TWENTY-THREE
The sky had opened up and rain pounded like a thousand hammers on the roof of Dean’s Volvo. The windshield wipers thrashed across a watery view of stalled traffic and flooded streets.
“A good thing you’re not flying back tonight,” he said. “The airport’s probably a mess.”
“In this weather, I’ll keep my feet on the ground, thank you.”
He shot her an amused look. “And I thought you were fearless.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“You did. You work hard at it, too. The armor always stays on.”
“You’re trying to crawl inside my head again. You’re always doing that.”
“It’s just a matter of habit. It’s what I did in the Gulf War. Psychological ops.”
“Well, I’m not the enemy, okay?”
“I never thought you were, Jane.”
She looked at him and could not help admiring, as she always did, the clean, sharp lines of his profile. “But you didn’t trust me.”
“I didn’t know you then.”
“So have you changed your mind?”
“Why do you think I asked you to come to Washington?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, and gave a reckless laugh. “Because you missed me and couldn’t wait to see me again?”
His silence made her flush. Suddenly she felt stupid and desperate, precisely the traits she despised in other women. She stared out the window, avoiding his gaze, the sound of her own voice, her own foolish words, still ringing in her ears.
In the road ahead, cars were finally starting to move again, tires churning through deep puddles.
“Actually,” he said, “I did want to see you.”
“Oh?” The word tossed off carelessly. She had already embarrassed herself; she wouldn’t repeat the mistake.
“I wanted to apologize. For telling Marquette you weren’t up to the job. I was wrong.”
“When did you decide that?”
“There wasn’t a specific moment. It was just… watching you work, day after day. Seeing how focused you are. How driven you are to get everything right.” He added, quietly: “And then I found out what you’ve been dealing with since last summer. Issues I hadn’t been aware of.”
“Wow. ‘And she manages to do her job anyway.’ ”
“You think I feel sorry for you,” he said.
“It’s not particularly flattering to hear: ‘Look how much she’s accomplished, considering what she has to deal with.’ So give me a medal in the Special Olympics. The one for emotionally screwed-up cops.”
He gave a sigh of exasperation. “Do you always look for the hidden motive behind every compliment, every word of praise? Sometimes, people mean exactly what they say, Jane.”
“You can understand why I’d be more than a little skeptical about anything you tell me.”
“You think I still have a secret agenda.”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“But I must have one, right? Because you certainly don’t deserve a genuine compliment from me.”
“I get your point.”
“You may get it. But you don’t really believe it.” He braked at a red light and looked at her. “Where does all the skepticism come from? Has it been that tough for you, being Jane Rizzoli?”
She gave a weary laugh. “Let’s not go there, Dean.”
“Is it the part about being a woman cop?”
“You can probably fill in the blanks.”
“Your colleagues seem to respect you.”
“There are some notable exceptions.”
“There always are.”
The light turned green, and his gaze went back to the road.
“It’s the nature of police work,” she said. “All that testosterone.”
“Then why did you choose it?”
“Because I flunked home ec.”
At that, they both laughed. The first honest laugh they’d shared.
“The truth is,” she said, “I’ve wanted to be a cop since I was twelve years old.”
“Why?”
“Everyone respects cops. At least, that’s how it seems to a kid. I wanted the badge, the gun. The things that’d make people stand up and take notice of me. I didn’t want to end up in some office where I’d just disappear. Where I’d turn into the invisible woman. That’d be like getting buried alive, to be someone no one listens to. No one notices.” She leaned an elbow against the door and rested her head in her hand. “Now, anonymity’s starting to look pretty good.” At least the Surgeon wouldn’t know my name.
“You sound sorry you chose police work.”
She thought of the long nights on her feet, fueled by caffeine and adrenaline. The horrors of confronting the worst that human beings can do to each other. And she thought of Airplane Man, whose file remained on her desk, the perpetual symbol of futility. His own, as well as hers. We dream our dreams, she thought, and sometimes they take us places we never anticipate. A farmhouse basement with the stench of blood in the air. Or a free fall through blue sky, limbs flailing against the pull of gravity. But they are our dreams, and we go where they lead.
She said, at last: “No, I’m not sorry. It’s what I do. It’s what I care about. It’s what I get angry about. I have to admit, a lot of the job’s about anger. I can’t just stand back and look at a victim’s body without being pissed off. That’s when I become their advocate-when I let their deaths get to me. Maybe when I don’t get angry is when I’ll know it’s time to quit.”
“Not everyone has your fire in the belly.” He looked at her. “I think you’re the most intense person I’ve ever met.”
“That’s not such a good thing.”
“No, intensity is a good thing.”
“If it means you’re always on the verge of flaming out?”
“Are you?”
“Sometimes it feels that way.” She stared at the rain lashing the windshield. “I should try to be more like you.”
He didn’t respond, and she wondered if she’d offended him by her last statement. By her implication that he was cold and passionless. Yet that’s how he had always struck her: the man in the gray suit. For weeks, he had baffled her, and now, in her frustration, she wanted to provoke him, to make him display any emotion, however unpleasant, if only to prove she could do it. The challenge of the impregnable.
But it was just such challenges that led women to make fools of themselves.
When at last he pulled up in front of the Watergate Hotel, she was ready with a crisp farewell.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “And for the revelations.” She turned and opened her door, letting in a whoosh of warm, wet air. “See you back in Boston.”
“Jane?”
“Yes?”
“No more hidden agendas between us, okay? What I say is what I mean.”
“If you insist.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It matters a great deal to me.”
She paused, her pulse suddenly quickening. Her gaze swung back to his. They had kept secrets from each other for so long that neither one of them knew how to read the truth in the other’s eyes. It was a moment in which anything could have been said next, anything could have happened. Neither dared to make the first move. The first mistake.
A shadow moved across her open car door. “Welcome to the Watergate, ma’am! Do you need help with any luggage?”
Rizzoli glanced up, startled, to see the hotel doorman smiling at her. He had seen her open the door and assumed she was stepping out of the car.
“I’m already checked in, thank you,” she said, and glanced back at Dean. But the moment had passed. The doorman was still standing there, waiting for her to get out. So she did.
A glance through the window, a wave; that was their good-bye. She turned and walked into the lobby, pausing only long enough to watch his car drive out of the porte cochere and vanish into the rain.
In the elevator, she leaned back, her eyes closed, and silently berated herself for every naked emotion she might have revealed, everything foolish she might have said in the car. By the time she got up to her room, she wanted more than anything to simply check out and return to Boston. Surely there was a flight she could catch this evening. Or the train. She’d always loved riding trains.