Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

her apron and threw it on the counter. “This is my job, Ma! Why the hell doesn’t anyone respect that?” She grabbed the kitchen phone and punched in Barry Frost’s cell phone number.
    He answered on the first ring.
    “It’s me,” she said. “I just got the message to call back.”
    “You’re gonna miss the takedown.”
    “What?”
    “We got a cold hit on that DNA from Nina Peyton.”
    “You mean the semen? The DNA’s in CODIS?”
    “It matches a perp named Karl Pacheco. Arrested 1997, charged with sexual assault, but acquitted. He claimed it was consensual. The jury believed him.”
    “He’s Nina Peyton’s rapist?”
    “And we got the DNA to prove it.”
    She gave a triumphant punch in the air. “What’s the address?”
    “Four-five-seven-eight Columbus Ave. The team’s just about all here.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    She was already running out the door when her mother called: “Janie! What about dinner?”
    “Gotta go, Ma.”
    “But it’s Frankie’s last night!”
    “We’re making an arrest.”
    “Can’t they do it without you?”
    Rizzoli stopped, her hand on the doorknob, her temper hissing dangerously toward detonation. And she saw, with startling clarity, that no matter what she achieved or how distinguished her career might be, this one moment would always represent her reality: Janie, the trivial sister. The
girl
.
    Without a word, she walked out and slammed the door.
     
    Columbus Avenue was on the northern edge of Roxbury, smack in the center of the Surgeon’s killing grounds. To the south was Jamaica Plain, the home of Nina Peyton. To the southeast was Elena Ortiz’s residence. To the northeast was the Back Bay, and the homes of Diana Sterling and Catherine Cordell. Glancing at the tree-lined streets, Rizzoli saw brick row houses, a neighborhood populated by students and staff from nearby Northeastern University. Lots of coeds.
    Lots of good hunting.
    The traffic light ahead turned yellow. Adrenaline spurting, she floored the accelerator and barreled through the intersection. The honor of making this arrest should be hers. For weeks, Rizzoli had lived, breathed, even dreamed of the Surgeon. He had infiltrated every moment of her life, both awake and asleep. No one had worked harder to catch him, and now she was in a race to claim her prize.
    A block from Karl Pacheco’s address, she screeched to a halt behind a cruiser. Four other vehicles were parked helter-skelter along the street.
    Too late, she thought, running toward the building. They’ve already gone in.
    Inside she heard thudding footsteps and men’s shouts echoing in the stairwell. She followed the sound to the second floor and stepped into Karl Pacheco’s apartment.
    There she confronted a scene of chaos. Splintered wood from the door littered the threshold. Chairs had been overturned, a lamp smashed, as though wild bulls had raged through the room, trailing destruction. The air itself was poisoned with testosterone, cops on a rampage, hunting for the perp who a few days before had slaughtered one of their own.
    On the floor, a man lay facedown. Black—not the Surgeon. Crowe had his heel brutally pressed to the back of the black man’s neck.
    “I asked you a question, asshole,” yelled Crowe. “Where’s Pacheco?”
    The man whimpered and made the mistake of trying to lift his head. Crowe brought his heel down, hard, slamming the prisoner’s chin against the floor. The man made a choking sound and began to thrash.
    “Let him up!” yelled Rizzoli.
    “He won’t hold still!”
    “Get off him and maybe he’ll talk to you!” Rizzoli shoved Crowe aside. The prisoner rolled onto his back, gasping like a landed fish.
    Crowe yelled, “Where’s Pacheco?”
    “Don’t—don’t know—”
    “You’re in his apartment!”
    “Left. He left—”
    “When?”
    The man began to cough, a deep, violent hacking that sounded like his lungs were ripping apart. The other cops had gathered around, staring with undisguised hatred at the prisoner on the floor. The friend of a cop-killer.
    Disgusted, Rizzoli headed up the hall to the bedroom. The closet door hung open and clothes on the hangers had been thrown to the floor. The search of the flat had been thorough and brutish, every door flung open, every possible hiding place exposed. She pulled on gloves and began going through dresser drawers, poking through pockets, searching for a datebook, an address book, anything that could tell her where Pacheco might