Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Read Free Page A

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, thestaccato 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
 
    A S 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 movingtoward 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