Last to Die (11 page)

“A boy and a girl.”

“Are their cases related?”

“No. Will came to us from New Hampshire. Claire came from Ithaca, New York. Why do you ask?”

“Because I just performed autopsies on a family in Boston, killed in a home invasion. There was one survivor in the house, their foster child. A boy of fourteen. A boy who was orphaned two years ago when his family was massacred.” She looked around the table at the stunned faces. “He’s just like your two students. Twice orphaned. Twice a survivor.”

IT WAS A
strange place to meet.

Jane stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the blacked-out windows where the words
ARABIAN NIGHTS
were stenciled in flaking gold letters over the painted figure of a buxom woman in harem pants. The door suddenly opened and a man stumbled out. He wobbled for a moment, squinting in the daylight, and headed unsteadily down the street, trailing the sour scent of booze.

As Jane stepped into the establishment, an even stronger whiff of alcohol hit her full in the face. Inside, it was so dim that she could barely make out the silhouettes of two men hunched at the bar, nursing their drinks. Gaudy cushions and camel bells decorated the velvet-upholstered booths, and she half expected a belly dancer to come tinkling by with a tray of cocktails.

“Get ya something, miss?” the bartender called out, and the two patrons swiveled around to stare at her.

“I’m here to meet someone,” she said.

“I’m guessing you want that guy in the back booth.”

A voice called out: “I’m here, Jane.”

She nodded to the bartender and headed to the back booth
where
her father was sitting, almost swallowed up among poufy velvet cushions. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the table in front of him. It wasn’t even five
PM
and he was already drinking, something she’d never seen him do before. Then again, Frank Rizzoli had recently done a lot of things she’d never thought he’d do.

Like walk out on his wife.

She slid onto the bench across from him and sneezed as she settled onto dusty velvet. “Why the hell are we meeting here, Dad?” she asked.

“It’s quiet. Good place to talk.”

“
This
is where you hang out?”

“Lately. You want a drink?”

“No.” She looked at the glass in front of him. “What’s that all about?”

“Whiskey.”

“No, I mean what’s with drinking before five?”

“Who the hell made up that rule, anyway? What’s so magic about five o’clock? Anyway, you know how the song goes. It’s always five o’clock somewhere. Smart man, Jimmy Buffett.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I called in sick. So sue me.” He took a sip of whiskey but didn’t seem to enjoy it, and set the glass back down. “You don’t talk to me much these days, Jane. It hurts.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m your father. That hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, but you’re like a pod person. You do things that my dad—my old dad—wouldn’t do.”

He sighed. “Insanity.”

“That sounds about right.”

“No, I mean it. The insanity of lust. Fucking hormones.”

“My old dad wouldn’t have used that word.”

“Your old dad’s a lot wiser now.”

“Is he?” She leaned back, and her throat itched from the dust
puffing
up from the velvet upholstery. “Is that why you’re trying to reconnect with me?”

“I never cut you off.
You
did.”

“It’s hard to keep connected when you’re shacked up with another woman. There were weeks when you never bothered to call, even once. To check on
any
of us.”

“I didn’t dare. You were too pissed at me. And you took your mom’s side.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You have two parents, Jane.”

“And one of them walked out. Broke Mom’s heart and ran off with a bimbo.”

“Your mom doesn’t look too heartbroken to me.”

“You know how many months it took for her to get to this point? How many nights she spent crying her eyes out? While you were out partying with what’s-her-face, Mom was trying to figure out how to survive on her own. And she did it. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s landed on her feet and is doing fine. Great, in fact.”

Those words seemed to hit him as hard as if she’d actually thrown a punch. Even in the gloom of that cocktail lounge she could see his face crumple, his shoulders fold forward. His head dropped into his hands, and she heard what sounded like a sob.

“Dad? Dad.”

“You gotta stop her. She can’t marry that man, she can’t.”

“Dad, I—” Jane glanced down at the cell phone vibrating on her belt. A quick glance told her it was a Maine area code, a number she didn’t recognize. She let it go to voice mail and refocused on her father. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“It was a mistake. If I could just turn back the clock …”

“I thought you were engaged to what’s-her-name.”

He took a deep breath. “Sandie called it off. And she kicked me out.”

Jane didn’t say a word. For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of ice cubes and the rattle of the cocktail shaker at the bar.

Head drooped, he murmured into his chest. “I’m staying at a cheap hotel around the corner from here. That’s why I asked you to meet me here, ’cause this is where I hang out now.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “The fucking Arabian Nights cocktail lounge!”

“What happened between you two?”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Life. Boredom. I don’t know. She said I couldn’t keep up with her. That I was acting like an old fart, wanting my dinner cooked every night, and what was she, the maid?”

“Maybe now you appreciate Mom.”

“Yeah, well, nobody beats your mom’s cooking, that’s for damn sure. So maybe I
was
unfair, expecting Sandie to measure up. But she didn’t have to twist the knife, you know? Calling me
old
.”

“
Ouch
. That’s gotta sting.”

“I’m only sixty-two! Just ’cause she’s fourteen years younger doesn’t make her some spring chicken. But that’s how she sees me, too old for her. Too old to be worth …” He dropped his head in his hands again.

Lust fades and then you see your new and exciting lover in the harsh light of day. Sandie Huffington must have woken up one morning, looked at Frank Rizzoli, and noticed the lines in his face, the sag of his jowls. When the hormones were spent, what was left was sixty-two years old, and going flabby and bald. She’d snagged another woman’s husband and now she wanted to throw back the catch.

“You gotta help me,” he said.

“You need money, Dad?”

His head snapped up. “No! I’m not asking for that! I got a job, why would I need your money?”

“Then what do you need?”

“I need you to talk to your ma. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“She should hear that from you.”

“I tried to tell her, but she doesn’t want to hear me out.”

Jane sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.”

“And … and ask her when I can come home.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What’s that look on your face?”

“You expect Mom to let you move back in?”

“Half the house is mine.”

“You’ll kill each other.”

“A bad idea to have your parents together again? What kind of thing is that for a daughter to say?”

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was slowly and clearly. “So you want to go back to Mom and be the way you were before. Is that what you’re saying?” She rubbed her temples. “Holy shit.”

“I want us to be a family again. Her, me, you and your brothers. Christmas and Thanksgiving together. All those great times, great meals.”

Mostly the great meals
.

“Frankie’s on board,” he said. “He wants it to happen. So does Mike. I just need you to talk to her, because she listens to you. You tell her to take me back. Tell her it’s the way things were meant to be.”

“What about Korsak?”

“Who gives a shit about him?”

“They’re engaged. They’re planning the wedding.”

“She’s not divorced yet. She’s still my wife.”

“It’s only a matter of paperwork.”

“It’s a matter of
family
. A matter of
what’s right
. Please, Jane, talk to her. And we can go back to being the Rizzolis again.”

The Rizzolis
. She thought about what that meant. A history. All the holidays and birthdays, together. Memories shared by no one else but them. There was a sacredness to that, something that should not be easily cast aside, and she was sentimental enough to mourn what had been lost. Now it could be reconstructed and made whole, Mom and Dad together again, as they’d always been. Frankie and Mike wanted it. Her dad wanted it.

And her mother? What did she want?

She thought of the pink taffeta bridesmaid’s dress that Angela had so happily presented to her. Remembered the last time she and Gabriel had gone to her mother’s house for dinner, when Angela and Korsak had giggled like teenagers and played footsie under the table. She looked across at her father and could not remember him ever playing footsie. Or giggling. Or slapping Angela’s butt. What she saw was a tired and beaten man who’d gambled on a flaky blonde and lost.
If I were Mom, would I take him back?

“Janie? Talk to her for me,” he pleaded.

She sighed. “Okay.”

“Do it soon. Before she gets too tight with that jerk.”

“Korsak’s not a jerk, Dad.”

“How can you say that? He walked in and took what isn’t his.”

“He walked in because there was a vacancy. You understand, don’t you, that things have changed since you left? Mom’s changed.”

“And I want her back the way she used to be. I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. You tell her that. Tell her it’ll be just like old times.”

Jane looked down at her watch. “It’s dinnertime. I’ve gotta go.”

“You promise you’ll do this for your old dad?”

“Yeah, I promise.” She slid out of the booth, glad to escape the dusty cushions. “Take care of yourself.”

He smiled at her, the first smile she’d seen since she’d arrived, and a hint of Frank Rizzoli’s old cockiness returned. Dad, reclaiming his territory. “I will. Now that I know everything’s gonna be okay.”

I wouldn’t count on it, she thought as she walked out of the Arabian Nights. She dreaded the conversation with Angela, dreaded her mother’s reaction. Yelling would probably be involved. No matter what her mother decided, someone was going to get hurt. Either Korsak or her dad. And Jane had just gotten accustomed to the thought of Korsak joining the family. He was a
big
man with a big heart, and he loved Angela, of that there was no doubt.
Who will you choose, Mom?

The looming conversation plagued her all the way home, darkening her mood through dinner, through Regina’s bath time, through their evening rituals of the storybook and five bedtime kisses. When she finally closed Regina’s bedroom door and walked to the kitchen to call Angela, it felt like a march to Death Row. She picked up the phone, hung up again, and sank with a sigh into a kitchen chair.

“You do know you’re being manipulated,” said Gabriel. He closed the dishwasher and started the wash cycle. “You don’t have to do this, Jane.”

“I promised Dad I’d call her.”

“He’s perfectly capable of calling Angela himself. It’s wrong to put you in the middle of this. Their marriage is their problem.”

She groaned and put her head in her hands. “Which makes it my problem.”

“I’ll just say it. Your dad’s a coward. He screwed up big time, and now he wants you to fix things.”

“What if I’m the only one who can?”

Gabriel sat down, joining her at the kitchen table. “By talking your mother into taking him back?”

“I don’t know what’s best.”

“Your mom’s going to have to choose.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “What do you think she should do?”

He considered the question as the dishwasher swished and hummed in the background. “I think she seems pretty happy right now.”

“So you’d vote for Korsak.”

“He’s a decent man, Jane. He’s kind to her. He won’t hurt her.”

“But he’s not my dad.”

“And that’s why you shouldn’t get involved. You’re being forced
to
choose sides, and that’s wrong for your father to do. Look what he’s putting you through.”

After a moment, she sat up straight. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have to do this. I’m going to tell him to call her himself.”

“Don’t feel guilty about it. If your mom wants your advice, she’ll ask you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Now what the hell’s his new phone number?” She reached into her purse and dug out her cell phone to check the contacts list. Only then did she notice the message on her screen:
ONE NEW VOICE MAIL
. It was the call that had come in while she was talking to her father.

She played the message and heard Maura’s voice:

… two children here, a girl named Claire Ward and a boy, Will Yablonski. Jane, their stories are like Teddy Clock’s. Real parents killed two years ago. Foster parents killed just last month. I don’t know if this is related, but it’s damn weird, don’t you think?