Last to Die

square with its jewel-like park and leafy trees. The Greek Revival mansions overlooking the park were home to both old wealth and new, to corporate moguls and Boston Brahmins and a former US senator. Even in this neighborhood, violence was no stranger.
The rich get whacked, too
, Detective Crowe had said, but when it happened to them, everyone paid attention. Beyond the perimeter of police tape, a crowd jostled for better views. Beacon Hill was a popular stop for tour groups, and today those tourists were certainly getting their money’s worth.
    “Hey, look! It’s Detective Rizzoli.”
    Jane spotted the female TV reporter and cameraman moving toward her, and she put up her hand to hold off any questions. Of course they ignored her and pursued her across the square.
    “Detective, we hear there’s a witness!”
    Jane pushed through the crowd, muttering: “Police. Let me through.”
    “Is it true the security system was turned off? And nothing was stolen?”
    The damn reporters knew more than she did. She ducked under the crime scene tape and gave her name and unit number to the patrolman on guard. It was merely a matter of protocol; he knew exactly who she was, and had already ticked off her name on his clipboard.
    “Shoulda seen that gal chase Detective Frost,” the patrolman said with a laugh. “He looked like a scared rabbit.”
    “Is Frost inside?”
    “So is Lieutenant Marquette. The commissioner’s on his way in, and I half expect His Honor will be showing up, too.”
    She looked up at the stunning four-story red brick residence and murmured: “Wow.”
    “I figure it’s worth fifteen, twenty million.”
    But that was before the ghosts moved in, she thought, staring at the handsome bow windows and the elaborately carved pediment above the massive front door. Beyond that front door were horrors she had no stomach to confront. Three dead children. This was the curse of parenthood; every dead child wears the face of your own. As she pulled on gloves and shoe covers, she was donning emotional protection as well. Like the construction worker who puts on his hard hat, she donned her own armor and stepped inside.
    She looked up at a stairwell that soared four stories to a glass-domed roof, through which sunlight streamed in a shower of gold. Many voices, most of them male, echoed down that stairwell from the upper floors. Although she craned her neck, she could not spot anyone from the foyer, could just hear those voices, like the rumblings of ghosts in a house that, over a century, would have sheltered many souls.
    “A glimpse of how the other half lives,” said a male voice.
    She turned to see Detective Crowe standing in a doorway. “And dies,” she said.
    “We’ve parked the boy next door. The neighbor lady was kind enough to let him wait in her house. The kid knows her, and we thought he’d feel more comfortable being interviewed there.”
    “First I need to know what happened in
this
house.”
    “We’re still trying to figure that out.”
    “What’s with all the brass showing up? I heard the commissioner’s on his way.”
    “Just take a look at the place. Money talks, even when you’re dead.”
    “Where did this family’s money come from?”
    “Bernard Ackerman’s a retired investment banker. His family’s owned this house for two generations. Big-time philanthropists. You name the charity, they probably gave to it.”
    “How did this go down?”
    “Why don’t you just take the tour?” He waved her into the room from which he’d just emerged. “You tell me what
you
think.”
    Not that her opinion mattered much to Darren Crowe. When she’d first joined the homicide unit, their clashes had been bitter, and his disdain all too apparent. She still detected hints of it in his laugh, his tone of voice. Whatever respect she’d earned in his eyes would always be probationary, and here was yet another opportunity to lose it.
    She followed him through a parlor where the twenty-foot ceiling was ornately painted with cherubs and grapevines and gold-leaf rosettes. There was scarcely any chance to admire that ceiling or the oil paintings, because Crowe walked straight through into the library, where Jane saw Lieutenant Marquette and Dr. Maura Isles. On this warm June day, Maura was wearing a peach-colored blouse, an uncharacteristically cheerful color for someone who usually favored wintry blacks and grays. With her stylishly geometric haircut and her elegant features, Maura looked like