Vanish (36 page)

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 in 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.

“They can send in another female cop,” said Gabriel. “You can just sit this one out.”

“Mila knows my voice. She knows my name. I have to do it.”

“You’ve been out of the game for a month.”

“And it’s time for me to get back in.” She looked at her watch. “Four minutes,” she said into

her comm unit. “Is everyone ready?”

Over the earpiece, she heard Moore say: “We’re in place. Frost is at Beacon and Huntington.

I’m in front of the Four Seasons.”

“And I’ll be behind you,” said Gabriel.

“Okay.” She stepped out of the car and tugged down the light jacket she was wearing, so it

would cover the bulge of her weapon. Walking up Newbury Street, heading west, she brushed

past Saturday night tourists. People who did not need guns on their belts. At Arlington Street

she paused to wait for traffic. Across the street were the public gardens, and to her left was

Beacon Street, where Frost was posted, but she did not glance his way. Nor did she hazard a

look over her shoulder, to confirm that Gabriel was behind her. She knew he was.

She crossed Arlington and strolled into the public gardens.

Newbury Street had been bustling, but here there were few tourists. A couple sat on a bench by

the pond, arms wrapped around each other, heedless of anyone outside their own fevered