Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

account.”
    Every muscle in Marilyn’s face snapped taut. “You bastard.”
    Catherine could listen no more, and she cut in: “This isn’t the place to be discussing it. Please, can you both step out of the room?”
    For a moment, brother and sister eyed each other in hostile silence, as though just the act of being the first to leave was a surrender. Then Ivan stalked out, an intimidating figure in a tailored suit. His sister, Marilyn, looking every bit the tired suburban housewife she was, gave her father’s hand a squeeze and followed her brother.
    In the hallway, Catherine laid out the grim facts.
    “Your father has been in a coma since the accident. His kidneys are now failing. Because of his long-term diabetes, they were already impaired, and the trauma made things worse.”
    “How much was due to surgery?” asked Ivan. “The anesthetic you gave him?”
    Catherine suppressed her rising temper and said, evenly: “He was unconscious when he came in. Anesthesia was not a factor. But tissue damage puts a strain on kidneys, and his are shutting down. Plus, he has a diagnosis of prostate cancer that’s already spread to his bones. Even if he does wake up, those problems remain.”
    “You want us to give up, don’t you?” said Ivan.
    “I simply want you to rethink his code status. If his heart should stop, we don’t have to resuscitate him. We can let him go peacefully.”
    “You mean, just let him die.”
    “Yes.”
    Ivan gave a snort. “Let me tell you something about my dad. He’s not a quitter. And neither am I.”
    “For god’s sake, Ivan, this isn’t about winning or losing!” said Marilyn. “It’s about when to let go.”
    “And you’re so quick to do that, aren’t you?” he said, turning to face her. “The first sign of difficulty, little Marilyn always gives up and lets Daddy bail her out. Well, he never bailed me out.”
    Tears glistened in Marilyn’s eyes. “It’s not about Dad, is it? It’s about you having to win.”
    “No, it’s about giving him a fighting chance.” Ivan looked at Catherine. “I want everything done for my father. I hope that’s absolutely clear.”
    Marilyn wiped tears from her face as she watched her brother walk away. “How can he say he loves him, when he never came to see him?” She looked at Catherine. “I don’t want my dad resuscitated. Can you put that in the chart?”
    This was the sort of ethical dilemma every doctor dreaded. Although Catherine sided with Marilyn, the brother’s last words had carried a definite threat.
    She said, “I can’t change the order until you and your brother agree on this.”
    “He’ll never agree. You heard him.”
    “Then you’ll have to talk to him some more. Convince him.”
    “You’re afraid he’ll sue, aren’t you? That’s why you won’t change the order.”
    “I know he’s angry.”
    Sadly Marilyn nodded. “That’s how he wins. It’s how he always wins.”
    I can stitch a body back together again, thought Catherine. But I cannot mend this broken family.
    The pain and hostility of that meeting still clung to her when she walked out of the hospital a half hour later. It was Friday afternoon and a free weekend stretched ahead, yet as she drove out of the medical center parking garage she felt no sense of liberation. It was even hotter today than yesterday, in the nineties, and she looked forward to the coolness of her apartment, to sitting down with an iced tea and the TV tuned to The Discovery Channel.
    She was waiting at the first intersection for the light to turn green when her gaze drifted to the name of the cross street. Worcester.
    It was the street where Elena Ortiz had lived. The victim’s address had been mentioned in the
Boston Globe
article, which Catherine had finally felt compelled to read.
    The light changed. On impulse, she turned onto Worcester Street. She’d never had reason to drive this way before, but something drew her onward. The morbid need to see where the killer had struck and to see the building where her own personal nightmare had come to life for another woman. Her hands were damp, and she could feel her pulse quickening as she watched the numbers on the buildings climb.
    At Elena Ortiz’s address, she pulled over to the curb.
    There was nothing distinctive about this edifice, nothing that shouted to her of terror and death. She saw just another three-story brick building.
    She stepped out of her car and stared at the windows of the upper floors. Which