Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

gardens.
    Newbury Street had been bustling, but here there were few tourists. A couple sat on a bench by the pond, arms wrapped around each other, heedless of anyone outside their own fevered universe. A man was hunched over a trash bin, picking out aluminum cans and dropping them into his clanking sack. Sprawled on the lawn, shadowed by trees from the glow of streetlights, a circle of kids took turns strumming a guitar. Jane paused at the pond’s edge and scanned the shadows.
Is she here? Is she already watching me?
    No one approached her.
    She made a slow circuit around the pond. During the day there would be swan boats gliding in the water, and families eating ice cream, and musicians pounding on bongo drums. But tonight the water was still, a black hole reflecting not even a shimmer of city lights. She continued to the north end of the pond and paused, listening to traffic along Beacon Street. Through the bushes she saw the silhouette of a man loitering beneath a tree. Barry Frost. She turned and continued her circle around the pond, and finally came to a halt beneath a streetlamp.
    Here I am, Mila. Take a good long look at me. You can see that I’m alone.
    After a moment, she settled onto a bench, feeling like the star of a one-woman stage play, with the lamplight shining down on her head. She felt eyes watching her, violating her privacy.
    Something rattled behind her, and she jerked around, automatically reaching for her weapon. Her hand froze on the holster when she saw it was only the scruffy man with the trash bag of clanking aluminum cans. Heart pounding, she again settled back against the bench. A breeze blew through the park, rippling the pond, raking its surface with sequins of reflected light. The man with the cans dragged his bag to a trash receptacle beside her bench and began to poke through the rubbish. He took his time excavating treasure, each find announced by a cymbal’s clash of aluminum. Would the man never go away? In frustration, she rose to her feet to escape him.
    Her cell phone rang.
    She thrust a hand in her pocket and snapped up the phone. “Hello?
Hello?
”
    Silence.
    “I’m here,” she said. “I’m sitting by the pond, where you told me to wait. Mila?”
    She heard only the throb of her own heartbeat. The connection was dead.
    She spun around and scanned the park, spotting only the same people she’d seen before. The couple necking on the bench, the kids with the guitar. And the man with the sack of cans. He was motionless, hunched over the trash receptacle, as though eyeing some minute jewel in the mound of newspapers and food wrappings.
    He’s been listening.
    “Hey,” Jane said.
    The man instantly straightened. He began to walk away, the sack of cans clanking behind him.
    She started after him. “I want to talk to you!”
    The man did not look back, but kept walking. Faster now, knowing that he was being pursued. She sprinted after him, and caught up just as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Grabbing the back of his windbreaker she yanked him around. Beneath the glare of the streetlight, they stared at each other. She saw sunken eyes and an unkempt beard streaked with gray. Smelled breath soured by alcohol and rotting teeth.
    He batted away her hand. “What’re you doing? What the hell, lady?”
    “Rizzoli?” Moore’s voice barked over her earpiece. “You need backup?”
    “No. No, I’m okay.”
    “Who ya talking to?” the bum said.
    Angrily, she waved him off. “Go. Just get out of here.”
    “Who do you think you are, ordering me around?”
    “Just
leave.
”
    “Yeah, yeah.” He gave a snort and walked away, dragging his cans behind him. “Park’s full of crazy people these days . . .”
    She turned, and suddenly realized that she was surrounded. Gabriel, Moore, and Frost had all moved within yards of her position, to form a protective circle around her. “Oh man,” she sighed. “Did I ask for help?”
    “We didn’t know what was going on,” said Gabriel.
    “Now we’ve blown it.” She looked around the park, and it seemed emptier than ever. The couple on the bench was walking away; only the kids with the guitar remained, laughing in the shadows. “If Mila’s been watching, she knows it’s a setup. There’s no way she’ll come near me.”
    “It’s nine forty-five,” said Frost. “What do you think?”
    Moore shook his head. “Let’s wrap it up. Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
     
    “I was doing fine,” said Jane. “I