Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I want to know who that man is,” said Jane, pointing to the monitor.

  “Good-looking fella. No wonder your friend’s got a big smile on her face.”

  “If he’s a hotel guest,” said Gabriel, “we could winnow down the names.”

  “We had a full house last week,” the manager said. “We’re talking about two hundred and forty rooms.”

  “We eliminate the females. Focus on men who booked singles.”

  “It was a medical conference. There were a lot of men who booked singles.”

  “Then we’d better get started now, don’t you think?” Gabriel said. “We’ll need names, addresses, phone numbers.”

  The manager looked at Queenan. “Don’t these people need a warrant? We’ve got privacy issues here, Detective.”

  Jane pointed to Maura’s face on the monitor. “You’ve also got a missing woman who was last seen in this hotel. In the company of one of your guests.”

  The manager gave a disbelieving laugh. “It was a bunch of doctors! You really think one of them—”

  “If she was abducted,” said Jane, “we have only a short time to work with.” She moved toward the manager, close enough to make him retreat against the doorway. Close enough to see his pupils dilate. “Don’t make us waste a single minute.”

  The ringing of Queenan’s cell phone cut the silence. “Detective Queenan,” he answered. “What? Where?”

  The tone of his voice made them all turn to watch the conversation. His face was grim as he disconnected.

  “What’s going on?” Jane asked. Afraid to hear the answer.

  “You folks need to drive down to Sublette County. The Circle B Guest Ranch. It’s not my jurisdiction, so you’ll have to talk to Sheriff Fahey when you get there.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve just found two bodies,” said Queenan. “A man and a woman.”

  IN ALL HER YEARS AS A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE, JANE RIZZOLI HAD never felt so reluctant to walk into a death scene. She and Gabriel sat in their rental car across from the Circle B Guest Ranch, watching as yet another Sublette County Sheriff’s Department vehicle pulled up, joining the cluster of official cars and trucks parked in front of the guest reception cottage. In the driveway, a woman with a microphone stood talking to a news camera, her blond hair hopelessly tangled in the wind. It looked like the usual scrum of cops and reporters that Jane was accustomed to wading through at every crime scene, but this time she viewed that gantlet with dread. Thank God we convinced Daniel to stay at the hotel. This is not an ordeal he should have to face.

  “I can’t imagine Maura ever checking into a place like this,” said Gabriel.

  Jane stared across the road at the sign advertising SUPER SAVER WEEKLY AND MONTHLY RATES AVAILABLE! INQUIRE INSIDE! There was desperation in that sign, a last-ditch appeal to stay in business. No, she could not imagine Maura checking into one of those tired-looking cabins.

  Gabriel took her arm as they crossed the icy road. He seemed eerily calm, and that was exactly what she needed from him at this moment. This was the Gabriel she’d met two summers ago, when they’d worked their first homicide together, a man whose cool efficiency had made him seem remote and heartless. It was merely the persona he adopted when situations turned grim. She glanced up at her husband, and his resoluteness steadied her own nerves.

  They approached a sheriff’s deputy, who stood arguing with a young woman.

  “I need to talk with Fahey,” the woman insisted. “We need more information or we can’t do our jobs.”

  “Sheriff’s kind of busy right now, Cathy.”

  “We’re responsible for her welfare. At least tell me their names. Who’s the next of kin?”

  “You’ll know when we know.”

  “The couple’s from Plain of Angels, aren’t they?”

  The deputy frowned at her. “How’d you hear that?”

  “I keep track of those people. I make it my business to know when they show up in town.”

  “Maybe you should mind your own business for a change and leave those folks alone.”

  She snorted. “Maybe you should try doing your job, Bobby. At least pretend to follow up on my complaints.”

  “Leave. Now.”

  “You tell Sheriff Fahey I’ll be calling him.” The woman huffed out a breath so fierce that steam clouded her face as she spun around. She halted in surprise to find Jane and Gabriel standing right behind her. “Hope you have better luck with these people,” she muttered, and stalked off down the driveway.

  “Was that a reporter?” Gabriel asked, with the sympathy of a fellow lawman.

  “Naw, county social worker. Those bleeding hearts are a real pain in the ass.” The deputy looked Gabriel up and down. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Sheriff Fahey is expecting us. Detective Queenan called to let him know we were coming.”

  “You the folks from Boston?”

  “Yes, sir. Agent Dean and Detective Rizzoli.” Gabriel struck just the right note of respect to emphasize that he knew whose jurisdiction they were in. And who was in charge.

  The deputy, who looked no older than his midtwenties, was young enough to be flattered by Gabriel’s approach. “Come with me, sir. Ma’am.”

  They followed him to the Circle B check-in cottage. Inside, a wood fire crackled in the hearth, and low pine beams overhead made the space feel as claustrophobic as a dark cave. The cold wind outside had numbed Jane’s face, and she stood near the fire as the heat slowly brought sensation back to her cheeks. The room was a time capsule from the 1960s, the wall adorned with bullwhips and spurs and muddy-colored paintings of cowboys. She heard voices talking in the back room—two men, she thought, until she peered through the doorway and saw that one of them was a blond woman with weather-beaten skin and a smoker’s hacking cough.

  “… never did lay eyes on the wife,” the woman said. “He’s the one who checked in.”

  “Why didn’t you ask for his ID?”

  “He paid cash and signed in. This ain’t Russia, you know. Last I checked, folks are free to come and go in this country. Besides, he looked like good people.”

  “You could tell?”

  “Polite and respectful. Drove in during that snowstorm Saturday, and said they needed a place to stay while they waited for the roads to be cleared. Sounded reasonable to me.”

  “Sheriff?” the deputy called out. “Those people from Boston are here.”

  Fahey waved at them through the doorway. “Hold on,” he said, and continued his conversation with the manager. “They checked in two days ago, Marge. When was the last time you cleaned their cabin?”

  “Never got the chance. They had the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the knob Saturday and Sunday. Figured they wanted their privacy so I left ’em alone. Then this morning, I noticed it wasn’t hanging there anymore. So I went into the room around two o’clock to clean it. That’s when I found ’em.”

  “So the last time you saw that man alive was when he checked in?”

  “They couldn’t have been dead all that time. They took the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door, didn’t they? Or someone did.”

  “Okay.” Fahey sighed and zipped up his jacket. “DCI’s coming in to assist, so they’ll be talking to you, too.”

  “Yeah?” The woman hacked a watery cough. “Maybe they’ll need rooms for the night. I got vacancies.”

  Fahey came out of the office and nodded at the new arrivals. He was a beefy man in his fifties, and like his younger deputy he sported a military buzz cut. His stony gaze went right past Jane and fixed on Gabriel. “You’re the folks who reported that missing woman?”

  “We’re hoping this isn’t her,” said Gabriel.

  “She went missing Saturday, right?”

  “Yes. From Teton Village.”

  “Well, the timing’s right. These people checked in on Saturday. Why don’t you come with me?”

  He led them up a path of trampled snow, past other cabins that stood dark and clearly uno
ccupied. Except for guest reception, there was only one other building that had its lights on, and it stood at the outer edge of the property. When they reached cabin eight, the sheriff paused to hand them latex gloves and paper shoe covers, the must-wear fashion at any crime scene.

  “Before you walk in, I need to warn you,” Fahey said. “It’s not going to be pleasant.”

  “Never is,” said Gabriel.

  “What I mean is, they’re gonna be hard to identify.”

  “There’s disfigurement?” Gabriel asked it so calmly that the sheriff frowned at him.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Fahey finally answered, and opened the door.

  Jane stared across the threshold into cabin eight. Even from the doorway, she could see the blood, alarming splatters of it arcing across the wall. Wordlessly she stepped into the room, and as the unmade bed came into view she saw the source of all that blood.

  The body lying beside the bed was faceup on the bare pine floor. He was balding and at least fifty pounds overweight, clad in black pants, white shirt, and white cotton socks. But it was his face—or the lack of one—that drew Jane’s horrified gaze. It had been obliterated.

  “An attack fueled by sheer rage. If you ask me, that’s what you’re looking at,” said a silver-haired man who had just emerged from the bathroom. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and he looked shaken by the horrors that surrounded them. “Why else would you take a hammer to someone’s face? Smash every bone, every tooth? It’s nothing but pulp now. Cartilage, skin, bones, all pounded down to one bloody mess.” Sighing, he lifted a blood-smeared glove in greeting. “I’m Dr. Draper.”

  “Medical examiner?” asked Gabriel.

  Draper shook his head. “No, sir, just the county coroner. We don’t have an ME in the state of Wyoming. A forensic pathologist will be driving in from Colorado.”

  “They’re here to identify the female,” Sheriff Fahey said.

  Dr. Draper cocked his head toward the bathroom. “She’s in there.”

  Jane stared at the doorway but could not bring herself to take the first step. It was Gabriel who crossed to the bathroom. For a long time, he stood gazing into the next room, saying nothing, and Jane could feel dread twisting her stomach. Slowly, she approached, and she was startled to catch sight of her own reflection staring back from the bathroom mirror, her face pale and tight. Gabriel moved aside, and she stared into the shower stall.

  The dead woman was slumped with her back propped up against mildewed tiles. Her bare legs were splayed apart, her modesty protected only by the plastic shower curtain that had fallen across her body. Her head lolled forward, her chin almost resting on her chest, her face hidden by her hair. Black hair, matted with blood and brains. Too long to be Maura’s.

  Jane registered other details. The gold wedding band on the left hand. The heavy thighs, dimpled with cellulite. The large black mole on the forearm.

  “It’s not her,” said Jane.

  “You’re sure about that?” asked Fahey.

  Jane crouched down to stare at the face. Unlike the man’s, this victim’s features were not obliterated. The blow had landed on the side of her skull, caving it in, but that killing blow had not been followed by mutilation. She released a deep breath, and as she exhaled, all the tension suddenly left her body. “This isn’t Maura Isles.” She stood and looked through the doorway at the male victim. “And that’s definitely not the man we saw on the hotel surveillance video.”

  “Which means your friend is still missing.”

  That’s a hell of a lot better than dead. Only now, as all her fears dissipated, could Jane begin to focus on the crime scene with a cop’s eyes. Suddenly she noticed details that she’d missed earlier. The lingering odor of cigarette smoke. The puddles of melted snow and multiple boot prints tracking across the floor, left by law enforcement personnel. And something that she should have spotted as soon as she’d entered the cabin: the small portable crib, tucked into the far corner.

  She looked at Fahey. “Was there a child in here?”

  He nodded. “Baby girl. Around eight, nine months old according to the county social worker. They took her into protective custody.”

  Jane remembered the woman they’d just met outside. Now she knew why a social worker had been on the scene. “So the child was alive,” she said.

  “Yeah. Killer didn’t touch her. She was found in that crib over there. Diaper was soaked, but otherwise she was in good shape.”

  “After being left unfed for a day, two days?”

  “There were four empty baby bottles in the crib. Kid never had a chance to get dehydrated.”

  “The baby must have been screaming,” said Gabriel. “No one heard her?”

  “They were the only guests staying at the Circle B. And as you noticed, this cabin’s off by itself. Well insulated, windows shut. Outside, you might not hear a thing.”

  Jane approached the dead man again. Stood looking down at a face so destroyed it was hard to tell it had ever been human. “He didn’t fight back,” she said.

  “Killer probably took him by surprise.”

  “The woman, I can see. She was in the shower, so she might not hear someone coming in. But the man?” She looked at Fahey. “Was the door forced?”

  “No. Windows were all latched. Either the victims left the door unlocked, or they let the killer in themselves.”

  “And this victim’s so surprised that he doesn’t defend himself? Even while his head’s being bashed in?”

  “That bothered me, too,” said Dr. Draper. “No obvious defense wounds. He just let the killer in, turned his back, and he got whacked.”

  The knock on the door made them all turn. The deputy stuck his head into the cabin. “We just got confirmation on those plates. Car registration matches up with the victim’s ID. Name is John Pomeroy. Plain of Angels, Idaho.”

  There was a silence.

  “Oh my,” Dr. Draper said. “Those people.”

  “What people?” asked Jane.

  “They call themselves The Gathering. Some kind of religious commune out in Idaho. Lately they’ve been moving into Sublette County.” The coroner looked at Fahey. “These two must have been headed up to that new settlement.”

  “That’s not where they were going,” said the deputy.

  Dr. Draper looked at him. “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Deputy Martineau.”

  “Because I was up there just last week. The valley’s completely deserted. They’ve all packed up and left for the winter.”

  Fahey frowned at the dead man. “Then why were these two people in town?”

  “I can tell you they weren’t going to Kingdom Come,” said Deputy Martineau. “That road’s been closed since Saturday. And it won’t be open again till spring.”

  HYDRATE, HYDRATE, HYDRATE. THAT WAS THE MANTRA THAT KEPT going through Maura’s head as she coaxed Arlo to drink water, ever more water. She mixed a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of sugar into every cup—a poor man’s version of Gatorade. By forcing the fluids into him, she’d keep up his blood pressure and flush his kidneys. It meant repeatedly changing his towels as they got saturated with urine, but urine was a good thing. If he stopped producing it, it meant he was going into shock, and he was doomed.

  He may be doomed anyway, she thought as she watched him swallow the last two antibiotic capsules. Against the infection now raging in his leg, amoxicillin was little more than a magical charm. Already she could smell the impending gangrene, could see the creeping edge of necrotic tissue in his calf. Another day, perhaps two at the most, and she would be left with no choice, if she wanted to save him.

  The leg would have to come off.

  Can I really bring myself to do it? To amputate that leg without anesthesia? She was familiar with the anatomy. She could hunt down the necessary instruments from kitchens and garages. All she really needed were sharp knives and a sterilized saw. It was not the mechanics of amputation that made her hands sweat and her stomach clench at the prospect. I
t was the screaming. She thought of relentlessly sawing through bone while her patient shrieked and writhed. She thought of knives slippery with blood. And through it all, she would have to rely on Elaine and Grace to hold him down.

  You have to bring help soon, Doug. Because I don’t think I can do it. I can’t torture this man.

  “Hurts so bad,” Arlo whispered. “Need more pills.”

  She knelt down beside him. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of Percocet, Arlo,” she said. “But I have Tylenol.”

  “Doesn’t help.”

  “There’s codeine coming. Elaine’s gone up the road to look for her purse. She says she has a bottle of it, enough to last you until help comes.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Maybe even tonight.” She glanced at the window and saw that it was now afternoon. Doug had left yesterday morning. By now, he was surely down the mountain. “You know him. He’ll probably swoop back up here in style, with TV cameras and everything.”

  Arlo gave a tired laugh. “Yeah, that’s our Doug. Born under a lucky star. Always manages to skate through life with hardly a scratch, whereas I …” He sighed. “I swear, if I live through this, I’m never going to leave my house again.”

  The front door flew open and cold air swept in as Elaine came stomping back into the house. “Where’s Grace?” she said.

  “She went outside,” said Maura.

  Elaine spotted Grace’s backpack in the corner. She knelt down and unzipped the pack.

  “What are you doing, Elaine?”

  “I can’t find my purse.”

  “You said you left it up in the Jeep.”

  “That’s where I thought it was, but Doug said he never saw it. I’ve been looking all up and down the road, in case it got dropped somewhere in the snow.” She began digging through the backpack, scattering the contents on the floor. Out came Grace’s iPod, sunglasses, a sweatshirt, a cell phone. In frustration, she turned the backpack upside down, and loose change clattered onto the floor. “Where the hell is my purse?”