Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

have fled.
    She looked up as Moore came into the room. “You in charge of this mess?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “Marquette gave the go-ahead. We had information that Pacheco was in the building.”
    “Then where is he?” She slammed the drawer shut and crossed to the bedroom window. It was closed but unlatched. The fire escape was right outside. She opened the window and stuck her head out. A squad car was parked in the alley below, radio chattering, and she saw a patrolman shining his flashlight into a Dumpster.
    She was about to pull her head back in when she felt something tap her on the back of the scalp, and she heard the faint clatter of gravel bouncing off the fire escape. Startled, she looked up. The night sky was awash with city lights, and the stars were barely visible. She stared for a moment, scanning the outline of the roof against that anemic black sky, but nothing moved.
    She climbed out the window onto the fire escape and started up the ladder to the third story. On the next landing she stopped to check the window of the flat above Pacheco’s; the screen had been nailed in place, and the window was dark.
    Again she looked up, toward the roof. Though she saw nothing, heard nothing from above, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.
    “Rizzoli?” Moore called out the window. She didn’t answer but pointed to the roof, a silent signal of her intentions.
    She wiped her damp palms on her slacks and quietly started up the ladder leading to the roof. At the last rung she paused, took a deep breath, and slowly, slowly raised her head to peer over the edge.
    Beneath the moonless sky, the rooftop was a forest of shadows. She saw the silhouette of a table and chairs, a tangle of arching branches. A rooftop garden. She scrambled over the edge, dropped lightly onto the asphalt shingles, and drew her weapon. Two steps, and her shoe hit an obstacle, sent it clattering. She inhaled the pungent scent of geraniums. Realized she was surrounded by plants in clay pots. An obstacle course of them at her feet.
    Off to her left, something moved.
    She strained to make out a human form in that jumble of shadows. Saw him then, crouching like a black homunculus.
    She raised her weapon and commanded: “Freeze!”
    She did not see what he already held in his hand. What he was preparing to hurl at her.
    A split second before the garden trowel hit her face, she felt the air rush toward her, like an evil wind whistling out of the darkness. The blow slammed into her left cheek with such force she saw lights explode.
    She landed on her knees, a tidal wave of pain roaring up her synapses, pain so terrible it sucked her breath away.
    “Rizzoli?”
It was Moore. She hadn’t even heard him drop onto the rooftop.
    “I’m okay. I’m okay.…” She squinted toward where the figure had been crouching. It was gone. “He’s here,” she whispered. “I want that son of a bitch.”
    Moore eased into the darkness. She clutched her head, waiting for the dizziness to pass, cursing her own carelessness. Fighting to keep her head clear, she staggered to her feet. Anger was a potent fuel; it steadied her legs, strengthened her grip on the weapon.
    Moore was a few yards to her right; she could just make out his silhouette, moving past the table and chairs.
    She moved left, circling the roof in the opposite direction. Every throb in her cheek, every poker stab of pain, was a reminder that she’d screwed up.
Not this time.
Her gaze swept the feathery shadows of potted trees and shrubs.
    A sudden clatter made her whirl to her right. She heard running footsteps, saw a shadow dart across the roof, straight toward her.
    Moore yelled, “Freeze! Police!”
    The man kept coming.
    Rizzoli dropped to a crouch, weapon poised. The throbbing in her face crescendoed into bursts of agony. All the humiliation she’d endured, the daily snubs, the insults, the never-ending torment dished out by the Darren Crowes of the world, seemed to shrink into a single pinpoint of rage.
    This time, bastard, you’re mine.
Even as the man suddenly halted before her, even as his arms lifted toward the sky, the decision was irreversible.
    She squeezed the trigger.
    The man twitched. Staggered backward.
    She fired a second time, a third, and each kick of the weapon was a satisfying snap against her palm.
    “Rizzoli! Cease fire!”
    Moore’s shout finally penetrated the roaring in her ears. She froze, her weapon still aimed, her arms taut and