Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

judgment against Andres Zapata would always blight his record. Crowe caught her looking at him, and the glare he returned could vaporize water.
    For Jane, it should have felt like a moment of victory, a vindication of her instincts, but this brought no smile to her lips. Nicholas Clock was now lying in a coma that could well be permanent, and Teddy was once again fatherless. She thought of how many people had died: the Clocks, the Yablonskis, the Wards. The Ackermans, the Temples, and the Buckleys. Dead, all dead, because one woman could not resist the lure of immeasurable wealth.
    The broadcast ended. As the other detectives rose to leave the room, Jane remained in her chair, thinking about justice. About how the dead never benefited from it.
For them, it always comes too late
.
    “That was good work, Rizzoli,” said Lieutenant Marquette.
    She looked up to see him standing in the doorway. “Thank you.”
    “So why do you look like your best friend just died?”
    “It’s just not satisfying, you know?”
    “You’re the one who brought down Justine McClellan. How can it get more satisfying than that?”
    “Maybe if I could bring back the dead?”
    “Above our pay grade. We’re just the cleanup crew.” He scowled at his ringing cell phone. “Looks like the press is going bonkers. Which is a problem, because this story’s as sensitive as hell.”
    “Rogue agent? Dead Americans?” She snorted. “No kidding.”
    “The feds slapped a muzzle on us. So for now, it’s
no comment
, okay?” He cocked his head. “Now get outta here. Go home and have a beer. You deserve it.”
    That was the nicest thing Marquette had ever said to her. A beer did sound good. And she did deserve it. She gathered up her files, left them at her desk, and walked out of the station.
    But she did not go home.
    Instead she drove to Brookline, to the home of someone who’d be equally depressed by that broadcast. Someone who had no one else to turn to. When she arrived at the house, she was relieved to see that no TV vans had arrived yet, but the press would certainly be there soon. Every reporter in Boston knew where Dr. Maura Isles lived.
    The lights were on inside, and Jane heard classical music playing, the plaintive strains of a violin. She had to ring the bell twice before the door finally opened.
    “Hey,” said Jane. “Did you see it on TV? It’s all over the Internet!”
    Maura gave a weary nod. “The fun is just beginning.”
    “Which is why I came over. I figured you might need the company.”
    “I’m afraid my company’s not going to be much fun. But I’m glad you’re here.”
    Jane followed Maura into the living room, where she saw an open bottle of red wine and a nearly empty glass on the coffee table. “When you bring out the whole bottle, there’s some serious drinking planned.”
    “Would you like a glass?”
    “Can I get a beer out of your fridge instead?”
    “Be my guest. There should still be a bottle in there from your last visit.”
    Jane went into the kitchen and saw pristine countertops, with not a single dirty dish in sight. It looked clean enough in there to perform surgery, but that was Maura for you. Everything in its place. It suddenly struck Jane how bleak it all looked without clutter, without even a hint of disorder. As if no human really lived there. As if Maura had scrubbed her life so clean, she had sterilized the joy out of it.
    She found the bottle of Adam’s ale, probably months old, and uncapped it. Went back to the living room.
    The violin music was still playing, but with the volume turned down. They sat on the sofa. Maura sipped wine and Jane took a swig of beer, careful not to spill a drop on Maura’s spotless upholstery or the pricey Persian rug.
    “You must feel thoroughly vindicated after this,” said Maura.
    “Yeah. I look like a real genius. The best part was taking Crowe down ten notches.” She took another sip of beer. “But it’s not enough, is it?”
    “What isn’t?”
    “Closing a case. Knowing we got it right. It doesn’t change the fact that Nicholas Clock is probably never going to wake up.”
    “But the children are safe,” said Maura. “That’s what matters. I spoke to Julian this morning, and he says Claire and Will are doing fine.”
    “But not Teddy. I’m not sure he’ll ever be fine,” said Jane, looking down at her beer. “I saw him at his foster home last night. We brought him back to the Inigos, the family who looked after him before.