“Detective Korsak,” a man answered.

“This is Rizzoli. Did you page me?”

“You on a cell phone, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get to a landline?”

“Not at the moment, no.” She did not know who Detective Korsak was, and she was anxious to cut this call short. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

A pause. She heard voices in the background and the crackle of a cop’s walkie-talkie. “I’m at a scene out here in Newton,” he said. “I think you should come out and see this.”

“Are you requesting Boston P.D. assistance? Because I can refer you to someone else in our unit.”

“I tried reaching Detective Moore, but they said he’s on leave. That’s why I’m calling you.” Again he paused. And added, with quiet significance: “It’s about that case you and Moore headed up last summer. You know the one.”

She fell silent. She knew exactly what he was referring to. The memories of that investigation still haunted her, still surfaced in her nightmares.

“Go on,” she said softly.

“You want the address?” he asked.

She took out her notepad.

A moment later, she hung up and turned her attention back to Dr. Tierney.

“I’ve seen similar injuries in sky divers whose parachutes fail to open,” he said. “From that height, a falling body would reach terminal velocity. That’s nearly two hundred feet per second. It’s enough to cause the disintegration we see here.”

“It’s a hell of a price to pay to get to this country,” said Frost.

Another jet roared overhead, its shadow swooping past like an eagle’s.

Rizzoli gazed up at the sky. Imagined a body falling, tumbling a thousand feet. Thought of the cold air whistling past. And then warmer air, as the ground spins ever closer.

She looked at the sheet-draped remains of a man who had dared to dream of a new world, a brighter future.