Rizzoli & Isles 10 - Last to Die Page 2

  “Oh Janie, look at you!” said Angela Rizzoli, clapping her hands in delight. “You are so beautiful, you’ll steal the show from me. Don’t you just love it?”

  Jane blinked, too stunned to say a word.

  “Of course, you’ll have to wear high heels to pull it all together. Satin stilettos, I’m thinking. And a bouquet with pink roses and baby’s breath. Or is that old-fashioned? Do you think I should go more modern with calla lilies or something?”

  “Mom…”

  “I’ll have to take this in for you at the waist. How come you’ve lost weight? Aren’t you eating enough?”

  “Seriously? This is what you want me to wear?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s…pink.”

  “And you look beautiful in it.”

  “Have you ever seen me wear pink?”

  “I’m sewing a little dress just like it for Regina. You’ll look so cute together! Mom and daughter in matching dresses!”

  “Regina’s cute. I’m definitely not.”

  Angela’s lip began to quiver. It was a sign as subtly ominous as the first twitch of a nuclear reactor’s warning dial. “I worked all weekend making that dress. Sewed every stitch, every ruffle, with my own hands. And you don’t want to wear it, even for my wedding?”

  Jane swallowed. “I didn’t say that. Not exactly.”

  “I can see it in your face. You hate it.”

  “No, Mom, it’s a great dress.” For a frigging Barbie, maybe.

  Angela sank onto the bed, and her sigh was worthy of a dying heroine. “You know, maybe Vince and I should just elope. That would make everyone happier, wouldn’t it? Then I won’t have to deal with Frankie. I won’t have to worry about who’s included on the guest list and who isn’t. And you won’t have to wear a dress you hate.”

  Jane sat on the bed beside her, and the taffeta puffed up on her lap like a big ball of cotton candy. She punched it down. “Mom, your divorce isn’t even final yet. You can take all the time you want to plan this. That’s the fun of a wedding, don’t you think? You don’t have to rush into anything.” She glanced up at the sound of the doorbell.

  “Vince is impatient. Do you know what he told me? He says he wants to claim his bride, isn’t that sweet? I feel like that Madonna song. Like a virgin again.”

  Jane jumped up. “I’ll answer the door.”

  “We should just get married in Miami,” Angela yelled as Jane walked from the bedroom. “It’d be a whole lot easier. Cheaper, too, ’cause I wouldn’t have to feed all the relatives!”

  Jane opened the front door. Standing on the porch were the two men she least wanted to see on this Sunday morning.

  Her brother Frankie laughed as he entered the house. “What’s with the ugly dress?”

  Her father, Frank Senior, followed, announcing: “I’m here to speak to your mother.”

  “Dad, this isn’t a good time,” said Jane.

  “I’m here. It’s a good time. Where is she?” he asked, looking around the living room.

  “I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”

  “She has to talk to me. We need to put a stop to this insanity.”

  “Insanity?” said Angela, emerging from the bedroom. “Look who’s talking about insanity.”

  “Frankie says you’re going through with this,” said Jane’s father. “You’re actually going to marry that man?”

  “Vince asked me. I said yes.”

  “What about the fact we’re still married?”

  “It’s only a matter of paperwork.”

  “I’m not going to sign them.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m not gonna sign the papers. And you’re not gonna marry that guy.”

  Angela gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re the one who walked out.”

  “I didn’t know you’d turn around and get married!”

  “What am I supposed to do, sit around pining after you left me for her? I’m still a young woman, Frank! Men want me. They want to sleep with me!”

  Frankie groaned. “Jesus, Ma.”

  “And you know what?” added Angela. “Sex has never been better!”

  Jane heard her cell phone ringing in the bedroom. She ignored it and grabbed her father’s arm. “I think you’d better leave, Dad. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  “I’m glad you left me, Frank,” said Angela. “Now I’ve got my life back and I know what it’s like to be appreciated.”

  “You’re my wife. You still belong to me.”

  Jane’s cell phone, which had gone briefly silent, was ringing again, insistent and now impossible to ignore. “Frankie,” she pleaded, “for God’s sake, help me here! Get him out of the house.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Frankie said, and clapped his father on the back. “Let’s go get a beer.”

  “I’m not finished here.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Angela.

  Jane sprinted back to the bedroom and dug the ringing cell phone out of her purse. Tried to ignore the arguing voices in the hallway as she answered: “Rizzoli.”

  Detective Darren Crowe said, “We need you on this one. How soon can you get here?” No polite preamble, no please or would you mind, just Crowe being his usual charming self.

  She responded with an equally brusque: “I’m not on call.”

  “Marquette’s bringing in three teams. I’m lead on this. Frost just got here, but we could use a woman.”

  “Did I just hear you right? Did you say you actually need a woman’s help?”

  “Look, our witness is too shell-shocked to tell us much of anything. Moore’s already tried talking to the kid, but he thinks you’ll have better luck with him.”

  Kid. That word made Jane go still. “Your witness is a child?”

  “Looks about thirteen, fourteen. He’s the only survivor.”

  “What happened?”

  Over the phone she heard other voices in the background, the staccato dialogue of crime scene personnel and the echo of multiple footsteps moving around a room with hard floors. She could picture Crowe swaggering at the center of it with his puffed-out chest and bulked-up shoulders and Hollywood haircut. “It’s a fucking bloodbath here,” he said. “Five victims, including three children. The youngest one can’t be more than eight years old.”

  I don’t want to see this, she thought. Not today. Not any day. But she managed to say: “Where are you?”

  “The residence is on Louisburg Square. Goddamn news vans are packed in tight here, so you’ll probably need to park a block or two away.”

  She blinked in surprise. “This happened on Beacon Hill?”

  “Yeah. Even the rich get whacked.”

  “Who are the victims?”

  “Bernard and Cecilia Ackerman, ages fifty and forty-eight. And their three adopted daughters.”

  “And the survivor? Is he one of their kids?”

  “No. His name’s Teddy Clock. He’s been living with the Ackermans for a couple of years.”

  “Living with them? Is he a relative?”

  “No,” said Crowe. “He’s their foster child.”

  FOUR

  As Jane walked into Louisburg Square, she spotted the familiar black Lexus parked among the knot of Boston PD vehicles and she knew that ME Maura Isles was already on the scene. Judging by all the news vans, every TV station in Boston was also here, and no wonder: Of all the desirable neighborhoods in the city, few could match this square with its jewel-like park and leafy trees. The Greek Revival mansions overlooking the park were home to both old wealth and new, to corporate moguls and Boston Brahmins and a former US senator. Even in this neighborhood, violence was no stranger. The rich get whacked, too, Detective Crowe had said, but when it happened to them, everyone paid attention. Beyond the perimeter of police tape, a crowd jostled for better views. Beacon Hill was a popular stop for tour groups, and today those tourists were certainly getting their money’s worth.

  “Hey, look! It’s Detective Rizzoli.”


  Jane spotted the female TV reporter and cameraman moving toward her, and she put up her hand to hold off any questions. Of course they ignored her and pursued her across the square.

  “Detective, we hear there’s a witness!”

  Jane pushed through the crowd, muttering: “Police. Let me through.”

  “Is it true the security system was turned off? And nothing was stolen?”

  The damn reporters knew more than she did. She ducked under the crime scene tape and gave her name and unit number to the patrolman on guard. It was merely a matter of protocol; he knew exactly who she was, and had already ticked off her name on his clipboard.

  “Shoulda seen that gal chase Detective Frost,” the patrolman said with a laugh. “He looked like a scared rabbit.”

  “Is Frost inside?”

  “So is Lieutenant Marquette. The commissioner’s on his way in, and I half expect His Honor will be showing up, too.”

  She looked up at the stunning four-story redbrick residence and murmured: “Wow.”

  “I figure it’s worth fifteen, twenty million.”

  But that was before the ghosts moved in, she thought, staring at the handsome bow windows and the elaborately carved pediment above the massive front door. Beyond that front door were horrors she had no stomach to confront. Three dead children. This was the curse of parenthood; every dead child wears the face of your own. As she pulled on gloves and shoe covers, she was donning emotional protection as well. Like the construction worker who puts on his hard hat, she donned her own armor and stepped inside.

  She looked up at a stairwell that soared four stories to a glass-domed roof, through which sunlight streamed in a shower of gold. Many voices, most of them male, echoed down that stairwell from the upper floors. Although she craned her neck, she could not spot anyone from the foyer, could just hear those voices, like the rumblings of ghosts in a house that, over a century, would have sheltered many souls.

  “A glimpse of how the other half lives,” said a male voice.

  She turned to see Detective Crowe standing in a doorway. “And dies,” she said.

  “We’ve parked the boy next door. The neighbor lady was kind enough to let him wait in her house. The kid knows her, and we thought he’d feel more comfortable being interviewed there.”

  “First I need to know what happened in this house.”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out.”

  “What’s with all the brass showing up? I heard the commissioner’s on his way.”

  “Just take a look at the place. Money talks, even when you’re dead.”

  “Where did this family’s money come from?”

  “Bernard Ackerman’s a retired investment banker. His family’s owned this house for two generations. Big-time philanthropists. You name the charity, they probably gave to it.”

  “How did this go down?”

  “Why don’t you just take the tour?” He waved her into the room from which he’d just emerged. “You tell me what you think.”

  Not that her opinion mattered much to Darren Crowe. When she’d first joined the homicide unit, their clashes had been bitter, and his disdain all too apparent. She still detected hints of it in his laugh, his tone of voice. Whatever respect she’d earned in his eyes would always be probationary, and here was yet another opportunity to lose it.

  She followed him through a parlor where the twenty-foot ceiling was ornately painted with cherubs and grapevines and gold-leaf rosettes. There was scarcely any chance to admire that ceiling or the oil paintings, because Crowe walked straight through into the library, where Jane saw Lieutenant Marquette and Dr. Maura Isles. On this warm June day, Maura was wearing a peach-colored blouse, an uncharacteristically cheerful color for someone who usually favored wintry blacks and grays. With her stylishly geometric haircut and her elegant features, Maura looked like a woman who might actually live in a mansion like this, surrounded by oil paintings and Persian carpets.

  They stood surrounded by books, displayed in floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves. Some of those volumes had tumbled onto the floor, where a silver-haired man lay facedown, one arm propped upright against the bookcase, as though reaching for a volume even in death. He was dressed in pajamas and slippers. The bullet had penetrated both his hand and his forehead, and on the shelf above the body a starburst of blood had splattered the leather-bound spines. The victim put up his hand to block the bullet, thought Jane. He saw it coming. He knew he was going to die.

  “My time of death estimate is consistent with what the witness told you,” Maura said to Marquette.

  “Early morning, then. Sometime after midnight.”

  “Yes.”

  Jane crouched down over the body and studied the entrance wound. “Nine millimeter?”

  “Or possibly a three fifty-seven,” said Maura.

  “You don’t know? We don’t have casings?”

  “Not a single one in the whole house.”

  Jane looked up in surprise. “Wow, he’s a tidy killer. Picks up after himself.”

  “Tidy in a number of ways,” said Maura, thoughtfully regarding the deceased Bernard Ackerman. “This was a quick and efficient kill. A minimum of disorder. Just like upstairs.”

  Upstairs, thought Jane. The children.

  “The rest of the family,” said Jane, sounding more matter-of-fact than she felt, “did they die around the same time as Mr. Ackerman? Was there any delay?”

  “My estimate is only approximate. To be more precise, we’ll need better information from the witness.”

  “Which Detective Rizzoli here is going to get for us,” said Crowe.

  “How do you know I’ll do any better with the boy?” said Jane. “I can’t work magic.”

  “We’re counting on you, because we don’t have much to work with. Just a few fingerprints on the kitchen doorknob. No sign of forced entry. And the security system was switched off.”

  “Off?” Jane looked down at the body. “It sounds like Mr. Ackerman admitted his own killer.”

  “Or maybe he just forgot to turn it on. Then he heard a noise and came downstairs to check.”

  “Robbery? Is anything missing?”

  “Mrs. Ackerman’s jewelry box upstairs looks untouched,” said Crowe. “His wallet and her purse are still on the bedroom dresser.”

  “Did the killer even go into their bedroom?”

  “Oh yeah. He went into the bedroom. He went into all the bedrooms.” She heard the ominous note in Crowe’s voice. Knew that what waited upstairs was far worse than this blood-splattered library.

  Maura said, quietly: “I can take you upstairs, Jane.”

  Jane followed her back into the foyer, neither one of them speaking, as if this was an ordeal best borne in silence. As they ascended the grand staircase, Jane glimpsed treasures everywhere she looked. An antique clock. A painting of a woman in red. These details she automatically registered even as she braced herself for what waited on the upper floors. In the bedrooms.

  At the top of the stairs, Maura turned right and walked to the room at the end of the hall. Through the open doorway, Jane glimpsed her partner Detective Barry Frost, his hands gloved in lurid purple latex. He stood with elbows hugging his sides, the position every cop instinctively assumes at a crime scene to avoid cross-contamination. He saw Jane and gave a sad shake of his head, a look that said: This is not where I want to be on this beautiful day, either.

  Jane stepped into the room and was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. This bedroom needed no curtains for privacy, as the windows looked out over a walled courtyard where a Japanese maple tree was leafed in brilliant burgundy, where blooming roses were in their full flush. But it was the woman’s body that demanded Jane’s attention. Cecilia Ackerman, clothed in a beige nightgown, lay on her back in bed, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. She appeared to be younger than her age of forty-eight, her hair artfully streaked with blond highlights. Her eyes were closed, and he
r face was eerily serene. The bullet had entered just above her left eyebrow, and the powder ring on her skin showed it was a contact wound, the barrel pressed to her forehead at the time the trigger was pulled. You were asleep when the killer pulled the trigger, thought Jane. You did not scream or resist, you posed no threat. Yet the invader walked into this room, crossed to the bed, and fired a bullet into your head.

  “It gets worse,” said Frost.

  She looked at her partner, who appeared haggard in the harsh morning light. This was more than mere fatigue she saw in his eyes; whatever he’d seen had left him shaken.

  “The children’s bedrooms are on the third floor,” Maura said, a statement so matter-of-fact that she might have been a Realtor describing the features of this grand house. Jane heard creaking overhead, the footsteps of other team members moving in the rooms above them, and she suddenly thought of the year she’d helped plan her high school’s Halloween house of horrors. They’d splashed around fake blood and staged garishly gruesome scenes, far more gruesome than what she saw in this bedroom with its serenely reposing victim. Real life required little gore to horrify.

  Maura headed out of the room, indicating that they’d seen what was significant here and it was time to move on. Jane followed her back to the staircase. Golden light shone down through the skylight, as if they were climbing a stairway to heaven, but these steps led to quite a different destination. To a place Jane did not want to go. Maura’s uncharacteristically summery blouse seemed as glaringly incongruous as wearing hot pink to a funeral. It was a minor detail, yet it bothered Jane, even annoyed her, that of all days that Maura would choose to wear such cheerful colors, it would be on a morning when three children had died.

  They reached the third floor and Maura made a graceful sidestep, maneuvering one paper-covered shoe over some obstacle on the landing. Only when Jane cleared the top step did she see the heartbreakingly small form, covered with a plastic sheet. Crouching down, Maura lifted a corner of the shroud.

  The girl was lying on her side, curled up into a fetal position, as though trying to retreat to the dimly remembered safety of the womb. Her skin was coffee-colored, her black hair woven into cornrows decorated with bright beads. Unlike the Caucasian victims downstairs, this child appeared to be African American.