Jane’s muscles all snapped taut. “Mila? Don’t hang up! Please don’t hang up. Talk to me!”
“You are police.”
The traffic light turned green, and behind her, a car honked. “Yes,” she admitted. “I’m a policewoman. I’m only trying to help you.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I was with Olena when…”
“When the police killed her?”
The car behind Jane’s blasted its horn again, an unrelenting demand that she get the hell out of its way. Asshole. She goosed the accelerator and drove through the intersection, the cell phone still pressed to her ear.
“Mila,” she said. “Olena told me about you. It was the last thing she said-that I should find you.”
“Last night, you sent policemen to catch me.”
“I didn’t send-”
“Two men. I saw them.”
“They’re my friends, Mila. We’re all trying to protect you. It’s dangerous for you to be out there on your own.”
“You do not know how dangerous.”
“Yes I do!” She paused. “I know why you’re running, why you’re scared. You were in that house when your friends were shot to death. Weren’t you, Mila? You saw it happen.”
“I’m the only one left.”
“You could testify in court.”
“They will kill me first.”
“Who?”
There was silence. Please don’t hang up again, she thought. Stay on the line. She spotted an open space at the curb and abruptly pulled over. Sat with the phone pressed to her ear, waiting for the woman to speak. In the backseat Regina kept crying and crying, angrier by the minute that her mother dared ignore her.
“Mila?”
“What baby is crying?”
“It’s my baby. She’s in the car with me.”
“But you said you are police.”
“Yes, I am. I told you I am. My name is Jane Rizzoli. I’m a detective. You can confirm that, Mila. Call the Boston Police Department and ask them about me. I was with Olena when she died. I was trapped in that building with her.” She paused. “I couldn’t save her.”
Another silence passed. The AC was still going full blast, and Regina was still crying, determined to make gray hairs pop out on her mother’s brow.
“Public gardens,” said Mila.
“What?”
“Tonight. Nine o’clock. You wait by the pond.”
“Will you be there? Hello?”
No one was on the line.
THIRTY-THREE
The weapon felt heavy and strangely unfamiliar on Jane’s hip. Once an old friend, it had sat locked up and ignored in a drawer these past few weeks. Only reluctantly had she loaded it and snapped it into her holster. Though she’d always regarded her weapon with the healthy respect due any object that could blast a hole in a man’s chest, never before had she hesitated to reach for it. This must be what motherhood does to you, she thought. I look at a gun now, and all I can think of is Regina. How one twitch of a finger, one wayward bullet, could take her from me.
“It doesn’t have to be you,” said Gabriel.
They were sitting in Gabriel’s parked Volvo on Newbury Street, where fashionable shops were preparing to close for the night. The Saturday restaurant crowd still lingered in the neighborhood, well-dressed couples strolling past, happily sated with dinner and wine. Unlike Jane, who’d been too nervous to eat more than a few bites of the pot roast her mother had brought to their apartment.
“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?”