dressed for crime.
Her backup’s footsteps fell behind, but she didn’t slow down, didn’t give her quarry any chance to slip away. Already she was within a few dozen yards of him.
“Police!” she yelled. “Freeze!”
He darted right, slipping between buildings.
That pissed her off. Fueled by outrage, she sprinted around the corner and found herself in an alley. It was dark here, too dark. Her footsteps echoed back as she pounded ahead, half a dozen paces, then slowed. Stopped.
Weapon drawn, heart hammering, she scanned the shadows. Saw trash cans, heard broken glass clatter away.
The bullet slammed into her back, right between her shoulder blades. The impact sent her flying and she sprawled on her belly, her palms scraping across pavement. Her weapon flew out of her hands. The Kevlar vest had saved her, but the force of the bullet stole the breath from her lungs and she lay stunned, her gun somewhere out of reach.
Footsteps slowly approached, and she struggled to her knees, fumbled around for her weapon.
The footsteps came to a halt right behind her.
She twisted around to see the man’s silhouette towering above her. Shadows hid his face, but enough light spilled into the alley from a distant streetlamp that she saw him raise his arm. Saw the faint gleam of the gun he was pointing at her head. It would be a quick and efficient end, without killer and victim ever glimpsing each other’s eyes. Gabriel, she thought. Regina. I never got the chance to tell you how much I love you both.
She heard Death whisper in the night, felt it hiss like the wind past her ear. Something splashed her face and she blinked. When she opened her eyes again, the silhouette looming over her was already toppling forward. It landed across her legs like a felled tree. Trapped under the man’s weight, she felt liquid warmth soaking into her clothes. Recognized all too well that coppery smell.
Something breathed in the darkness, something that now loomed where the gunman had stood only seconds before. She saw no face, just a black oval and a halo of silvery hair. It said not a word but as it turned away, something flashed in its hand, a bright arc of reflected light that was there and gone again. She heard what she thought was the wind as shadow swooped across shadow. Then she was alone, still pinned against the hard pavement by a man who spilled his last blood onto her clothes.
“Rizzoli?
She struggled to free herself from the deadweight trapping her legs. “I’m here! Frost!”
The beam of a flashlight flickered in the distance. Moved closer, sweeping back and froth across the alley.
With a grunt of effort, Jane finally managed to shove the body away. Shuddering at the touch of dead flesh, she scrabbled backward. “Frost,” she said.
The light landed squarely in her eyes, and she raised a hand against its glare.
“Jesus,” Frost cried. “Are you-”
“I’m okay. I’m fine!” She took a deep breath and felt the lingering ache of the bullet’s impact in her Kevlar vest. “At least, I think so.”
“All this blood…”
“Not mine. It’s his.”
Frost aimed his flashlight at the body, and she sucked in a shocked breath that made her ribs hurt. The body was lying chest-down, and the decapitated head had rolled a few feet away. The eyes stared up at them, the mouth open as though in a last gasp of surprise. Jane gaped at the cleanly severed neck and was suddenly aware of her soaked trousers, the fabric clinging to her legs. The night began to spin and she stumbled away and sagged against a building where she dropped her head, desperately fighting the need to throw up.
“What happened?” said Frost.
“I saw it,” she whispered. “The thing. Your creature on the roof.” Her legs seemed to melt away beneath her and she slid all the way down to sit crumpled against the wall. “It just saved my life.”
A long silence passed. Wind swept the alley, scattering grit that stung her eyes and pelted her face. I should be dead, she thought. I should be lying here with a bullet in my brain. Instead I’m going to go home tonight. I’m going to hug my husband and kiss my baby. And I owe this miracle to whatever it was that swooped out of the night.
She lifted her head and looked at Frost. “You must have seen it. Just now.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“It would have run right past you when you came into the alley.”
He shook his head. “It’s like what happened on the roof. I was the only one who saw it, and you didn’t believe me.”
She focused again on the body. On the gun that was still clutched in the headless corpse’s hand. “I believe you now.”
EIGHTEEN
FROM HER PARKED CAR, MAURA SAW THREE POLICE OFFICERS STANDING by the barrier of crime scene tape. They all glanced her way and almost certainly recognized her black Lexus, so they knew the medical examiner had just arrived. But as she climbed out of her car and walked toward them, they turned their backs and continued chatting among themselves. Only when she formally announced herself did they finally deign to meet her gaze.
“Is Detective Rizzoli in the residence?” she asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” one of the patrolmen answered. “Why don’t you check inside?”
Was he being intentionally unhelpful? It was impossible to tell from his coolly neutral expression. As she ducked under the tape and walked toward the front door, she heard them laugh and wondered if that was directed at her. Wondered if this was what she’d face at every future death scene. The looks, the whispers, the thinly disguised hostility. She stopped at the front door to pull booties over her shoes, careful not to lose her balance and give them one more thing to snicker about. As she straightened, the front door opened and Detective Tam stood looking at her.
“Dr. Isles. Sorry to drag you out this time of night.”
“Are both victims in the house?”
“One of them’s in the kitchen. The second victim’s a few blocks away, in an alley.”
“How did number two end up so far away from number one?”
“He was trying to get away from Rizzoli. I guess she’s a hard gal to shake.”
Tam led her from the foyer and down the hall. Booties rustling over the floor, she followed him into the kitchen and was surprised to see the commander of Boston PD’s homicide unit standing next to Barry Frost. It was rare to encounter Lieutenant Marquette at a crime scene, and his appearance here told her that something was very different about this homicide.
The victim lay on his side on the tiled floor, his face resting in a congealing pool of blood. He was a heavyset white man in his seventies, dressed in tan trousers, a knit shirt, and dark socks. One slipper was still on his foot. The bullet wound in his left temple left little doubt about the cause of death. Maura did not immediately move toward the body but remained where she stood for a moment, scanning the floor for a weapon. She saw no gun anywhere near the body.
“He was a cop,” said Jane quietly.
Maura had not heard her approach. She turned and stared at Jane’s blood-splattered blouse. Instead of her usual dark trouser suit, Jane was wearing baggy sweatpants, obviously an emergency change of clothes.
“My God, Jane.”
“Things got a little rough out there.”
“Are you all right?”
Jane nodded and looked down at the dead man. “I can’t say the same for him.”
