Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Gabriel’s wallet, then he waved his flashlight toward a dark sedan parked behind their rental car. “Get in. You’ll have to come with us.”
    “Why?” said Gabriel.
    “We need to confirm your IDs.”
    “We have a flight to catch, back to Boston,” said Jane.
    “Cancel it.”

TWENTY-EIGHT
    Jane sat alone in the interview room, staring at her own reflection and thinking: It sucks to be on the wrong side of the one-way mirror. She had been here for an hour now, every so often rising to her feet to check the door, on the off chance that it had miraculously unlocked itself. Of course they had separated her from Gabriel; that’s the way it was done, the way she herself handled interrogations. But everything else about her situation was new and unfamiliar territory. The men had never identified themselves, had presented no badges, offered no names, ranks, or serial numbers. They could be the Men in Black for all she knew, protecting Earth from the scum of the universe. They had brought their prisoners into the building through an underground parking garage, so she did not even know which agency they worked for, only that this interrogation room was somewhere within the city limits of Reston.
    “Hey!” Jane went to the mirror and rapped on the glass. “You know, you never read me my rights. Plus you took my cell phone so I can’t call an attorney. Man, are you guys in trouble.”
    She heard no answer.
    Her breasts were starting to ache again, the cow in desperate need of milking, but no way was she going to pull up her shirt in view of that one-way mirror. She rapped again, harder. Feeling fearless now, because she knew these were government guys who were just taking their sweet time, trying to intimidate her. She knew her rights; as a cop, she’d wasted too much effort ensuring the rights of perps; she was damn well going to demand her own.
    In the mirror, she confronted her own reflection. Her hair was a frizzy brown corona, her jaw a stubborn square. Take a good look, guys, she thought. Whoever you are behind that glass, you are now seeing one pissed-off cop who is getting less and less cooperative.
    “Hey!” she shouted and slapped the glass.
    Suddenly the door swung open, and she was surprised to see a woman step into the room. Though the woman’s face was still youthful, no older than fifty, her hair had already turned a sleek silver, a startling contrast to her dark eyes. Like her male colleagues, she too was wearing a conservative suit, the attire of choice for women who must function in a man’s profession.
    “Detective Rizzoli,” the woman said. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I got here as soon as I could. DC traffic, you know.” She held out her hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”
    Jane ignored the offered handshake, her gaze fixed on the woman’s face. “Should I know you?”
    “Helen Glasser. Department of Justice. And yes, I agree, you have every right to be pissed off.” Again she held out her hand, a second attempt to call a truce.
    This time Jane shook it, and felt a grasp as firm as any man’s. “Where’s my husband?” she asked.
    “He’ll be joining us upstairs. I wanted a chance to make peace with you first, before we all get down to business. What happened this evening was just a misunderstanding.”
    “What happened was a violation of our rights.”
    Glasser gestured toward the doorway. “Please, let’s go upstairs, and we’ll talk about it.”
    They walked down the hall to an elevator, where Glasser inserted a coded key card and pressed the button for the top floor. One ride took them straight from the doghouse to the penthouse. The elevator slid open, and they walked into a room with large windows and a view of the city of Reston. The room was furnished with the undistinguished taste so typical of government offices. Jane saw a gray couch and armchairs grouped around a bland kilim rug, a side table with a coffee urn and a tray of cups and saucers. On one wall was the lone piece of decorative art, an abstract painting of a fuzzy orange ball. Hang that in a police station, she thought, and you could be sure some smart-ass cop would draw in a bull’s-eye.
    The whine of the elevator made her turn, and she saw Gabriel step out. “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “Wasn’t too crazy about those electric shocks. But yeah, I’m . . .” She paused, startled to recognize the man who had just stepped off the elevator behind Gabriel. The man whose face she