“Do it,” said Gabriel. “This may be the way to end it.”

Stillman covered the receiver. “Live TV is not on the table, Agent Dean. It never is.”

“Goddamn it, if this is what it takes, give it to them!”

“Leroy?” It was Joe talking again. “Are you still there?”

Stillman took a breath. He said: “Joe, you have to understand. It’s going to take time. We’d have to find a reporter who’s willing to do this. Someone willing to risk his life-”

“There’s only one reporter we’ll talk to.”

“Wait. You didn’t specify anyone.”

“He knows the background. He’s done his homework.”

“We can’t guarantee that this reporter will-”

“Peter Lukas, BostonTribune. Call him.”

“Joe-”

There was a click, then the dial tone. Stillman looked at Hayder. “We’re not sending in any civilians. It will just give them more hostages.”

“He said he’d release two people first,” said Gabriel.

“You believe that?”

“One of them might be my wife.”

“How do we know this reporter will even agree to it?”

“For what could be the biggest story of his life? A journalist just might do it.”

Barsanti said, “I think there’s another question here that no one’s answered. Who the hell is Peter Lukas? A Boston Tribune reporter? Why ask for him in particular?”

“Let’s call him,” said Stillman. “Maybe he knows.”

You’re still alive. You have to be alive. I would know it, feel it, if you weren’t.

Wouldn’t I?

Gabriel slumped on the couch in Maura’s office, his head resting in his hands, trying to think of what else he could do, but fear kept clouding any logic. As a marine, he had never lost his cool under fire. Now he could not even focus, could not shut out the image that had haunted him since the autopsy, of a different body lying on the table.

Did I ever tell you how much I love you?

He did not hear the door open. Only when Maura sat down in the chair across from him, and set two mugs on the coffee table, did he finally raise his head. She’s always composed, always in control, he thought, looking at Maura. So unlike his brash and temperamental wife. Two such different women, yet somehow they had forged a friendship that he did not quite understand.

Maura pointed to the coffee. “You like it black, right?”

“Yes. Thanks.” He took a sip, then set it down again, because he had not really wanted it.

“Did you eat any lunch?” she asked.

He rubbed his face. “I’m not hungry.”

“You look exhausted. I’ll get you a blanket, if you’d like to rest here for a while.”

“There’s no way I can sleep. Not until she’s out of there.”

“Did you reach her parents?”

“Oh god.” He shook his head. “That was an ordeal. The hardest part was convincing them they had to keep it a secret. They can’t show up here, they can’t call their friends. I almost wonder if I should have kept it from them.”

“The Rizzolis would want to know.”

“But they’re not good at keeping secrets. And if this one gets out, it could kill their daughter.”

They sat for a moment in silence. The only sound was the hiss of cool air blowing from the AC vent. On the wall behind the desk were elegantly framed floral prints. The office reflected the woman: neat, precise, cerebral.

She said, quietly: “Jane’s a survivor. We both know that. She’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

“I just want her to stay out of the line of fire.”

“She’s not stupid.”

“The problem is, she’s a cop.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“How many cops get killed trying to be heroes?”

“She’s pregnant. She won’t take any chances.”

“No?” He looked at her. “Do you know how she ended up in the hospital this morning? She was testifying in court when the defendant got out of control. And my wife-my brilliant wife-jumped into the fight to subdue him. That’s when her water broke.”

Maura looked appropriately shocked. “She really did that?”

“That’s exactly what you’d expect Jane to do.”

“I guess you’re right,” Maura said with a shake of the head. “That’s the Jane we both know and love.”

“For once, just this once, I want her to play the coward. I want her to forget she’s a cop.” He laughed. “As if she’d ever listen to me.”

Maura couldn’t help smiling as well. “Does she ever?”

He looked at her. “You know how we met, don’t you?”

“Stony Brook Reservation, wasn’t it?”

“That death scene. It took us about thirty seconds to get into our first argument. About five minutes before she ordered me off her turf.”

“Not a very promising start.”

“And a few days later, she pulls her gun on me.” At Maura’s startled look, he added: “Oh, it was justified.”

“I’m surprised that didn’t scare you off.”

“She can be a scary woman.”

“And you may be the only man she doesn’t terrify.”

“But that’s what I liked about her,” said Gabriel. “When you look at Jane, what you see is honest, and brave. I grew up in a family where nobody said what they really thought. Mom hated Dad, Dad hated Mom. But everything was just fine, right up till the day they died. I thought that was how most people went through life, by telling lies. But Jane doesn’t. She’s not afraid to say exactly what she thinks, no matter how much trouble it lands her in.” He paused. Added, quietly: “That’s what worries me.”

“That she’ll say something she shouldn’t.”

“You give Jane a shove, and she’ll shove right back. I’m hoping that for once, she’ll stay quiet. Just play the scared pregnant lady in the corner. It may be the one thing that saves her.”

His cell phone rang. At once he reached for it, and the number he saw on the display made his pulse kick into a gallop. “Gabriel Dean,” he answered.

“Where are you right now?” said Detective Thomas Moore.

“I’m sitting in Dr. Isles’s office.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Wait, Moore. What is it?”

“We know who Joe is. His full name is Joseph Roke, age thirty-nine. Last known address Purcellville, Virginia.”

“How did you ID him?”

“He abandoned his car about two blocks from the hospital. We have a witness who saw an armed man leave the car, and she confirms he’s the man on the TV videotape. His fingerprints are all over the steering wheel.”

“Wait. Joseph Roke’s prints are on file?”

“Military records. Look, I’ll come right over.”

“What else do you know?” said Gabriel. He’d heard the urgency in Moore ’s voice, and knew there was something the detective had not yet told him. “Just tell me.”

“There’s a warrant for his arrest.”

“What charges?”

“It was… a homicide. A shooting.”

“Who was the victim?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We can talk about it when I get there.”

“Who was the victim?” Gabriel repeated.

Moore sighed. “A cop. Two months ago, Joseph Roke killed a cop.”

“It started off as a routine traffic stop,” said Moore. “The event was automatically recorded by the video camera mounted in the police officer’s cruiser. New Haven PD didn’t attach the entire video, but here’s the first of the freeze-frame images they emailed me.” Moore clicked the mouse, and a photo appeared on his laptop computer. It showed the back of the New Haven police officer, caught in midstride as he walked toward a vehicle parked in front of his cruiser. The other car’s rear license plate was visible.

“It’s a Virginia plate,” said Moore. “You can see it more clearly with image enhancement. It’s the same car we found this afternoon, parked illegally on Harrison Street a few blocks from the medical center.” He looked at Gabriel. “Joseph Roke is the registered owner.”

“You said he was from Virginia.”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing in Connecticut two months ago?”