue glass. Olena was now dressed in clothes that she had scrounged from a locker room: scrub pants and a doctor’s lab coat. A killer disguised in healer’s garb.

  “This is true?” Olena asked softly.

  Jane felt her womb tighten, and she bit her lip at the mounting pain of the new contraction. My poor baby, she thought. You will never take your first breath. She felt Dr. Tam reach out and grasp her hand, offering silent comfort.

  “The TV, it tells the truth? You are police?”

  Jane swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “They said you’re a detective,” Joe cut in. “Are you?”

  Gripped by the contraction, Jane rocked forward, her vision darkening. “Yes,” she groaned. “Yes, godd
amm it! I’m with—with the homicide unit …”

  Olena glanced down at the hospital ID bracelet that she’d earlier torn from Jane’s wrist. It was still on the floor near the couch. She picked it up and handed it to Joe.

  “Rizzoli, Jane,” he read.

  The worst of the contraction was over now. She released a sharp breath and sank back against the couch, her hospital gown drenched in sweat. Too exhausted to fight back, even to save her own life. How could she fight back? I cannot even get up off this soft couch without a helping hand. Defeated, she watched as Joe picked up her medical chart and flipped open the manila cover.

  “Rizzoli, Jane,” he read aloud. “Married, address on Claremont Street. Occupation: Detective, Homicide Unit. Boston PD.” He looked at her with dark eyes so penetrating that she wanted to shrink from them. Unlike Olena, this man was utterly calm and in control. That’s what scared Jane most—that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. “A homicide detective. And you just happen to be here?”

  “Must be my lucky day,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Answer me. How did you just happen to be here?”

  Jane’s chin snapped up. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m having a baby.”

  Dr. Tam said, “I’m her obstetrician. I admitted her this morning.”

  “The timing, that’s what I don’t like,” said Joe. “This is all wrong.”

  Jane flinched as Joe grabbed her hospital gown and yanked it up. For a moment he stared down at Jane’s swollen abdomen, her heavy breasts, now bared for everyone in the room to see. Without a word, he let the gown fall back over Jane’s torso.

  “Are you satisfied, asshole?” Jane blurted, cheeks burning from the humiliation. “What did you expect, a fat suit?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she knew it was a stupid thing to say. First rule of hostage survival: Never piss off the guy holding the gun. But by wrenching aside her gown, he had assaulted her, exposed her, and she was now trembling with rage. “You think I want to be trapped in here with you two whack jobs?”

  She felt Dr. Tam’s hand tighten around her wrist in a silent plea to shut up. Jane shook off the hand and kept her fury focused on their captors.

  “Yes, I’m a cop. And guess what? You two are royally screwed. You kill me, and you know what happens, don’t you? You know what my buddies do to cop killers?”

  Joe and Olena looked at each other. Were they making a decision? Coming to an agreement about whether she lived or died?

  “A mistake,” said Joe. “That’s all you are, Detective. You’re in the wrong fucking place at the wrong fucking time.”

  You said it, asshole.

  She was startled when Joe suddenly laughed. He paced to the other end of the room, shaking his head. When he turned back to face her, she saw that his weapon was now pointed at the floor. Not at her.

  “So are you a good cop?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “On TV, they said you worked a case with a missing housewife.”

  “A pregnant woman. She was kidnapped.”

  “How did it end?”

  “She’s alive. The perp’s dead.”

  “So you’re good.”

  “I did my job.”

  Another look passed between Olena and Joe.

  He came toward Jane, until he was standing right in front of her. “What if I was to tell you about a crime? What if I told you that justice wasn’t served? That it can never be served?”

  “Why can’t it be?”

  He reached for a chair, pulled it in front of her, and sat down. Their gazes were now level. Dark eyes met hers with unwavering focus. “Because it was committed by our own government.”

  Oops. Cuckoo alert.

  “Do you have proof?” Jane asked, managing to keep her voice neutral.

  “We have a witness,” he said, and pointed to Olena. “She saw it happen.”

  “Witness reports aren’t necessarily sufficient.” Especially when the witness is crazy.

  “Are you aware of all the criminal acts our government is guilty of? The crimes they commit every day? The assassinations, kidnappings? Poisoning their own citizens, in the name of profits? It’s big business that runs this country, and we’re all expendable. Take soft drinks, for example.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Diet soft drinks. The US government bought ’em by the container load for its troops in the Gulf. I was there, and I saw cans and cans, sitting in the heat. What do you think happens to the chemicals in diet drinks when they’re exposed to heat? They turn toxic. They turn to poison. That’s why thousands of Gulf War vets came home sick. Oh yeah, our government knows about it, but we never will. The soda pop industry’s too big, and they know just whom to bribe.”

  “So … this is all about soda pop?”

  “No. This is much worse.” He leaned closer. “And this time we’ve finally got them, Detective. We have a witness and we have the proof. And we have the country’s attention. That’s why we’ve got them scared. That’s why they want us dead. What would you do, Detective?”

  “About what? I still don’t understand.”

  “If you knew about a crime committed by people in our government. And you knew it had gone unpunished. What would you do?”

  “That’s easy. I’d do my job. The same as always.”

  “You’d see that justice is served?”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter who stood in your way?”

  “Who would try to stop me?”

  “You don’t know these people. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  She tensed as another contraction squeezed its fist around her womb. She felt Dr. Tam take her hand again, and Jane held on tight. Suddenly everything went out of focus as the pain roared in, pain that made her rock forward, groaning. Oh god, what had they taught her in Lamaze class? She’d forgotten it all.

  “Cleansing breath,” murmured Dr. Tam. “Find your focus.”

  That was it. Now she remembered. Take a breath. Focus on one spot. These crazy people weren’t going to kill her in the next sixty seconds. She just had to get past this pain. Breathe and focus. Breathe and focus …

  Olena moved close, and suddenly her face loomed right in front of Jane’s. “Look at me,” Olena said. She pointed to her own eyes. “Look here, right at me. Until it is over.”

  I can’t believe it. A crazy woman wants to be my labor coach.

  Jane began to pant, her breath quickening as the pain mounted. Olena was right in front of her, her gaze fixed on hers. Cool blue water. That’s what those eyes reminded Jane of. Water. Clear and calm. A pond with no ripples.

  “Good,” the woman murmured. “You did good.”

  Jane exhaled a sigh of relief and sprawled back against the cushions. Sweat trickled down her cheek. Another five blessed minutes to recover. She thought of all the women through millennia who had endured childbirth, thought of her own mother who, thirty-four years ago, had labored through a hot summer’s night to bring Jane into the world. I did not appreciate what you went through. Now I understand. This is the price women have paid for every child ever born.

  “Whom do you trust, Detective Rizzoli?”

  Joe was talking to her again. She raised her head, still too dazed to understand what he wanted from her.

  “There must be someone you trust,” he said. “Someone you work with. Another cop. Maybe your partner.”

  She gave a weary shake of her head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “What if I held this gun to your head?”

  She froze as he suddenly raised his weapon and pressed it to her temple. She heard the receptionist give a gasp. Felt her fellow hostages on the couch shrink away from the victim between them.

  “Now tell me,” Joe said coldly. Reasonably. “Is there anyone who’d take this bullet for you?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  “I’m just aski
ng. Who would take this bullet for you? Who would you trust with your life?”

  She stared at the hand holding the gun, and she thought: It’s a test. And I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what he wants to hear.

  “Tell me, Detective. Isn’t there someone you completely believe in?”

  “Gabriel …” She swallowed. “My husband. I trust my husband.”

  “I’m not talking about family. I’m talking about someone with a badge, like you. Someone clean. Someone who’ll do his duty.”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Answer the question!”

  “I told you. I gave you an answer.”

  “You said your husband.”

  “Yes!”

  “Is he a cop?”

  “No, he’s …” She stopped.

  “What is he?”

  She straightened. Looked past the gun, and focused instead on the eyes of the man holding it. “He’s FBI,” she said.

  Joe stared at her for a moment. Then he looked at his partner. “This changes everything,” he said.

  SEVENTEEN

  Mila

  There is a new girl in our house.

  This morning, a van pulled up in the driveway, and the men carried her up to our room. All day she has been lying on Olena’s cot, sleeping off the drugs they gave her for the journey. We all watch her, staring down at a face so pale that it does not look like living flesh, but translucent marble. Her breaths come in soft little puffs, a strand of her blond hair fluttering every time she exhales. Her hands are small—a doll’s hands, I think, looking at the little fist, at the thumb pressed against her lips. Even when the Mother unlocks the door and steps into the room, the girl does not stir.

  “Wake her,” the Mother orders.

  “How old is she?” Olena asks.

  “Just get her up.”

  “She’s only a child. What is she, twelve? Thirteen?”

  “Old enough to work.” The Mother crosses to the cot and gives the girl a shake. “Come on,” she snaps, yanking off the blanket. “You’ve slept too long.”

  The girl stirs and rolls onto her back. That’s when I see the bruises on her arm. She opens her eyes, sees us staring at her, and her frail body instantly stiffens in alarm.