One of the patrolmen laughed. “Hey man, that’s profiling!”
“So sue me.”
“Can I see that list?” Frost asked, and he scanned down the names. “There’s a Philbrook living here.”
“Yeah, that’s
“Maria has a sister.” Frost looked up. “She’s married to a Philbrook.”
“That’s gotta be it,” said Crowe. “Which apartment?”
“It says Two Ten.”
“That’d be the rear of the building,” said Arbato. “Security code for the entrance keypad is one two seven.”
“Arbato,” snapped Crowe, “you and these two officers stay on the exits. Rest of us,
Anyone who spotted them would know something was about to go down as Crowe and Moore, Frost and Jane moved together toward the front entrance. But those in Apartment 210, which faced the rear of the building, would be blind to what was coming their way. Crowe punched 1-2-7 on the entrance keypad, and the lock clicked open. As Jane followed him inside, her heart was thumping, her hands starting to sweat. This could go down easy, or it could turn into a bloody disaster. Which meant these might be the last seconds she’d ever register, her shoes moving up scuffed stairs, the weight of the Glock in her hands. Frost’s back was just ahead of her, his Kevlar vest bulging beneath his shirt. All these details she took in with click-click efficiency, a dozen impressions at once.
They reached the second-floor landing. Apartment 210 was down the hall. Behind her, a door suddenly opened and Jane whirled, weapon swinging around. A young woman stared back, baby clutched in her arms, dark eyes wide with terror.
“Stay inside!” Jane hissed. Instantly the woman retreated and the door slammed shut.
Crowe was already at Apartment 210. He paused, shot his team a glance. “Rizzoli,” he whispered. “Your show. Get us in there.”
She knew why he’d chosen her. Female face and voice, not as threatening. She took a breath and rang the door buzzer. Stood close enough to the peephole that she’d fill the view. Unfortunately that also made it easier for anyone inside to blow off her head. She spied a flicker of movement in the peephole; someone was staring at her.
The door swung open. A Hispanic woman appeared, round-faced, in her forties, with a strong enough resemblance to the Ackerman’s housekeeper that Jane knew this must be Maria’s sister.
“Mrs. Philbrook?” said Jane.
The woman spotted the other detectives in the hall and screamed: “Maria!”
“Go, go!” barked Crowe as he shoved past Jane and burst into the apartment.
Too many things happened at once. Detectives barreling through the apartment. Maria’s sister shouting, wailing in Spanish. As Jane ran through, toward the next room, she caught glimpses of a stained carpet, a striped sofa, a playpen.
Jane darted into a bedroom, where heavy curtains cast a gloom so deep she almost missed the huddled shapes in the corner. A woman was hugging two toddlers, her body curled around the children as though insulating them from harm with her own flesh.
Footsteps clanged on metal.
Jane ducked through another doorway, into a second bedroom where Moore was scrambling through the open window, onto the fire escape.
“Zapata?” Jane asked.
“Headed up the ladder!”
She stuck her head out the window and saw Arbato and Cahill standing in the alley below, their weapons drawn. She looked up, spotted her three teammates clambering up the ladder in pursuit.
She sprinted back through the apartment and dashed for the stairwell. If Zapata made it to the roof, that’s where she’d intercept him. She took the steps two at a time, saw a door pop open and slam shut as she hurtled past, up the final flight, her heart whomping, her chest heaving.
She burst through the door to the rooftop and emerged into the glare of midday. Saw Zapata scramble over the edge and land with both feet onto the roof.
“Freeze!” she yelled. “Police!”
He halted, staring at her. He was empty-handed. Faded blue jeans, wrinkled buttondown shirt with a ripped sleeve. For a few seconds it was just the two of them on that rooftop. She saw desperation in his eyes, watched it harden to grim determination.
“Hands in the air!” Crowe shouted as he and Frost dropped onto the rooftop behind Zapata.
There was nowhere for him to run. One cop in front of him, two behind him, all of them armed. Jane saw Zapata’s legs wobble, thought he was about to drop to his knees in surrender. His next move shocked her.
He sprang to his left and ran toward the roof’s far edge. Toward the narrow alley that cut between buildings. Only an Olympic-class leap could take a man safely across that gulf.
Yet leap he did, flinging himself from the roof’s edge toward the next building. For a moment he seemed to hang in midair, his body stretched out in a swan dive that almost carried him across the chasm.
Jane scrambled to the edge. Saw Zapata clinging desperately to the rain gutter of the other building as his legs scissored above a four-story drop.
“Jesus, is he nuts?” said Frost.
“Arbato, get next door!” Crowe yelled down at the street, and the two detectives on the ground sprinted across the alley.
Still dangling from the rain gutter, Zapata tried to pull himself up, feet fighting for purchase against the wall. He swung up one leg, missed. Swung again. Just as his shoe made it up over the edge, the gutter tore away from the roof.
Jane closed her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the squeal of collapsing metal, or the thud of Zapata’s body hitting the pavement.
Somewhere, a woman was screaming.
NINETEEN
MARIA SALAZAR SAT HUNCHED AT THE INTERVIEW TABLE, HEAD drooping as she wiped tears from her eyes. As a young woman, Maria would have been strikingly beautiful. At forty-five she was still handsome, but through the one-way mirror Jane could see the gray roots peeking through on the crown of Maria’s head. Her arms, propped up on the table, were heavy but solid with muscles built up from years of housework. While she had scrubbed and polished and swept other people’s houses, what resentments had bubbled up inside her? As she’d dusted the Ackermans’ antique furniture, vacuumed the Persian carpets, had it ever occurred to her that just one of their paintings, one emerald necklace from Mrs. Ackerman’s jewelry box, could make all her financial woes disappear?
“Never,” Marie moaned in the next room. “I never steal anything!”
Crowe, playing bad cop to Moore’s good cop, leaned in close, his teeth bared with undisguised aggression. “You disarmed the security system for your boyfriend.”
“No.”
“Left the kitchen door unlocked.”
“No.”
“Gave yourself a rock-solid alibi, babysitting your sister’s kids, while Andres slipped into the Ackermans’ house. Was he just going to rob them that night, or was murder always the plan?”
“Andres, he never hurt anyone!”
“His fingerprints are on the kitchen door. They’re
