Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  They waited until the aluminum door rattled down, shutting them into a space that was just as frigid as outside, but at least shielded from the wind. A single bare lightbulb swung above them, and the harsh glow emphasized the bags under Dottie Dugan’s eyes. Even Frost, who was only in his late thirties, looked strained and middle-aged in that light, his face anemically pale. Cluttering the space was a collection of shabby furniture. Jane saw a frayed couch covered with garishly floral fabric, a stained Naugahyde lounger, and various wooden chairs, none of them matching. There was so much furniture that it was stacked ten feet high along the walls.

  “She always paid on time,” said Dottie Dugan. “Every October, I’d get a check for the whole year’s rent. And this is one of our bigger units, a ten-by-thirty. It’s not exactly cheap.”

  “Who is the renter?” asked Jane.

  “Betty Ann Baumeister,” Frost answered. He flipped through his notes, reading the info he’d already jotted down. “She rented this unit for eleven years. Address was in Dorchester.”

  “Was?”

  “She’s dead,” said Dottie Dugan. “I heard it was a heart attack. Happened awhile back, but I didn’t find out about it until I tried collecting the rent. It’s the first time she didn’t send me a check, so I knew something was wrong. I tried to locate her relatives, but all I found was some senile old uncle down in South Carolina. That’s where she came from. Had a southern accent, really soft and pretty. Thought it was such a shame that she moved all the way up here to Boston, just to die alone. That’s what I thought then, anyway.” She gave a rueful laugh and shuddered inside her puffy jacket. “You just can never tell, can you? Sweet-looking southern lady like that. I felt really guilty about auctioning off her stuff, but I couldn’t just let it sit here.” She looked around. “Not that it’s worth much.”

  “Where did you find it?” asked Jane.

  “Against that wall back there. That’s where the electrical outlet is.” Dottie Dugan led them through the canyon of stacked chairs to a large chest freezer. “I figured she was storing expensive meats or something. I mean, why bother to keep this thing running all year round, unless you’ve got something worth freezing?” She paused and looked at Jane and Frost. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon get out of your way. I don’t really want to see it again.” She turned and retreated toward the door.

  Jane and Frost exchanged glances. It was Jane who lifted the lid. Cold mist rose from the freezer, obscuring what lay within. Then the mist cleared and the contents came into view.

  Shrouded in clear plastic, a man’s face stared up at them, icy rime coating his brows and lashes. His nude body had been folded into a fetal position, his knees crammed up against his chest to better fit in the small space. Although his cheeks were parched with freezer burn, his skin was unwrinkled, his youthful flesh preserved like a good cut of meat, wrapped and frozen and put aside for later use.

  “When she rented this unit, the one thing she insisted on was a reliable power outlet,” said Dottie, her face averted to avoid seeing the occupant of the freezer. “Said she couldn’t afford to have the electricity cut out on her. Now I know why.”

  “Do you know anything else about Ms. Baumeister?” asked Jane.

  “Just what I already told Detective Frost here. Paid on time, and her checks were always good. My renters, they’re mostly just in and out, don’t necessarily want to chat much. A lot of them have sad stories. They lose their homes, and this is where their stuff ends up. Hardly ever anything worth auctioning off. Most of the time it’s like this.” She waved at the tired furniture stacked up against the walls. “Valuable only to the people who own it.”

  Jane slowly scanned the objects that Betty Ann Baumeister had felt were worth storing these past eleven years. At $250 a month, it would have cost her $3,000 a year, and over a decade that was $30,000 just to hold on to these possessions. There was enough here to furnish a four-bedroom house, though not in style. The dressers and bookshelves were made of warped particleboard. The yellowed lamp shades looked fragile enough to disintegrate at a touch. Worthless junk, to Jane’s eye. But when Betty Ann looked at the frayed couch and the wobbly chairs, did she see treasures or trash?

  And which category was the man in the freezer?

  “Do you think she killed him?” asked Dottie Dugan.

  Jane looked at her. “I don’t know, ma’am. We don’t even know who he is. We’ll have to wait and see what the medical examiner says.”

  “If she didn’t kill him, why did she stuff him in the freezer?”

  “You’d be surprised what people do.” Jane closed the freezer lid, glad to shut off her view of the frozen face, the ice-encrusted lashes. “Maybe she just didn’t want to lose him.”

  “I guess you detectives see a lot of weird stuff.”

  “More than I care to think about.” Jane sighed, exhaling steam. She did not look forward to combing for evidence in this miserably cold locker. At least time was not their enemy; neither the evidence nor the suspect was at risk of slipping away from them.

  Her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, moving a few paces away to answer it. “Detective Rizzoli.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you this late at night,” said Father Daniel Brophy. “I just spoke to your husband, and he said you were working a scene.”

  She was not surprised to be hearing from Brophy. As the clergyman assigned to Boston PD, he was often called to crime scenes, to minister to the grieving. “We’re okay here, Daniel,” she said. “There don’t seem to be any family members who’ll need any counseling.”

  “I’m calling about Maura, actually.” He paused. It was a subject he no doubt found difficult to broach, and no wonder. His affair with Maura was hardly a secret to Jane, and he had to know that she disapproved of it, even if she’d never said so to his face.

  “She hasn’t been answering her cell phone,” he said. “I’m concerned.”

  “Maybe she’s just not taking calls.” Your calls was what she thought.

  “I’ve left half a dozen voice mails. I just wondered if you’ve been able to reach her.”

  “I haven’t tried.”

  “I want to be sure she’s all right.”

  “She’s attending a conference, isn’t she? Maybe she turned off her phone.”

  “So you don’t know where she is.”

  “I thought it was somewhere out in Wyoming.”

  “Yes, I know where she’s supposed to be.”

  “Have you tried calling her hotel?”

  “That’s just it. She checked out this morning.”

  Jane turned as the storage unit door opened again and the medical examiner ducked inside. “I’m kind of busy at the moment,” she said to Brophy.

  “She wasn’t supposed to check out until tomorrow.”

  “So she changed her mind. She made other plans.”

  “She didn’t tell me. What worries me is that I can’t reach her.”

  Jane waved at the ME, who squeezed through the mountains of furniture and joined Frost at the freezer. Impatient to get back to work, she said bluntly: “Maybe she doesn’t want to be reached. Have you considered the possibility that she might need time alone?”

  He was silent.

  It had been a cruel question, and she was sorry she’d asked it. “You do know,” she said more gently, “it’s been hard for her this year.”

  “I know.”

  “You hold all the cards, Daniel. It’s all about your decision, your choice.”

  “Do you think that makes it easier for me, knowing that I’m the one who has to choose?”

  She heard his pain and thought: Why do people do this to themselves? How do two intelligent and decent human beings trap themselves in such misery? She’d predicted months ago that it would come to this, that after the hormones faded and the luster was off their shiny new affair, they’d be left with regret as their bitter companion.

  “I just want to be sure she’s all right,” he said. “I woul
dn’t have bothered you if I wasn’t worried.”

  “I don’t keep track of her whereabouts.”

  “But could you check on her for me?”

  “How?”

  “Call her. Maybe you’re right, maybe she’s just screening my calls. Our last conversation wasn’t …” He paused. “It could have ended on a better note.”

  “You argued?”

  “No. But I disappointed her. I know that.”

  “That could make her not return your calls.”

  “Still, it’s not like her to be unreachable.”

  On that point he was right. Maura was too conscientious to be out of touch for long. “I’ll give her a call,” Jane said, and hung up, grateful that her own life was so settled. No tears, no drama, no crazy highs and lows. Just the happy assurance that at that moment, her husband and daughter were at home waiting for her. All around her, it seemed, romantic turmoil was destroying people’s lives. Her father had left her mother for another woman. Barry Frost’s marriage had recently collapsed. No one was behaving the way they used to, the way they should. As she dialed Maura’s cell phone, she wondered: Am I the only one around here who’s still sane?

  It rang four times, then she heard the recording: “This is Dr. Isles. I’m not available right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Hey, Doc, we’re wondering where you are,” said Jane. “Give me a call, okay?” She disconnected and stared down at her cell phone, thinking of all the reasons why Maura hadn’t answered. Out of range. Dead battery. Or maybe she was having too good a time in Wyoming, away from Daniel Brophy. Away from her job, with all the reminders of death and decay.

  “Everything okay?” Frost called out.

  Jane slipped the phone in her pocket and looked at him. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  SO WHAT DO YOU THINK HAPPENED HERE?” SAID ELAINE, HER VOICE faintly slurred from drinking too much whiskey. “Where did this family go?”

  They sat huddled around the fireplace, swaddled in blankets that they’d pulled from the cold upstairs bedrooms, the remains of their dinner littering the floor around them. They’d eaten canned pork and beans and macaroni and cheese, saltine crackers and peanut butter. A high-sodium feast, washed down with a bottle of cheap whiskey, which they’d found stashed at the very back of the pantry, hidden behind the sacks of flour and sugar.

  It had to be her whiskey, Maura thought, remembering the woman in the photograph with the dull eyes and the blank expression. The pantry was where a woman would hoard a secret supply of liquor, a place where her husband would never bother to explore, not if he considered cooking to be a woman’s job. Maura took a sip, and as the whiskey burned its way down her throat, she wondered what would drive a woman to secret drinking, what misery would make her seek liquor’s numbing solace.

  “Okay,” said Arlo. “I can come up with one logical explanation for where these people went.”

  Elaine refreshed her glass and added only a splash of water.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s dinnertime. The wife with the bad hairdo puts food on the table, and they’re all about to sit down and say grace, or whatever these people do. And the husband suddenly clutches his chest and says, ‘I’m having a heart attack!’ So they all pile into the car and rush off to the hospital.”

  “Leaving the front door unlocked?”

  “Why bother to lock it? What’s in here that anyone could possibly want to steal?” Arlo waved dismissively at the furniture. “Besides, there’s no one around for miles who’d bother to break in here.” He paused and raised his glass of whiskey in a wry toast. “Present company excepted.”

  “It looks to me like they’ve been gone for days. Why haven’t they come back?”

  “The roads,” said Maura. She pulled out the newspaper that she had bought at Grubb’s Gas Station and General Store earlier that day. A lifetime ago, it seemed. Spreading it flat, she slid it into the firelight so they could read the headline, which she’d noticed when she paid for the newspaper.

  COLD WEATHER RETURNS

  After a week of unseasonably warm weather, with temperatures peaking in the high 60s, a blast of wintry weather appears headed our way. Forecasters predict that two to four inches of snow could start falling Tuesday night. A far more powerful winter storm is right on its heels, with the potential of even heavier snowfall on Saturday.

  “Maybe they couldn’t get back here,” said Maura. “Maybe they left before the Tuesday storm, while the road was still clear.”

  “It would explain why the windows were open,” said Doug. “It’s because the weather was still warm when they left. And then the storm came in.” He tipped his head to Maura. “Didn’t I tell you all that she was brilliant? Dr. Isles always comes up with a logical explanation.”

  “It means these people must be planning to return,” said Arlo. “After the road gets cleared.”

  “Unless they change their minds,” said Elaine.

  “They left the house unlocked and all their windows open. They’ve got to come back.”

  “To this? No electricity, no neighbors around? What woman in her right mind would put up with it? And where are all the neigbors, anyway?”

  “This is a bad place,” said Grace softly. “I wouldn’t come back.”

  They all looked at her. The girl sat by herself, wrapped so tightly in a blanket that she looked like a mummy in the shadows. She had been silent, lost in whatever music was playing on her iPod, but now the ear buds were out and she sat hugging herself, looking around the room with wide eyes.

  “I looked in their closet,” said Grace. “The room where the mom and dad slept. Do you know he has sixteen belts? Sixteen leather belts, each one hanging on its own hook. And there’s rope there, too. Why would you keep rope in your closet?”

  Arlo gave a nervous chuckle. “No G-rated purpose I can think of.” Elaine gave him a light slap.

  “I don’t think he was a nice man.” Grace stared at the darkness lurking beyond the firelight. “Maybe his wife and kids escaped. Maybe they saw a chance and ran.” She paused. “If they were lucky. If he didn’t kill them first.”

  Maura shivered inside her wool blanket. Even the whiskey could not dispel the chill that had suddenly settled over the room.

  Arlo reached for the bottle. “Gee, if we’re going to tell scary stories, we’d better get some sedation on board.”

  “You already have enough on board,” said Elaine.

  “Who else has a scary story for the campfire?” Arlo looked at Maura. “With your job, you must have a ton of them.”

  Maura glanced at Grace, who had retreated into silence. If I’m spooked by the situation, she thought, how frightening must it be for a mere thirteen-year-old girl? “I don’t think this is the time to be telling any scary stories,” she said.

  “Well, how about funny stories then? Don’t pathologists have a reputation for morgue humor?”

  Maura knew he was merely hoping for entertainment to help pass the long and chilly night, but she was not in the mood to be amusing. “There’s nothing funny about what I do,” she said. “Trust me.”

  A long silence passed. Grace moved closer to the hearth and stared into the fire. “I wish we’d stayed at the hotel. I don’t like this place.”

  “Well, I’m with you, sweetie,” said Elaine. “This house gives me the creeps.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Doug said, as usual offering the sunny appraisal. “This is a good, solidly built house. It tells us what kind of people might live here.”

  Elaine gave a disparaging laugh. “People with really bad taste in furniture.”

  “Not to mention their taste in food,” said Arlo, pointing at the empty can of pork and beans.

  “You ate it fast enough.”

  “These are survival conditions, Elaine. One does what one must to stay alive.”

  “And did you see the clothes in the closets? Nothing but gingham
and high collars. Pioneer dresses.”

  “Wait, wait. I’m getting a mental picture of these people.” Arlo pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes like a swami conjuring up visions. “I’m seeing …”

  “American Gothic!” Doug tossed out.

  “No, Beverly Hillbillies!” Elaine said.

  “Hey, Ma,” Arlo drawled, “pass me another helping of that there squirrel stew.”

  The trio of old friends burst out laughing, fueled by whiskey and the potent joys of ridiculing people whom they had never met. Maura did not join in.

  “And what do you see, Maura?” asked Elaine.

  “Come on,” prodded Arlo. “Play the game with us. Who do you think these people are?”

  Maura looked around the room at walls devoid of decorations except for that framed poster of the dark-haired man with the hypnotic eyes and the reverently upturned gaze. There were no curtains, no knickknacks. The only books were how-to manuals. Diesel Engine Repair. Basic Plumbing. Home Veterinary Manual. This was not a woman’s house; this was not a woman’s world.

  “He’s in total control here,” she said. “The husband.”

  The others watched, waiting for more.

  “Do you see how everything in this room is cold and practical? There’s no hint of the wife in this room. It’s as if she doesn’t exist, as if she’s invisible. A woman who doesn’t matter, who’s trapped and can’t find any way out except through a whiskey bottle.” She paused, suddenly thinking of Daniel, and her gaze blurred with tears. I’m trapped, too. In love and unable to walk away. I might as well be shut up in a valley all my own. She blinked and as her vision cleared, she found them staring at her.

  “Wow,” said Arlo softly. “That’s quite a psychoanalysis for a house.”

  “You asked me what I thought.” She drank the last of her whiskey and set down the glass with a hard clunk. “I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

  “We all need some sleep,” said Doug. “I’ll stay awake for a while and keep the fire going. We can’t let it go out, so we’ll need to take shifts.”