Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

“Who is that guy?” asked Jane.

Martineau laughed. “ Montgomery Loftus. His family used to own like, a gazillion acres around here. Double L Ranch.”

“He was pretty pissed at us. I thought he was going to blast us with that rifle.”

“He’s pissed about everything these days. You know how it is with some old folks. Always complaining it ain’t the way it used to be.”

It never is, thought Jane as she watched Martineau climb back into his vehicle. And it won’t be the same in Boston, either. Not with Maura gone.

As they drove back to the hotel, Jane stared out the window, thinking about the last conversation she’d had with Maura. It was in the morgue, and they’d been standing at the autopsy table as Maura sliced into a cadaver. She’d talked about her upcoming trip to Wyoming. How she’d never been there, how she looked forward to seeing elk and buffalo and maybe even a wolf or two. They’d talked about Jane’s mother, and Barry Frost’s divorce, and how life always kept surprising you. You just never know, Maura had said, what lies around the corner.

No, you never do. You had no idea you’d be coming home from Wyoming in a coffin.

They pulled into the hotel parking lot, and Gabriel shut off the engine. For a moment they sat without speaking. There was still so much to do, she thought. Make phone calls. Sign papers. Arrange for the coffin’s transportation. The thought of it all exhausted her. But at least they’d be going home, now. To Regina.

“I know it’s only noon,” said Gabriel. “But I think we could both use a drink.”

She nodded. “I second that.” She pushed open her door and stepped out, into the softly falling snow. They held on to each other as they walked across the parking lot, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists. How much harder this day would have been without him here, she thought. Poor Maura has lost everything, while I am still blessed with this man. Blessed with a future.

They stepped into the hotel bar, where the light was so subdued that at first she didn’t spot Brophy sitting in one of the booths. Only as her eyes adjusted to the gloom did she see him.

He was not alone.

Seated with him at the table was a man who now rose to his feet, a tall and forbidding figure in black. Anthony Sansone was notoriously reclusive, and so paranoid about his privacy that he seldom ventured out in public. Yet here he was, standing in their hotel bar, his grief in full view.

“You should have called me, Detective,” said Sansone. “You should have asked for my help.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “I didn’t think about it.”

“Maura was my friend, too. If I’d known she was missing, I would have flown back from Italy in a heartbeat.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. Nothing any of us could have done.” She glanced at Brophy, who was stone-faced and silent. These two men had never liked each other, yet here they were, a truce declared between them in Maura’s memory.

“My jet’s waiting at the airport,” said Sansone. “As soon as they release her body, we can all fly home together.”

“It should be this afternoon.”

“Then I’ll let my pilot know.” His sigh was heavy with sadness. “Call me when it’s time to make the transfer. And we’ll bring Maura home.”

IN THE COMFORTABLE COCOON of Anthony Sansone’s jet, the four passengers were quiet as they flew east, into the night. Perhaps they were all thinking, as Jane was, of their unseen companion who rode below in cargo, boxed in a coffin, stored in the dark and frigid hold. This was the first time Jane had ever flown on a private jet. Were it for any other occasion, she would have taken delight in the soft leather seats, the spacious legroom, the myriad comforts that supremely wealthy travelers are accustomed to. But she scarcely registered the taste of the perfectly pink roast beef sandwich that the steward had presented to her on a china plate. Although she’d missed both lunch and dinner, she ate without enjoyment, fueling up only because her body needed it.

Daniel Brophy did not eat at all. His sandwich sat untouched as he stared out at the night, his shoulders sagging under the weight of grief. And guilt, too, surely. The guilt of knowing what could have been, had he chosen love above duty, Maura above God. Now the woman he cared about was charred flesh, locked in the hold beneath their feet.

“When we get back to Boston,” said Gabriel, “we have decisions to make.”

Jane looked at her husband and wondered how he managed to stay focused on necessary tasks. In times like these, she was reminded that she’d married a marine.

“Decisions?” she said.

“Funeral arrangements. Notifications. There must be relatives who need to be called.”

“She has no family,” said Brophy. “There’s only her mo-” He stopped, not finishing the word mother. Nor did he say the name they were all thinking: Amalthea Lank. Two years ago, Maura had sought out her birth mother, whose identity had been a mystery to her. The search had eventually brought her to a women’s prison in Framingham. To a woman guilty of unspeakable crimes. Amalthea was not a mother anyone would want to claim, and Maura never spoke of her.

Daniel said again, more firmly: “She has no family.”

She had only us, thought Jane. Her friends. While Jane had a husband and daughter, parents and brothers, Maura had few intimate connections. She had a lover whom she saw only in secret, and friends who did not really know her. It was a truth that Jane now had to acknowledge: I did not really know her.

“What about her ex-husband?” Sansone asked. “I believe he still lives in California.”

“Victor?” Brophy gave a disgusted laugh. “Maura despised him. She wouldn’t want him anywhere near her funeral.”

“Do we know what she did want? What her final wishes were? She wasn’t religious, so I assume she’d want a secular service.”

Jane glanced at Brophy, who had suddenly stiffened. She did not think Sansone’s comment was meant as a barb at the priest, but the air between the two men suddenly felt charged.

Brophy said, tightly: “Even though she fell away from the Church, she still respected it.”

“She was a committed scientist, Father Brophy. The fact that she respected the Church doesn’t mean she believed in it. It would probably strike her as odd to have a religious service at her funeral. And as a nonbeliever, wouldn’t she be denied a Catholic funeral, anyway?”

Brophy looked away. “Yes,” he conceded. “That is official policy.”

“There’s also the question of whether she would have wanted burial or cremation. Do we know what Maura wanted? Did she ever broach the subject with you?”

“Why would she? She was young!” Brophy’s voice suddenly broke. “When you’re only forty-two, you don’t think about how you want your body disposed of! You don’t think of who should and shouldn’t be invited to the funeral. You’re too busy being alive.” He took a deep breath and looked away.

No one spoke for a long time. The only sound was the steady whine of the jet engines.

“So we have to make those decisions for her,” Sansone finally said.

“We?” asked Brophy.

“I’m only trying to offer my help. And the necessary funds, whatever it may cost.”

“Not everything can be bought and paid for.”

“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’ve swooped in with your private jet and taken control? Because you can?”

Jane reached out to touch Brophy’s arm. “Daniel. Hey, relax.”

“I’m here because I cared about Maura, too,” said Sansone.

“As you made so abundantly obvious to both of us.”