Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

wasn’t the movies, and she couldn’t predict what the crazy lady with the gun would do. That’s what Jane had dubbed her. The Crazy Lady. What else could you call a woman who stalks back and forth, waving a gun? Only occasionally did the woman stop to look at the TV, which was tuned to channel six. Live coverage of the medical center hostage situation. Look Ma, I’m on television, thought Jane. I’m one of the lucky hostages trapped in that building. It’s kind of like the reality show
Survivor
but with bullets.
    And real blood.
    She noticed that the Crazy Lady was wearing a patient wristband like Jane’s. Escapee from the psych unit? Just try to make
her
sit obediently in a wheelchair. The woman was barefoot, her shapely ass peeking out from the backless hospital gown. She had long legs, muscular thighs, and a luxuriant mane of jet black hair. Dress her up in a sexy leather outfit, and she’d look like Xena the Warrior Princess.
    “I gotta pee,” Mr. Bodine said.
    The Crazy Lady didn’t even glance at him.
    “Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I said I gotta
pee
!”
    Oh jeez, just do it, old man, thought Rizzoli. Pee in your wheelchair. Don’t tick off someone who’s holding a gun.
    On the TV, a blond reporter appeared. Zoe Fossey, reporting from Albany Street. “We have no word yet on how many hostages are trapped inside the hospital wing. Police have cordoned off the building. So far there is one known fatality, a security guard who was shot to death while trying to restrain the patient . . .”
    The Crazy Lady halted, her gaze riveted on the screen. One of her bare feet landed on the manila folder that was lying on the floor. Only then did Jane notice the name on that chart, written in black felt ink.
    Rizzoli, Jane.
    The news report ended, and Crazy Lady resumed her pacing, her bare feet slapping across the folder. It was Jane’s outpatient chart, which Dr. Tam had probably been carrying when she’d walked into Diagnostic Imaging. Now it was right at the Crazy Lady’s feet. All she had to do was bend down and flip open the cover and read the first page, where the patient information was listed. Name, birth date, marital status, Social Security number.
    And occupation.
Detective, Homicide. Boston Police Department.
    This woman is now under siege by the Boston PD SWAT team, thought Jane. When she finds out that I’m a cop, too . . .
    She didn’t want to complete the thought; she knew where it would lead. She looked down once again at her arm, at the hospital ID band printed with the name: RIZZOLI, JANE . If she could just get this thing off, she could jam it between the cushions, and the Crazy Lady wouldn’t be able to match her to the chart. That was the thing to do, get rid of this dangerous ID band. Then she’d be just another pregnant lady in the hospital. Not a cop, not a threat.
    She slipped a finger under the wristband and tugged, but it didn’t give way. She pulled harder, but could not break it. What the hell was it made of, anyway? Titanium? But of course it had to be sturdy. You didn’t want confused old guys like Mr. Bodine yanking off their IDs and wandering the halls, anonymous. She strained harder against the plastic, her teeth gritting together, the muscles quietly straining. I’ll have to chew it off, she thought. When the Crazy Lady isn’t looking, I could—
    She froze. Realized the woman was standing right in front of her, a bare foot planted once again on Jane’s medical chart. Slowly Jane’s gaze lifted to the woman’s face. Up till then she had avoided looking directly at her captor, afraid to draw any attention to herself. Now, to her horror, she saw that the woman was focused on her—only on her—and she felt like the herd’s lone gazelle singled out for slaughter. The woman even
looked
like a feline, long-limbed and graceful, her black hair glossy as a panther’s. Her blue eyes were as intense as searchlights, and Jane was now caught in the beam.
    “This is what they do,” the woman said, eyeing Jane’s wristband. “They put labels on you. Like in concentration camp.” She showed her own wristband, printed with DOE, JANE . There was an original name for you, thought Jane, and she almost wanted to laugh. I’m being held hostage by Jane Doe. It’s down to Jane vs. Jane. The real one versus the fake one. Didn’t the hospital know who this woman was when they admitted her? Judging by the few words she’d spoken, it was clear she was not American.