“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 back 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.”
“Who do you think you are, ordering me around?”
“Just leave.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gave a snort and walked away, dragging his cans behind him. “Park’s full of crazy people these days …”
She turned, and suddenly realized that she was surrounded. Gabriel, Moore, and Frost had all moved within yards of her position, to form a protective circle around her. “Oh man,” she sighed. “Did I ask for help?”
“We didn’t know what was going on,” said Gabriel.
“Now we’ve blown it.” She looked around the park, and it seemed emptier than ever. The couple on the bench was walking away; only the kids with the guitar remained, laughing in the shadows. “If Mila’s been watching, she knows it’s a setup. There’s no way she’ll come near me.”
“It’s nine forty-five,” said Frost. “What do you think?”
Moore shook his head. “Let’s wrap it up. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
“I was doing fine,” said Jane. “I didn’t need the cavalry.”
Gabriel pulled into his parking space behind their apartment building and shut off the engine. “We didn’t know what was happening. We saw you running after that man, and then it looked like he was taking a swing at you.”
“He was just trying to get away.”
“I didn’t know that. All I thought was—” He stopped and looked at her. “I just reacted. That’s all.”
“We’ve probably lost her, you know.”
“Then we’ve lost her.”
“You sound like you don’t even care.”
“You know what I care about? That you don’t get hurt. That’s more important than anything else.” He got out of the car; so did she.
“Do you happen to remember what I do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Suddenly my job is not okay.”
He shut his car door and met her gaze over the roof. “I admit it. I’m having trouble right now, dealing with it.”
“You’re asking me to quit?”
“If I thought I could get away with it.”
“What am I supposed to do instead?”
“Here’s a novel idea. You could stay home with Regina.”
“When did you go all retro on me? I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, either.”
“You knew who I was when you married me, Gabriel.” She turned and walked into the building, and was already climbing to the second floor when she heard him say, from the bottom of the stairs: “But maybe I didn’t know who I was.”
She glanced back at him. “What does that mean?”
“You and Regina are all I have.” Slowly he came up the stairs, until they were face-to-face on the landing. “I never had to worry about anyone else before, about what I could lose. I didn’t know it would scare me so much. Now I’ve got this big exposed Achilles heel, and all I can think about is how to protect it.”
“You can’t protect it,” she said. “It’s just something you have to live with. It’s what happens when you have a family.”
“It’s too much to lose.”
Their apartment door suddenly opened, and Angela poked her head into the hallway. “I thought I heard you two out here.”
Jane turned. “Hi, Mom.”
“I
just put her down for the night, so keep your voices quiet.”
“How was she?”
“Exactly like you were at her age.”
“That bad, huh?” Stepping into the apartment, Jane was taken aback by how neat everything looked. The dishes were washed and put away, the countertops wiped clean. A lace doily graced the dining table. When had she ever owned a lace doily?
“You two had a fight, didn’t you?” said Angela. “I can tell just by looking at you.”
“We had a disappointing night, that’s all.” Jane took off her jacket and hung it in the closet. When she turned back to look at her mother, she saw that Angela’s gaze had focused on Jane’s weapon.
“You’re going to lock that thing up, aren’t you?”
“I always do.”
“Because babies and guns—”
“Okay, okay.” Jane took off her weapon and slid it into a drawer. “You know, she’s not even a month old.”
“She’s precocious, just like you were.” Angela looked at Gabriel. “Did I ever tell you what Jane did when she was three?”
“Mom, he doesn’t want to hear that story.”
“Yes I do,” said Gabriel.
Jane sighed. “It involves a cigarette lighter and the living room curtains. And the Revere Fire Department.”
“Oh, that,” said Angela. “I forgot all about that story.”
“Mrs. Rizzoli, why don’t you tell me about it while I drive you home?” said Gabriel, reaching into the closet to retrieve Angela’s sweater.
In the other room, Regina suddenly let out a howl to announce that she was not, in fact, down for the night. Jane went into the nursery and lifted her daughter out of the crib. When she came back into the living room, Gabriel and her mother had already left the apartment. Rocking Regina in one arm, she stood at the kitchen sink, running warm water into a pan to heat the milk bottle. The apartment’s front door buzzer sounded.
“Janie?” Angela’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Can you let me back in? I forgot my glasses.”
“Come on up, Mom.” Jane pressed the lock release and was waiting at the door to hand over the glasses when her mother came up the stairs.
“Can’t read without these,” said Angela. She paused to give her fussing granddaughter one last kiss. “Better go. He’s got the car running.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Jane went back into the kitchen, where the pan was now overflowing. She set the bottle in hot water, and as the formula warmed, she paced the room with her crying daughter.
The apartment door buzzed again.
Oh, Ma. What’d you forget this time? she wondered, and pressed the lock release.
By now the bottle was warm. She slipped the nipple into Regina’s mouth, but her daughter simply batted it away, as though in disgust. What do you want, baby? she thought in frustration as she carried her daughter back into the living room. If you could just tell me what you want!
She opened the door to greet her mother.
It was not Angela standing there.
THIRTY-FOUR
Without a word, the girl slipped right past Jane, into the apartment, and locked the door. She scurried across to the windows and yanked the Venetian blinds shut, one after the other in quick succession, as Jane watched in astonishment.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The intruder spun around to face her, and pressed her finger to her lips. She was small, more a child than a woman, her thin frame almost lost in the bulky sweatshirt. The hands that poked out the faded sleeves had bones that looked as delicate as a bird’s, and the bulging tote bag she carried seemed to drag down her frail shoulder. Her red hair was cut in a wildly uneven fringe, as though she herself had wielded the scissors, hacking blindly. Her eyes were pale, an unearthly shade of gray, transparent as glass. It was a hungry, feral face, with jutting cheekbones and a gaze that darted around the room in a search for hidden traps.
“Mila?” said Jane.
Again the girl’s finger snapped up to her lips. The look she gave Jane needed no interpretation.
Be quiet. Be afraid.
Even Regina seemed to understand. The baby suddenly went still, her eyes wide and alert as she lay quietly in Jane’s arms.
“You’re safe here,” Jane said.
“No place is safe.”
“Let me call my friends. We’ll get you police protection right now.”
Mila shook her head.
“I know these men. I work with them.” Jane reached for the telephone.
The girl shot forward and slammed her hand down on the receiver. “No police.”
Jane stared into the girl’s eyes, which were now burning with panic. “Okay,” she murmured, backing away from the phone. “I’m police, too. Why do you trust me?”
Mila’s gaze dropped to Regina. And Jane thought: This is why she’s risked this visit. She knows I’m a mother. Somehow that makes all the difference.
“I know why you’re running,” said Jane. “I know about Ashburn.”
Mila went to the couch and sank onto the cushions. Suddenly she seemed even smaller, wilting by the moment beneath Jane’s gaze. Her shoulders crumpled forward. Her head drooped into her hands, as though she was too exhausted to hold it up any longer. “I am so tired,” she whispered.
Jane moved closer until she was standing just above the bowed head, looking down at the raggedly cut hair. “You saw the killers. Help us identify them.”
Mila looked up with hollow, haunted eyes. “I will not live long enough.”
Jane dropped to a crouch, until their eyes were level. Regina too was staring at Mila, fascinated by this exotic new creature. “Why are you here, Mila? What do you want me to do?”
Mila reached into the dirty tote bag she had carried in, and rummaged through wadded-up clothes and candy bars and crumpled tissues. She pulled out a videotape and held it out to Jane.
“What is this?”
“I am afraid to keep it anymore. I give it to you. You tell them there are no more. This is the last copy.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Just take it!” She held it at arm’s length, as though it was poisonous, and she wanted to keep it as far away as possible. She breathed a sigh of relief when Jane finally took it from her.
Jane set Regina in her infant carrier, then crossed to the TV. She slipped the cassette into the VCR, and pressed PLAY on the remote control.
An image appeared on the screen. She saw a brass bed, a chair, heavy drapes covering a window. Off camera, footsteps creaked closer, and a woman giggled. A door clunked shut, and now a man and woman came into view. The woman had a sleek mane of blond hair, and her low-cut blouse revealed bountiful cleavage. The man was dressed in a polo shirt and khaki slacks.
“Oh yeah,” the man sighed as the woman unbuttoned her blouse. She wriggled out of her skirt, peeled down her underwear. She gave the man a playful shove onto the bed, and he flopped back, utterly passive, as she unbuckled his pants, pulled them down over his hips. Bending over him, she took his erect penis into her mouth.
It’s just a porno tape, thought Jane. Why am I watching this?
“Not this one,” Mila said, and took the remote control from Jane’s hand. She pressed FAST-FORWARD.
The blonde’s head jerked back and forth, performing a blow job with manic efficiency. The screen went blank. Now another couple jittered into view. At her first glimpse of the woman’s long black hair, Jane was stunned. It was Olena.
Clothing magically melted away. Nude bodies tumbled onto the bed, writhing in FAST-FORWARD on the mattress. I have seen this bedroom before, Jane suddenly realized, remembering the closet with the hole drilled through the wall. That’s how this videotape was filmed—with a camera mounted in that closet. She realized, too, who the blond woman in the first clip was. She’d been Jane Doe number two in Detective Wardlaw’s crime scene video, the woman who had died in her cot, cowering beneath a blanket.
All the women in this v
ideo are now dead.
Once again, the screen went blank.
“Here,” Mila said softly. She pressed STOP, then PLAY.
It was the same bed, the same room, but with different sheets this time: a floral pattern with mismatched pillowcases. An older man walked into view, balding with wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a white button-down shirt and a red tie. He pulled off the tie and tossed it on the chair, then unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a pale belly, sagging with middle-age spread. Though he stood facing the camera, he did not seem aware of its presence, and he peeled off his shirt with an utter lack of self-consciousness, revealing to the camera an unflattering slouch. Suddenly he straightened, his attention swinging to something the camera could not yet see. It was a girl. Her cries preceded her, shrill protests in what sounded like Russian. She did not want to come into the room. Her sobs were cut off by a sharp slap, and a woman’s stern command. Then the girl stumbled into view as though shoved, and she sprawled on the floor at the man’s feet. The door slammed shut, followed by the clack of footsteps moving away.
The man looked down at the girl. Already an erection bulged in his gray trousers. “Get up,” he said.
The girl did not move.
Again: “Get up.” He gave her a nudge with his foot.
At last the girl raised her head. Slowly, as though exhausted just by the pull of gravity, she struggled to her feet, blond hair disheveled.
Against her will, Jane was drawn closer to the TV. She was too appalled to look away, even as her rage mounted. The girl was not yet even a teenager. She was wearing a pink cropped blouse and a short denim skirt that exposed painfully thin legs. Her cheek still bore the angry red imprint of the woman’s slap. Fading bruises on her bare arms told of other blows, other cruelties. Though the man towered over her, this frail girl now faced him with quiet defiance.
“Take off the blouse.”
The girl just looked at him.
“What, are you stupid? Don’t you understand English?”
The girl’s spine snapped straight, and her chin jutted up. Yes, she does understand. And she’s telling you to fuck off, asshole.
Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 151
