Vanish

it was extremely sensitive.”

“Did you ever get that second package?”

“No. The guard at the front desk said no woman ever showed up that night. I went home and forgot all about it. Until now.” He paused. “I’m wondering if that was Joe who called me.”

“Why choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“These people seem to know you.”

“Maybe they’ve read my column. Maybe they’re fans.” At Maura’s silence, he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Fat chance, huh?”

“Have you ever appeared on television?” she asked, thinking: He has the face, the dark good looks for it.

“Never.”

“And you’re only published in the Boston Tribune?”

“Only? Nice put-down, Dr. Isles.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’ve been a reporter since I was twenty-two. Started off freelancing for the Boston Phoenix and BostonMagazine. It was fun for a while, but freelancing is no way to pay the bills, so I was happy to land a spot at the Tribune. Started off on the city beat, spent a few years in DC as their Washington correspondent. Then came back to Boston when they offered me a weekly column. So yeah, I’ve been at this reporting gig for a while. I’m not making a fortune, but obviously I’ve got some fans. Since Joseph Roke seems to know who I am.” He paused. “At least I hope he’s a fan. And not some pissed-off reader.”

“Even if he is a fan, this is a dangerous situation you’re walking into.”

“I know.”

“You understand the setup?”

“A cameraman and me. It’ll be a live feed to some local TV station. I assume the hostage takers have some way of monitoring that we’re actually on the air. I also assume they won’t object to the standard five-second delay, just in case…” He stopped.

In case something goes terribly wrong.

Lukas took a deep breath. “What would you do, Dr. Isles? In my place?”

“I’m not a journalist.”

“So you’d refuse.”

“A normal person doesn’t willingly walk into a hostage situation.”

“Meaning, journalists aren’t normal people?”

“Just think hard about it.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. That four hostages could walk out of there alive if I do this. For once, something I do will be worth writing about.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life?”

“I’m willing to take the chance,” he said. Then added with quiet honesty: “But I’m scared as hell of it, too.” His frankness was disarming; few men were brave enough to admit they were afraid. “Captain Hayder wants my answer by nine P.M.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The cameraman’s already agreed to go in. That makes me feel like a coward if I don’t do it. Especially if four hostages could be saved. I keep thinking of all those reporters in Baghdad right now, and what they face every day. This should be a cakewalk in comparison. I go in, talk to the wackos, let them tell me their story, and then I walk out. Maybe that’s all they want-a chance to vent, to have people listen to them. I could end the whole crisis by doing this.”

“You want to be a savior.”

“No! No, I’m just…” He laughed. “Trying to justify taking this crazy chance.”

“You called it that. I didn’t.”

“The truth is, I’m no hero. I never saw the point of risking my life if I didn’t have to. But I’m as baffled about this as you are. I want to know why they chose me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine. I guess I’d better call Barsanti.” Rising to his feet, he turned toward the door. Suddenly paused and glanced back.

Maura’s phone was ringing.

She picked it up to hear Abe Bristol say: “Are you watching TV?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Turn it on, channel six. It’s not good.”

As Lukas watched, she crossed to the TV, her heart suddenly pounding. What has happened? What’s gone wrong? She clicked on the remote, and the face of Zoe Fossey at once filled the screen.

“… official spokesman has refused comment, but we have confirmed that one of the hostages is a Boston police officer. Detective Jane Rizzoli made national headlines just last month, during the investigation of a kidnapped housewife in Natick. We have no word yet as to the condition of any of the hostages, or how Detective Rizzoli happened to be among them…”

“My god,” murmured Lukas, standing right beside her. She had not been aware that he had moved so close to her. “There’s a cop trapped in there?”

Maura looked at him. “She could very well be a dead cop.”

SIXTEEN

That’s it. I’m going to die.

Jane sat frozen on the couch, waiting for the gun’s blast as Joe turned from the TV to stare at her. But it was the woman who advanced on Jane, her steps slow and excruciatingly deliberate. Olena was the name Joe had called his partner. At least now I know the names of my murderers, thought Jane. She felt the orderly lean away from her, as though to avoid getting splattered with her blood. Jane’s gaze remained fixed on Olena’s face; she dared not look at the gun. She did not want to see that barrel rising toward her head, did not want to watch the hand tighten around the grip. Better that I can’t see the bullet coming, she thought. Better that I look this woman in the eye, that I force her to see the human being she’s about to blow away. She could read no emotions there; they were a doll’s eyes. Blue glass. Olena was now dressed in clothes that she had scrounged from a locker room: scrub pants and a doctor’s lab coat. A killer disguised in healer’s garb.

“This is true?” Olena asked softly.

Jane felt her womb tighten, and she bit her lip at the mounting pain of the new contraction. My poor baby, she thought. You will never take your first breath. She felt Dr. Tam reach out and grasp her hand, offering silent comfort.

“The TV, it tells the truth? You are police?”

Jane swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered.

“They said you’re a detective,” Joe cut in. “Are you?”

Gripped by the contraction, Jane rocked forward, her vision darkening. “Yes,” she groaned. “Yes, goddamm it! I’m with-with the homicide unit…”

Olena glanced down at the hospital ID bracelet that she’d earlier torn from Jane’s wrist. It was still on the floor near the couch. She picked it up and handed it to Joe.

“Rizzoli, Jane,” he read.

The worst of the contraction was over now. She released a sharp breath and