Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

this Sunday morning.
    Her brother Frankie laughed as he entered the house. “What’s with the ugly dress?”
    Her father, Frank Senior, followed, announcing: “I’m here to speak to your mother.”
    “Dad, this isn’t a good time,” said Jane.
    “I’m here. It’s a good time. Where is she?” he asked, looking around the living room.
    “I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”
    “She has to talk to me. We need to put a stop to this insanity.”
    “Insanity?” said Angela, emerging from the bedroom. “Look who’s talking about insanity.”
    “Frankie says you’re going through with this,” said Jane’s father. “You’re actually going to marry that man?”
    “Vince asked me. I said yes.”
    “What about the fact
we’re
still married?”
    “It’s only a matter of paperwork.”
    “I’m not going to sign them.”
    “What?”
    “I said I’m not gonna sign the papers. And you’re not gonna marry that guy.”
    Angela gave a disbelieving laugh. “
You’re
the one who walked out.”
    “I didn’t know you’d turn around and get married!”
    “What am I supposed to do, sit around pining after you left me for
her
? I’m still a young woman, Frank! Men want me. They want to sleep with me!”
    Frankie groaned. “Jesus, Ma.”
    “And you know what?” added Angela. “Sex has never been better!”
    Jane heard her cell phone ringing in the bedroom. She ignored it and grabbed her father’s arm. “I think you’d better leave, Dad. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
    “I’m
glad
you left me, Frank,” said Angela. “Now I’ve got my life back and I know what it’s like to be appreciated.”
    “You’re my wife. You still belong to me.”
    Jane’s cell phone, which had gone briefly silent, was ringing again, insistent and now impossible to ignore. “Frankie,” she pleaded, “for God’s sake, help me here! Get him out of the house.”
    “Come on, Dad,” Frankie said, and clapped his father on the back. “Let’s go get a beer.”
    “I’m not finished here.”
    “Yes, you are,” said Angela.
    Jane sprinted back to the bedroom and dug the ringing cell phone out of her purse. Tried to ignore the arguing voices in the hallway as she answered: “Rizzoli.”
    Detective Darren Crowe said, “We need you on this one. How soon can you get here?” No polite preamble, no
please
or
would you mind
, just Crowe being his usual charming self.
    She responded with an equally brusque: “I’m not on call.”
    “Marquette’s bringing in three teams. I’m lead on this. Frost just got here, but we could use a woman.”
    “Did I just hear you right? Did you say you actually
need
a woman’s help?”
    “Look, our witness is too shell-shocked to tell us much of anything. Moore’s already tried talking to the kid, but he thinks you’ll have better luck with him.”
    Kid
. That word made Jane go still. “Your witness is a child?”
    “Looks about thirteen, fourteen. He’s the only survivor.”
    “What happened?”
    Over the phone she heard other voices in the background, thestaccato dialogue of crime scene personnel and the echo of multiple footsteps moving around a room with hard floors. She could picture Crowe swaggering at the center of it with his puffed-out chest and bulked-up shoulders and Hollywood haircut. “It’s a fucking bloodbath here,” he said. “Five victims, including three children. The youngest one can’t be more than eight years old.”
    I don’t want to see this, she thought. Not today. Not any day. But she managed to say: “Where are you?”
    “The residence is on Louisburg Square. Goddamn news vans are packed in tight here, so you’ll probably need to park a block or two away.”
    She blinked in surprise. “This happened on Beacon Hill?”
    “Yeah. Even the rich get whacked.”
    “Who are the victims?”
    “Bernard and Cecilia Ackerman, ages fifty and forty-eight. And their three adopted daughters.”
    “And the survivor? Is he one of their kids?”
    “No. His name’s Teddy Clock. He’s been living with the Ackermans for a couple of years.”
    “Living with them? Is he a relative?”
    “No,” said Crowe. “He’s their foster child.”

FOUR
 
    A S JANE WALKED INTO LOUISBURG SQUARE, SHE SPOTTED THE FAMILIAR black Lexus parked among the knot of Boston PD vehicles and she knew that ME Maura Isles was already on the scene. Judging by all the news vans, every TV station in Boston was also here, and no wonder: Of all the desirable neighborhoods