Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

“Dr. Isles is a friend of ours,” said Jane. “She’s a reliable professional, and she wouldn’t go missing on a whim. We’re all concerned about her welfare.”

Queenan turned to look at Brophy. “And are you with Boston PD, too?”

“No, sir,” said Brophy. “I’m a priest.”

At that, Queenan gave a startled laugh. “A fibbie, a cop, and a priest. Now, that’s a team I haven’t seen before.”

“What have you got so far?” Jane asked.

“Well, we have this,” Queenan said, and he pointed at the parked Toyota where two people stood, watching the conversation. The man was named Finch, and he worked as a security guard for the lodge. The woman was an employee with the Hertz rental car agency.

“This Toyota ’s been parked here since at least Friday night,” said Finch. “Hasn’t been moved.”

“You confirmed that on surveillance video?” asked Jane.

“Uh, no, ma’am. Cameras don’t cover this lot.”

“Then how do you know it’s been here that long?”

“Look at the snow piled up on it. We had a big storm on Saturday that dumped almost two feet, which is about what I see on this car.”

“This is Maura’s car?”

The Hertz lady said, “The rental contract for this vehicle was made out to a Dr. Maura Isles. It was booked online three weeks ago, and she picked it up last Tuesday. Paid for it with an AmEx card. It was supposed to be returned to our airport lot yesterday morning.”

“She didn’t call to extend the rental?” asked Gabriel.

“No, sir.” The woman pulled a key ring out of her pocket and looked at Queenan. “Here’s that spare key you wanted, Detective.”

Queenan pulled on a set of latex gloves and unlocked the front passenger door. Gingerly he leaned inside and opened the glove compartment, where he found the rental contract. “Maura Isles,” he confirmed, scanning the papers. He peered at the odometer. “Looks like she put in about ninety miles. Not much driving for a six-day rental.”

“She was here for a medical conference,” said Jane. “And she was staying at this hotel. She probably didn’t get much of a chance for sightseeing.” Jane peered through the window, careful not to touch the glass. Except for a folded USA Today lying on the front passenger seat, the interior looked spotless. Of course it would be; Maura was a neatness freak, and Jane had never spied so much as a stray Kleenex in her Lexus. “What’s the date on that newspaper?” she asked.

Queenan unfolded the USA Today. “It’s last Tuesday’s.”

“The day she flew here,” said Brophy. “She must have picked it up at the airport.”

Queenan straightened. “Let’s take a look in the trunk,” he said. He circled to the rear, brushed off the snow, and pressed the unlock button on the remote. They all gathered around to watch, and Jane noticed Queenan hesitate before reaching down with a gloved hand to lift open the trunk. The same thought was probably going through all their heads at that moment. A missing woman. An abandoned vehicle. Too many surprises had been found in car trunks, too many horrors folded like embryos inside steel wombs. In these freezing temperatures, there would be no odors to alert anyone, no olfactory clues of what might lie inside. As Queenan lifted the trunk, Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. She stared into the now revealed space.

“Empty and clean as a whistle,” said Queenan, and she heard relief in his voice. He looked at Gabriel. “So we have a rental car that looks to be in good shape, and no luggage. Wherever your friend went, she took her stuff with her. That sounds like a planned jaunt to me.”

“Then where is she?” said Jane. “Why isn’t she answering her cell phone?”

Queenan looked at her as though she were merely an irritating distraction. “I don’t know your friend. Maybe you have a better handle on that answer than I do.”

The Hertz lady said, “When can we get this vehicle back? It’s part of our fleet.”

“We’ll need to hold on to it for a while,” said Queenan.

“How long?”

“Until we decide if a crime has actually been committed. At the moment, I’m not sure.”

“Then how do you explain her disappearance?” said Jane.

Once again, that flicker of irritation passed through his eyes when he looked at her. “I said I’m not sure. I’m keeping an open mind, ma’am. How about we all try doing that?”

“I CAN’T SAY I really remember this particular guest,” said Michelle, a desk clerk at the Mountain Lodge. “But then, we had two hundred doctors, plus their families, staying here last week. There’s no way I could have kept track of everyone.”

They had crowded into the manager’s office, which was barely large enough to hold them all. The manager stood near the door with his arms crossed as he watched the interview. It was his presence, more than the questions, that seemed to make Michelle nervous, and she kept glancing toward her boss, as if afraid he’d disapprove of her answers.

“Then you don’t recognize her picture?” Queenan asked, tapping on the official photo that Jane had printed off the Massachusetts medical examiner’s website. It was an image of a somber professional. Maura gazed directly at the camera, her mouth neutral and unsmiling-appropriate for the line of work she was in. When one’s job involved slicing open the dead, a broad grin would be unsettling.

Michelle studied the photo again with self-conscious diligence. She was young, in her midtwenties, and having so many people watching would make it difficult for anyone to concentrate. Especially when one of those people was your boss.

Jane said to the manager, “Would you mind stepping out, sir?”

“This is my office.”

“We only need to borrow it for a short time.”

“Since this business involves my hotel, I think I should know exactly what’s going on.” He looked at the clerk. “Do you remember her or not, Michelle?”

The young woman gave a helpless shrug. “I can’t be sure. Are there any other pictures?”

After a silence, Brophy said quietly: “I have one.” From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced the photo. It was a casual snapshot of Maura seated at her kitchen table, a glass of red wine in front of her. Compared with the somber photo from the ME’s office, this looked like a different woman entirely, her face flushed with alcohol and laughter. The photo was worn around the edges from repeated handling; it was something that he probably always carried with him, to be brought out and gazed at in lonely moments. For Daniel Brophy, there must be many such moments, torn between duty and longing, between God and Maura.

“Does she look familiar?” Queenan asked Michelle.

The young woman frowned. “This is the same woman? She looks so different in this picture.”

Happier. In love.

Michelle looked up. “You know, I think I do remember her. Was she here with her husband?”

“She’s not married,” said Jane.

“Oh. Well, maybe I’m thinking of the wrong woman, then.”

“Tell us about the woman you do remember.”

“She was with this guy. A really cute guy with blond hair.”

Jane avoided looking at Brophy; she didn’t want to see his reaction. “What else do you remember about them?”

“They were going out to dinner together. I remember they stopped at the desk, and he asked for directions to the restaurant. I just assumed they were married.”

“Why?”

“Because he was laughing and said something like, ‘You see? I have learned to ask for directions.’ I mean, that’s something a guy would say to his wife, right?”

“When did you see this couple?”

“It would have been Thursday night. Because I was off duty on Friday.”