“What did Barsanti tell you?”

“He told me about their offer. That they promised to release two hostages. Then I walk in with a TV cameraman, talk to this guy, and two more hostages will be released. That’s the deal. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.”

This man could save Jane’s life, she thought. If he walked in there, Jane might be one of the two hostages who walks out. I would do it. But I can’t ask this man to risk his life, even for Jane.

“It’s not every day a man gets the chance to play hero,” he said. “It is an opportunity of sorts. A lot of journalists would jump at it.”

She laughed. “Very tempting. Book deal, TV movie of the week. Risk your life for a little fame and fortune?”

“Hey, I’ve got a rusty old Toyota parked out there right now, and a mortgage with twenty-nine years left to go, so fame and fortune doesn’t sound too bad.”

“If you live long enough to enjoy it.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you. You were with the shooter. You know what kind of people we’re dealing with. Are they rational? Are they going to keep their side of the bargain? Will they let me walk out of there after the interview’s over?”

“I can’t predict that.”

“That’s not a very helpful answer.”

“I refuse to be responsible for what happens to you. I can’t predict what they’ll do. I don’t even know what they want.”

He sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Now I have a question for you. I assume you know the answer.”

“Your question is?”

“Of all the journalists they could have asked for, why did they choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have had some contact with them before.”

It was his hesitation that caught her attention. She leaned toward him. “You’ve heard from them.”

“You have to understand, reporters hear from a lot of crazy people. Every week, I get at least a few bizarre letters or phone calls about secret government conspiracies. If it’s not the evil oil companies, then it’s black helicopters or UN plots. Most of the time I just ignore them. That’s why I didn’t really think much of it. It was just another screwy phone call.”

“When?”

“A few days ago. One of my colleagues just reminded me of it, because he was the one who answered the phone. Frankly, when the call came in, I was too busy to pay much attention. It was late, and I was about to hit a deadline, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to some nutty guy.”

“The call was from a man?”

“Yeah. It came into the Tribune newsroom. The man asked if I’d looked at the package he sent me. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He said he’d mailed me something a few weeks before, which I never got. So he told me a woman would drop off another package at the front desk that night. That as soon as it arrived, I should go down to the lobby immediately and pick it up, because it was extremely sensitive.”

“Did you ever get that second package?”

“No. The guard at the front desk said no woman ever showed up that night. I went home and forgot all about it. Until now.” He paused. “I’m wondering if that was Joe who called me.”

“Why choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“These people seem to know you.”

“Maybe they’ve read my column. Maybe they’re fans.” At Maura’s silence, he gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Fat chance, huh?”

“Have you ever appeared on television?” she asked, thinking: He has the face, the dark good looks for it.

“Never.”

“And you’re only published in the Boston Tribune?”

“Only? Nice put-down, Dr. Isles.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’ve been a reporter since I was twenty-two. Started off freelancing for the Boston Phoenix and BostonMagazine. It was fun for a while, but freelancing is no way to pay the bills, so I was happy to land a spot at the Tribune. Started off on the city beat, spent a few years in DC as their Washington correspondent. Then came back to Boston when they offered me a weekly column. So yeah, I’ve been at this reporting gig for a while. I’m not making a fortune, but obviously I’ve got some fans. Since Joseph Roke seems to know who I am.” He paused. “At least I hope he’s a fan. And not some pissed-off reader.”

“Even if he is a fan, this is a dangerous situation you’re walking into.”

“I know.”

“You understand the setup?”

“A cameraman and me. It’ll be a live feed to some local TV station. I assume the hostage takers have some way of monitoring that we’re actually on the air. I also assume they won’t object to the standard five-second delay, just in case…” He stopped.

In case something goes terribly wrong.

Lukas took a deep breath. “What would you do, Dr. Isles? In my place?”

“I’m not a journalist.”

“So you’d refuse.”

“A normal person doesn’t willingly walk into a hostage situation.”

“Meaning, journalists aren’t normal people?”

“Just think hard about it.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. That four hostages could walk out of there alive if I do this. For once, something I do will be worth writing about.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life?”

“I’m willing to take the chance,” he said. Then added with quiet honesty: “But I’m scared as hell of it, too.” His frankness was disarming; few men were brave enough to admit they were afraid. “Captain Hayder wants my answer by nine P.M.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The cameraman’s already agreed to go in. That makes me feel like a coward if I don’t do it. Especially if four hostages could be saved. I keep thinking of all those reporters in Baghdad right now, and what they face every day. This should be a cakewalk in comparison. I go in, talk to the wackos, let them tell me their story, and then I walk out. Maybe that’s all they want-a chance to vent, to have people listen to them. I could end the whole crisis by doing this.”

“You want to be a savior.”

“No! No, I’m just…” He laughed. “Trying to justify taking this crazy chance.”

“You called it that. I didn’t.”

“The truth is, I’m no hero. I never saw the point of risking my life if I didn’t have to. But I’m as baffled about this as you are. I want to know why they chose me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine. I guess I’d better call Barsanti.” Rising to his feet, he turned toward the door. Suddenly paused and glanced back.

Maura’s phone was ringing.

She picked it up to hear Abe Bristol say: “Are you watching TV?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Turn it on, channel six. It’s not good.”

As Lukas watched, she crossed to the TV, her heart suddenly pounding. What has happened? What’s gone wrong? She clicked on the remote, and the face of Zoe Fossey at once filled the screen.

“… official spokesman has refused comment, but we have confirmed that one of the hostages is a Boston police officer. Detective Jane Rizzoli made national headlines just last month, during the investigation of a kidnapped housewife in Natick. We have no word yet as to the condition of any of the hostages, or how Detective Rizzoli happened to be among them…”

“My god,” murmured Lukas, standing right beside her. She had not been aware that he had moved so close to her. “There’s a cop trapped in there?”

Maura looked at him. “She could very well be a dead cop.”