Jane looked at the photo of Desmond’s face. He wore a pleasant smile, a neatly knotted tie. It was the sort of photo that might appear in any corporate report. The company executive, projecting competence.
“The more questions I asked about him, the more interesting stuff started to turn up. Charles Desmond never went to college. He served twenty years in the army, most of it working for military intelligence. Five years after he leaves the army, he owns a nice yacht and a big house in Reston. So now you have to ask the obvious question: What did he do to amass that huge bank account?”
“Your article here says that he worked for a company called Pyramid Services,” said Jane. “What’s that?”
“That’s what I wondered. Took me a while to dig it up, but a few days later I learned that Pyramid Services is a subsidiary of guess which company?”
“Don’t tell me,” said Jane. “Ballentree.”
“You got it, Detective.”
Jane looked at Gabriel. “That name just keeps popping up, doesn’t it?”
“And look at the date he went missing,” said Maura. “That’s what caught my eye. January second.”
“The day before the Ashburn massacre.”
“An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”
Gabriel said, “Tell us more about Pyramid.”
Lukas nodded. “It’s the transportation and security arm of Ballentree, part of the range of services they provide in war zones. Whatever our defense needs abroad—bodyguards, transport escorts, private police forces—Ballentree can do it for you. They’ll go to work in parts of the world where there are no functioning governments.”
“War profiteers,” said Jane.
“Well, why not? There’s a lot of money to be made in war. During the Kosovo conflict, Ballentree’s private soldiers protected construction crews. They’re now manning private police forces in Kabul and Baghdad and towns all around the Caspian Sea. All paid for by the US taxpayer. That’s how Charles Desmond financed his yacht.”
“I’m working for the wrong damn police force,” said Jane. “Maybe I should sign up for Kabul, and I could have a yacht, too.”
“You don’t want to work for these people, Jane,” said Maura. “Not when you hear what’s involved.”
“You mean the fact they work in combat zones?”
“No,” said Lukas. “The fact they’re tied in with some pretty unsavory partners. Anytime you deal in a war zone, you’re also making deals with the local mafia. It’s merely practical to form partnerships, so local thugs end up working with companies like Ballentree. There’s a black market trade in every commodity—drugs, arms, booze, women. Every war is an opportunity, a new market, and everyone wants in on the booty. That’s why there’s so much competition for defense contracts. Not just for the contracts themselves, but for the chance at the black market business that comes with it. Ballentree landed more deals last year than any other defense contractor.” He paused. “Partly because Charles Desmond was so damn good at his job.”
“Which was?”
“He was their deal maker. A man with friends in the Pentagon, and probably friends in other places as well.”
“For all the good it did him,” said Jane, looking down at the photo of Desmond. A man whose corpse had lain undiscovered for ten days. A man so mysterious to his neighbors that no one had thought to immediately report him missing.
“The question is,” said Lukas, “Why did he have to die? Did those friends in the Pentagon turn on him? Or did someone else?”
For a moment, no one spoke. The heat made the rooftop shimmer like water, and from the street below rose the smell of exhaust, the rumble of traffic. Jane suddenly noticed that Regina was awake, and her eyes were fixed on Jane’s face. It’s eerie, how much intelligence I see in my daughter’s eyes. From where she sat, Jane could see a woman sunning herself on another rooftop, her bikini top untied, her bare back glistening with oil. She saw a man standing on a balcony, talking on his cell phone, and a girl seated near a window, practicing her violin. Overhead, the white streak of a contrail marked the passage of a jet. How many people can see us? she wondered. How many cameras or satellites, at this moment, are trained on our rooftop? Boston had become a city of eyes.
“I’m sure this has crossed everyone’s mind,” said Maura. “Charles Desmond once worked in military intelligence. The man Olena shot in her hospital room was almost certainly ex-military, yet his prints have been scrubbed from the files. My office security has been breached. Are we all thinking about spooks here? Maybe even the Company?”
“Ballentree and the CIA have always gone hand in hand,” said Lukas. “Not that it should surprise anyone. They work in the same countries, employ the same kind of guys. Trade on the same info.” He looked at Gabriel. “And nowadays, they even pop up here, on home territory. Declare a terrorist threat, and the US government can justify any action, any expenditure. Untold funds get channeled into off-the-books programs. That’s how people like Desmond end up with yachts.”
“Or end up dead,” said Jane.
The sun had shifted, its glare now slanting under the umbrella, onto Jane’s shoulder. Sweat trickled down her breast. It’s too hot for you up here, baby, she thought, looking down at Regina’s pink face.
It’s too hot for all of us.
THIRTY-TWO
Detective Moore looked up at the clock as the time closed in on eight P.M. The last time Jane had sat in the homicide unit’s conference room, she’d been nine months pregnant, weary and irritable and more than ready for maternity leave. Now she was back in the same room, with the same colleagues, but everything was different. The room felt charged, the tension winding tighter with each passing minute. She and Gabriel sat facing Moore; Detectives Frost and Crowe sat near the head of the table. At their center was the object of their attention: Jane’s cell phone, connected to a speaker system. “We’re getting close,” Moore said. “Are you still comfortable with this? We can have Frost take the calls.”
“No, I have to do it,” Jane said. “If a man answers, it could scare her off.”
Crowe gave a shrug. “If this mystery girl calls at all.”
“Since you seem to think this is such a big waste of time,” snapped Jane, “you don’t have to hang around.”
“Oh, I’ll stay just to see what happens.”
“We wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Three minutes, guys,” interjected Frost. Trying, as usual, to play peacemaker between Jane and Crowe.
“She may not even have seen the ad,” said Crowe.
“The issue’s been on the stands for five days,” said Moore. “She’s had a chance to see it. If she doesn’t call, then it’s because she’s chosen not to.”
Or she’s dead, thought Jane. Something that surely crossed all their minds, though no one said it.
Jane’s cell phone rang, and everyone’s gaze instantly swung to her. The caller ID showed a number from Fort Lauderdale. This was merely a phone call, yet Jane’s heart was pounding with a kick as powerful as fear.
She took a deep breath and looked at Moore, who nodded. “Hello?” she answered.
A man’s voice drawled over the speaker. “So what’s this all s’posed to be about, huh?” In the background was laughter, the sounds of people enjoying a jolly good joke.
“Who are you?” Jane asked.
“We’re all just wondering here. What’s it s’posed to mean? ‘The die is cast’?”
“You’re calling to ask me that?”
“Yeah. This some kinda game? We s’posed to guess?”
“I don’t have time to talk to you now. I’m waiting for another call.”
“Hey. Hey, lady! We’re calling long distance, goddammit.”
Jane hung up and looked at Moore. “What a jerk.”
“If that’s your typical Confidential reader,” said Crowe, “this is gonna be one hell of a fun night.”
“We’re probably going to get a few more of those,” warned Moore.
The phone rang. This call was from Providence.
A fresh jolt of adrenaline had Jane’s pulse racing once again. “Hello?”
“Hi,” a female voice said brightly. “I saw your ad in the Confidential, and I’m doing a research paper on personal ads. I wanted to know if yours is for the purpose of romance, or is this a commercial enterprise?”
“Neither,” snapped Jane, and disconnected. “God, what is it with people?”
At 8:05, the phone again rang. A Newark caller, asking: “Is this some kind of contest? Do I get a prize for calling?”
At 8:07: “I just wanted to find out if someone would really answer this number.”
At 8:15: “Are you, like, a spy or something?”
By 8:30, the calls finally stopped. For twenty minutes, they stared at a silent phone.
“I think that’s it,” said Crowe, rising to his feet and stretching. “I’d call that a valuable use of our evening.”
“Wait,” said Frost. “We’re coming up on central time.”
“What?”
“Rizzoli’s ad didn’t specify which time zone. It’s almost eight P.M. in Kansas City.”
“He’s right,” said Moore. “Let’s all sit tight here.”
“All time zones? We’ll be here till midnight,” said Crowe.
“Even longer,” pointed out Frost. “If you include Hawaii.”
Crowe snorted. “Maybe we should bring in some pizza.”
In the end, they did. During the lull between ten and eleven P.M., Frost stepped out and returned with two large pepperonis from Domino’s. They popped open cans of soda and passed around napkins and sat watching the silent phone. Though Jane had been away from her job for over a month, tonight it was almost as if she had never left. She was sitting around the same table, with the same tired cops, and as usual, Darren Crowe was annoying the hell out of her. Except for the fact Gabriel had joined the team, nothing had changed. I’ve missed it, she thought. Crowe and all. I’ve missed being part of the hunt.
The ringing phone caught her with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. She grabbed a napkin to wipe the grease from her fingers and glanced up at the clock. Eleven P.M. sharp. The caller ID display showed a Boston number. This call was three hours too late.
“Hello?” she answered.
Her greeting was met with silence.
“Hello?” Jane said again.
“Who are you?” It was a female voice, barely a whisper.
Startled, Jane looked at Gabriel and saw that he’d registered the same detail. The caller has an accent.
“I’m a friend,” said Jane
“I don’t know you.”
“Olena told me about you.”
“Olena is dead.”
It’s her. Jane glanced around the table and saw stunned faces. Even Crowe had rocked forward, his face tense with anticipation.
“Mila,” said Jane. “Tell me where we can meet. Please, I need to talk to you. I promise, it will be perfectly safe. Anywhere you want.” She heard the click of the receiver hanging up. “Shit.” Jane looked at Moore. “We need her location!”
“You got it yet?” he asked Frost.
Frost hung up the conference room phone. “West End. It’s a pay phone.”
“On our way,” said Crowe, already out of his chair and headed toward the door.
“By the time you get there, she’ll be long gone,” said Gabriel.
Moore said, “A patrol car could be there in five minutes.”
Jane shook her head. “No uniforms. She sees one, she’ll know it’s a setup. And I’ll lose any chance of connecting with her again.”
“So what are you saying we should do?” said Crowe, pausing in the doorway.
“Give her a chance to think about it. She has my number. She knows how to reach me.”
“But she doesn’t know who you are,” said Moore.
“And that’s got to scare her. She’s just playing it safe.”
“Look, she might never call back,” said Crowe. “This could be our one and only chance to bring her in. Let’s do it now.”
“He’s right,” said Moore, looking at Jane. “It could be our only chance.”
After a moment, Jane nodded. “All right. Go.”
Frost and Crowe left the room. As the minutes passed, Jane stared at the silent phone, thinking: Maybe I should have gone with them. I should be the one out there, looking for her. She pictured Frost and Crowe navigating the warren of streets in the West End, searching for a woman whose face they didn’t know.
Moore’s cell phone rang and he snapped it up. Just by his expression, Jane could tell that the news was not good. He hung up and shook his head.
“She wasn’t there?” said Jane.
“They’ve called in CSU to dust the pay phone for prints.” He saw the bitter disappointment in her face. “Look, at least we now know she’s real. She’s alive.”
“For the moment,” said Jane.
Even cops needed to shop for milk and diapers.
Jane stood in the grocery store aisle, Regina snug against her chest in a baby sling, and wearily surveyed the cans of infant formula on the shelves, studying the nutritional contents of every brand. They all offered one hundred percent of a baby’s daily needs from A to zinc. Any one of these would be perfectly adequate, she thought, so why am I feeling guilty? Regina likes formula. And I need to clip on my beeper and get back to work. I need to get off the couch and stop watching those reruns of Cops.
I need to get out of this grocery store.
She grabbed two six-packs of Similac, moved down another aisle for the Pampers, and headed to the cashier.
Outside, the parking lot was so hot she broke into a sweat just loading the groceries into her trunk. The seats could sear flesh; before strapping Regina into her infant seat, Jane paused with the doors open to air out the car. Grocery carts rattled by, pushed by perspiring shoppers. A horn honked, and a man yelled: “Hey, watch where you’re going, asshole!” None of these people wanted to be in the city right now. They all wanted to be at the beach holding ice cream cones, not trapped elbow to elbow with other cranky Bostonians.
Regina began to cry, her dark curls sweaty against her pink face. Yet another cranky Bostonian. She kept screaming as Jane leaned into the backseat and buckled her in, was still screaming blocks later as Jane inched through traffic, the AC going full blast. She hit another red light and thought: Lord, get me through this afternoon.
Her cell phone rang.
She could have just let it continue ringing, but she ended up fishing it out of her purse and saw on the display a local number that she did not recognize.
“Hello?” she answered.
Through Regina’s angry wails, she could barely hear the question: “Who are you?” The voice was soft and instantly familiar.
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 i
n 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.
The Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 150