Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Clock’s family is attacked in Saint Thomas. Three families, Crowe. All killed within days of each other. Now it’s two years later, and the sole survivors of those families are all attacked again. It’s like someone’s determined to wipe out the bloodlines. And these three kids will be the last to die.”
    “What do you propose, Rizzoli? You want to fly to Maryland and run their investigation for them?”
    “Flying to Maryland would be a start.”
    “What’s next, London? Boston PD will be
thrilled
to foot that bill. Oh, and let’s not forget Saint Thomas. Someone needs to check out
that
incident.”
    Frost raised a hand. “I volunteer for Saint Thomas.”
    “I’m not asking for junkets to London and Saint Thomas,” said Jane. “I’d just like to spend some time on this. I think there are connections that we just aren’t seeing. Something that ties together the Wards, the Yablonskis, and the Clocks.”
    “A vast international conspiracy,” said Crowe. “Right.”
    “It warrants a deeper look.”
    “No. We stay focused on Andres Zapata. Suddenly he’s nowhere to be seen, which sounds like a guilty man to me.” Crowe looked at Frost. “What do we have on his phone calls?”
    Frost shook his head. “Hasn’t used his cell phone since the Ackermans were killed. I’m guessing he tossed it, or he’s already back in Colombia. Maria’s phone calls don’t trip any alarms for me.”
    “Then she has some other way she contacts him. Email. A go-between. So we move on to friends of friends. Any new tips since this morning’s broadcast?”
    Moore nodded. “We’re trying to keep up with all of them.”
    “You know what Master Yoda says.
There’s no try, only do
.” Crowe glanced at his watch and abruptly stood up, straightening his tie. “Got a reporter waiting for me,” he said and walked out of the room.
    “Do you think we should widen that doorway now?” said Jane. “Before his head gets too big to fit through?”
    “I think it’s too late,” said Moore. Legendary for his patience, even he looked disgusted as he gathered his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. Lately he’d been talking a lot about retirement; this might be the case that finally pushed him out the door.
    “What do you think about Zapata?” Jane asked him.
    “Andres Zapata has everything that Crowe loves in a suspect. Access, opportunity, a rap sheet. And no green card.”
    “You don’t sound convinced.”
    “Neither do I have a convincing argument to rebut it. For now, Zapata’s our man.” Moore snapped the briefcase shut and trudged out the door like a weary bureaucrat.
    “Geez,” she said to Frost. “What happened to
him
?”
    “You don’t know what it’s been like around here the past few days,” said Frost. “You haven’t had the pleasure of Crowe’s company.”
    She sat tapping her pen on the files she’d brought into the meeting. Thought about all the hours she’d devoted to researching the Wards and Yablonskis. “Tell me I’ve got a point, Frost. Tell me there’s something weird about it all.”
    “There’s something weird.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But that doesn’t mean it ties in here. I did that VICAP search. Looked at hundreds of family annihilations across the country. I’m sorry to say, these three families have a lot of company.”
    “But it’s the
second
attacks that make these three stand out. It’s like the Grim Reaper won’t give up until He finishes the job. How do we explain it?”
    “Not every crazy thing has an explanation. Sometimes it just is.”
    “I never liked that answer. It’s the kind of thing I tell my kid.”
    “And Regina’s okay with it, right?”
    “Doesn’t mean I am.”
    Her cell phone rang. She saw Crowe’s number on the display and groaned. Rolled her eyes at Frost as she answered: “Rizzoli.”
    “They spotted Zapata, an apartment in Roxbury. Surveillance tails Maria there, and the fucking moron shows up. Get here now, we’re moving in.”
    T EN MINUTES LATER J ANE and Frost pulled up next to a chain-link fence and scrambled out of their car. Crowe was already there, strutting like General MacArthur exhorting his troops, which consisted of Detectives Arbato and Moore and two patrolmen.
    “Front entrance is around the corner,” said Arbato, pointing to the four-story redbrick apartment building. “Cahill’s watching the front door. Hasn’t seen the suspect come out yet.”
    “Are we sure it is Zapata?” asked Moore.
    “If