Tess Gerritsen - Last to Die

As Jane stepped into the establishment, an even stronger whiff of alcohol hit her full in the face. Inside, it was so dim that she could barely make out the silhouettes of two men hunched at the bar, nursing their drinks. Gaudy cushions and camel bells decorated the velvet-upholstered booths, and she half expected a belly dancer to come tinkling by with a tray of cocktails.

“Get ya something, miss?” the bartender called out, and the two patrons swiveled around to stare at her.

“I’m here to meet someone,” she said.

“I’m guessing you want that guy in the back booth.”

A voice called out: “I’m here, Jane.”

She nodded to the bartender and headed to the back booth where her father was sitting, almost swallowed up among poufy velvet cushions. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the table in front of him. It wasn’t even five P.M. and he was already drinking, something she’d never seen him do before. Then again, Frank Rizzoli had recently done a lot of things she’d never thought he’d do.

Like walk out on his wife.

She slid onto the bench across from him and sneezed as she settled on dusty velvet. “Why the hell are we meeting here, Dad?” she asked.

“It’s quiet. Good place to talk.”

“ This is where you hang out?”

“Lately. You want a drink?”

“No.” She looked at the glass in front of him. “What’s that all about?”

“Whiskey.”

“No, I mean what’s with drinking before five?”

“Who the hell made up that rule, anyway? What’s so magic about five o’clock? Anyway, you know how the song goes. It’s always five o’clock somewhere. Smart man, Jimmy Buffett.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I called in sick. So sue me.” He took a sip of whiskey but didn’t seem to enjoy it, and set the glass back down. “You don’t talk to me much these days, Jane. It hurts.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m your father. That hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah, but you’re like a pod person. You do things that my dad—my old dad—wouldn’t do.”

He sighed. “Insanity.”

“That sounds about right.”

“No, I mean it. The insanity of lust. Fucking hormones.”

“My old dad wouldn’t have used that word.”

“Your old dad’s a lot wiser now.”

“Is he?” She leaned back, and her throat itched from the dust puffing up from the velvet upholstery. “Is that why you’re trying to reconnect with me?”

“I never cut you off. You did.”

“It’s hard to keep connected when you’re shacked up with another woman. There were weeks when you never bothered to call, even once. To check on any of us.”

“I didn’t dare. You were too pissed at me. And you took your mom’s side.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You have two parents, Jane.”

“And one of them walked out. Broke Mom’s heart and ran off with a bimbo.”

“Your mom doesn’t look too heartbroken to me.”

“You know how many months it took for her to get to this point? How many nights she spent crying her eyes out? While you were out partying with what’s-her-face, Mom was trying to figure out how to survive on her own. And she did it. I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s landed on her feet and is doing fine. Great, in fact.”

Those words seemed to hit him as hard as if she’d actually thrown a punch. Even in the gloom of that cocktail lounge she could see his face crumple, his shoulders fold forward. His head dropped into his hands, and she heard what sounded like a sob.

“Dad? Dad.”

“You gotta stop her. She can’t marry that man, she can’t.”

“Dad, I—” Jane glanced down at the cell phone vibrating on her belt. A quick glance told her it was a Maine area code, a number she didn’t recognize. She let it go to voice mail and refocused on her father. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“It was a mistake. If I could just turn back the clock …”

“I thought you were engaged to what’s-her-name.”

He took a deep breath. “Sandie called it off. And she kicked me out.”

Jane didn’t say a word. For a moment, the only sounds were the clink of ice cubes and the rattle of the cocktail shaker at the bar.

Head drooped, he murmured into his chest. “I’m staying at a cheap hotel around the corner from here. That’s why I asked you to meet me here, ’cause this is where I hang out now.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “The fucking Arabian Nights cocktail lounge!”

“What happened between you two?”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Life. Boredom. I don’t know. She said I couldn’t keep up with her. That I was acting like an old fart, wanting my dinner cooked every night, and what was she, the maid?”

“Maybe now you appreciate Mom.”

“Yeah, well, nobody beats your mom’s cooking, that’s for damn sure. So maybe I was unfair, expecting Sandie to measure up. But she didn’t have to twist the knife, you know? Calling me old .”

“ Ouch . That’s gotta sting.”

“I’m only sixty-two! Just ’cause she’s fourteen years younger doesn’t make her some spring chicken. But that’s how she sees me, too old for her. Too old to be worth …” He dropped his head in his hands again.

Lust fades and then you see your new and exciting lover in the harsh light of day. Sandie Huffington must have woken up one morning, looked at Frank Rizzoli, and noticed the lines in his face, the sag of his jowls. When the hormones were spent, what was left was sixty-two years old, and going flabby and bald. She’d snagged another woman’s husband and now she wanted to throw back the catch.

“You gotta help me,” he said.

“You need money, Dad?”

His head snapped up. “No! I’m not asking for that! I got a job, why would I need your money?”

“Then what do you need?”

“I need you to talk to your ma. Tell her I’m sorry.”

“She should hear that from you.”

“I tried to tell her, but she doesn’t want to hear me out.”

Jane sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.”

“And … and ask her when I can come home.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“What’s that look on your face?”

“You expect Mom to let you move back in?”

“Half the house is mine.”

“You’ll kill each other.”

“A bad idea to have your parents together again? What kind of thing is that for a daughter to say?”

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, it was slowly and clearly. “So you want to go back to Mom and be the way you were before. Is that what you’re saying?” She rubbed her temples. “Holy shit.”

“I want us to be a family again. Her, me, you and your brothers. Christmas and Thanksgiving together. All those great times, great meals.”

Mostly the great meals .

“Frankie’s on board,” he said. “He wants it to happen. So does Mike. I just need you to talk to her, because she listens to you. You tell her to take me back. Tell her it’s the way things were meant to be.”

“What about Korsak?”

“Who gives a shit about him?”

“They’re engaged. They’re planning the wedding.”

“She’s not divorced yet. She’s still my wife.”

“It’s only a matter of paperwork.”

“It’s a matter of family . A matter of what’s right . Please, Jane, talk to her. And we can go back to being the Rizzolis again.”

The Rizzolis . She thought about what that meant. A history. All the holidays and birthdays, together. Memories shared by no one else but them. There was a sacredness to that, something that should not be easily cast aside, and she was sentimental enough to mourn what had been lost. Now it could be reconstructed and made whole, Mom and Dad together again, as they’d always been. Frankie and Mike wanted it. Her dad wanted it.