Rizzoli & Isles: Listen to Me Read online

  But the Greens? They manage to slip by me like wraiths. I catch only the briefest glimpse of him behind the wheel of a black Toyota as he pulls into the garage. I spy him hanging venetian blinds in the upstairs windows. I see FedEx deliver a box to their home, which the driver tells me was shipped from BH Photo in New York City. (It never hurts to know that your neighborhood FedEx driver is crazy about zucchini bread.) What I don’t see is any sign that these people have jobs. They live irregular lives, coming and going without any apparent schedule, acting as if they’re retired. I ask the Leopolds and Jonas about them, but they don’t know any more than I do. The Greens are a mystery to us all.

  All this I’ve explained over the phone to my daughter, Jane, who you’d think would be as curious about this as I am. She points out there’s nothing criminal about wanting to stay away from the neighborhood snoop. She’s proud of her instincts as a cop, proud of being able to sense when something’s not right, but she has no regard for a mother’s instincts. When I call her for the third time about the Greens, she finally loses her patience.

  “Call me when something actually happens,” she snaps at me.

  A week later, sixteen-year-old Tricia Talley disappears.

  Bubbles spiraled past a Cinderella-pink castle, stirring a forest of plastic kelp where a pirate’s chest overflowed with gemstones. A mermaid with swirling red hair reclined on her clamshell bed, surrounded by a legion of crustacean admirers. Only one occupant of this underwater wonderland was actually alive, and at that moment it was staring through the blood-spattered glass at Detective Jane Rizzoli.

  “This is a pretty fancy aquarium for one little goldfish,” said Jane. “I think she’s got the whole cast of The Little Mermaid in here. All this for a fish that’s just gonna get flushed down the toilet in a year.”

  “Not necessarily. That’s a fantail goldfish,” said Dr. Maura Isles. “A fish like that can theoretically live for ten, twenty years. The oldest one on record lived for forty-three years.”

  Peering through the glass, Jane had a watery view of Maura, who was crouched on the other side of the aquarium, examining the body of Sofia Suarez, fifty-two years old. Even at ten forty-five on a Saturday morning, Maura managed to look coolly elegant, a trick Jane had never been able to pull off. It wasn’t just Maura’s tailored slacks and blazer and her geometrically clipped black hair; no, there was something about Maura herself. To most cops at Boston PD, she was an intimidating figure in bloodred lipstick, a woman who used her intellect as a shield. And that intellect was now fully engaged in reading the language of death in the wounds and the blood spatters.

  “Is that true? Goldfish can really live forty-three years?” said Jane.

  “Look it up.”

  “Why would you happen to know that completely useless piece of information?”

  “No information is useless. It’s just a key waiting for the right lock to open.”

  “Well, I am going to look it up. ’Cause every goldfish I ever owned was dead within a year.”

  “No comment.”

  Jane straightened and turned to survey once again the modest home of the woman who had lived and died here. Sofia Suarez, who were you? Jane read the clues in the books on the shelves, in the neatly lined-up remotes on the coffee table. A tidy woman who liked to knit, judging by the magazines on the end table. The bookcase was filled with nursing textbooks and romance novels, the collection of a woman who saw death in her job, yet still wanted to believe in love. And in one corner, on a little table adorned with bright plastic flowers, was the enshrined photo of a smiling man with twinkly eyes and a handsome swoop of black hair. A man whose ghostly presence still lingered in every room of this house.

  Hanging above the dead man’s shrine was the wedding photo of a younger Sofia and her husband, Tony. On the day they’d married, joy had lit up both their faces. That day, they must have believed that many happy years lay before them, years of growing old together. But last year, death took the husband.

  And last night, a killer came for the wife.

  Jane circled to the front door, where a stethoscope lay coiled on the floor, spattered with blood.

  Here is where the attack starts.

  Was the killer already waiting for her as she walked through her door last night? Or was he surprised when he heard the key in the lock and panicked when he realized he was about to be discovered?

  The first blow doesn’t kill her. She’s still alive. Still conscious.

  Jane followed the trail of blood smeared along the floor, marking the victim’s desperate attempt to escape her attacker. It led from the front door, across the living room, and past the softly burbling aquarium.

  And here is where it ends, she thought, gazing down at the body.

  Sofia Suarez lay on her side on the tiled floor, her legs curled up like an infant still in the womb. She was dressed in her blue nurse’s scrubs and a hospital ID was still attached to her shirt: S. Suarez, RN. A halo of blood surrounded her crushed skull, and her face was now shattered beyond recognition. A sad remnant of the face that had beamed so joyfully in the wedding photo.

  “I see an outline of footwear here, in this splatter,” said Maura. “And there’s a partial tread mark over there.”

  Jane crouched to study the footwear impression. “Looks like some kind of boot. Men’s size seven or eight?” Jane turned toward the front door. “Her stethoscope’s near the door. She’s attacked soon after she walks into the house. Manages to crawl away until this point. Curls up into this fetal position, maybe trying to protect herself, protect her head. And he hits her again.”

  “Have you found the weapon?”

  “No. What should we be looking for?”

  Maura knelt beside the body and with her gloved hand gently parted the dead woman’s hair to expose the scalp. “These wounds are well-defined. Circular. I think you’re looking for a flat-head hammer.”

  “We haven’t found any hammer. Bloody or otherwise.”

  Jane’s partner, Barry Frost, emerged from the back bedroom. His usually pale face was an alarming shade of sunburned scarlet, a consequence of his hatless trip to the beach yesterday. It made Jane wince just to look at him. “I didn’t find her purse or her cell phone,” he said. “But I did find this. It was plugged into the bedroom socket.” He held up a charging cord. “Looks like it’s for an Apple laptop.”

  “Where’s the laptop?” said Jane.

  “Not here.”

  “You sure?”

  “You want to look for yourself?” It was an uncharacteristically cranky response from Frost, but maybe she’d asked for it. And that sunburn must be bothering him.

  She had already walked through the house earlier, and now she walked it again, her shoe covers whishing across the floor. She glanced into the spare room, where the bed was covered with folded laundry and linens. Next came the bathroom, its under-sink cabinet overflowing with the usual face creams and ointments that promised, but never delivered, eternal youth. In the medicine cabinet were bottles of pills for hypertension and allergies as well as a prescription bottle of hydrocodone, six months expired. Nothing in the bathroom looked disturbed, which bothered Jane. The medicine cabinet was one of the first places a burglar normally raided, and hydrocodone would be a prize worth snatching.

  Jane continued to the main bedroom where she saw, on the dresser, another framed photo of Sofia and her husband in happier times. Alive times. They were standing arm in arm on a beach, and the years since their wedding photo had added both wrinkles and pounds. Their waists were thicker, their laugh lines deeper. She opened the closet and saw that, along with Sofia’s clothes, Tony’s jackets and slacks were still hanging. How painful it must have been for her to open this closet every morning to see her dead husband’s clothes. Or was it a comfort, being able to touch the fabric he’d worn, to inhale his scent?

  Jane closed the closet door
. Frost was right: If Sofia did own an Apple laptop, it was not in this house.

  She went into the kitchen, where the countertop held sacks of masa and plastic bags filled with dried corn husks. The kitchen was otherwise uncluttered, the surfaces wiped clean. Sofia was a nurse; perhaps it was second nature for her to wipe down and sterilize surfaces. Jane opened the pantry cabinet and saw shelves filled with unfamiliar condiments and sauces. She imagined Sofia pushing her grocery cart down the aisles, planning the meals she would cook for herself. The woman lived alone and probably dined alone, and based on her extravagantly stocked spice cabinet, she must have drawn comfort from cooking. It was yet another piece of the puzzle that was Sofia Suarez, a woman who loved to cook and knit. A woman who missed her dead husband so much she kept his clothes in the closet and a shrine to him in the living room. A woman who loved romance novels and her goldfish. A woman who lived alone but certainly did not die alone. Someone had stood over her, holding the instrument of her death. Someone had watched her take her last breaths.

  She looked down at the broken glass from the shattered window in the kitchen door, the point of entry. The intruder had smashed the glass in the doorframe, reached in, and slid open the bolt. She stepped out into the side yard, a stark strip of gravel with one empty trash can and a few weeds popping out. There were more shards out here, but the gravel preserved no footprints, and the gate had a simple latch, easily lifted from the outside. No security cameras, no alarm system. Sofia must have felt safe in this neighborhood.

  Jane’s cell phone rang with the screech of violins. It was the movie theme from Psycho and it set her nerves on edge—appropriately so. Without looking at the caller’s name, she silenced the phone and walked back inside.

  A nurse. Who the hell kills a nurse?

  “Aren’t you going to answer her?” asked Maura as Jane returned to the dining room.

  “No.”

  “But it’s your mother calling.”

  “That’s why I’m not going to answer it.” She saw Maura’s raised eyebrow. “This is the third time she’s called today. I already know what she’s gonna say. What kind of cop are you? Don’t you even care about a kidnapping?”

  “Someone’s been kidnapped?”

  “No. It’s just some girl from her neighborhood who took off. It’s not the first time she’s run away.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  “I’ve already talked to Revere PD and the ball’s in their court. They don’t need me butting in.” Jane looked down again at the body. “I’ve got enough things on my mind.”

  “Detective Rizzoli?” a voice called out.

  Jane turned to see a patrolman standing in the front door. “Yeah?”

  “The neighbor’s granddaughter just arrived. She’s ready to translate for you, if you want to come next door.”

  Jane and Frost stepped outside, where the sunlight was so bright Jane paused for a moment, blinking against the glare as she took in the audience watching them. A dozen neighbors stood on the sidewalk, drawn by the spectacle of official vehicles parked on their street. As a CSU van pulled up behind the row of patrol cars, two gray-haired women shook their heads, their hands pressed to their mouths in dismay. This was not the circus atmosphere Jane so often encountered downtown, where crime scenes were entertainment. Sofia’s death had clearly shaken those who knew her, and they watched in mournful silence as Jane and Frost walked to the neighbor’s house.

  The front door was opened by a young Asian woman dressed in pinstripe slacks and a pressed white blouse, oddly businesslike attire for a Saturday morning. “She’s still pretty upset, but she’s anxious to talk to you.”

  “You’re her granddaughter?” asked Jane.

  “Yes. Lena Leong. I’m the one who called 911. Grandma called me first, in a panic, and she asked me to call the police for her because she’s not comfortable speaking English. I would have gotten here sooner to translate, but I had to meet a client downtown.”

  “On a Saturday morning?”

  “Some of my clients can’t come in any other time. I’m an immigration attorney and I represent a lot of restaurant workers. Saturday morning’s the only time they’re free to see me. You do what you have to do.” Lena waved them inside. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  Jane and Frost walked through the living room, where the plaid sofa looked pristine under plastic slipcovers. On the coffee table was a bowl of fruit carved from stone, jade-colored apples, and rose quartz grapes. Eternally gleaming produce that would never spoil.

  “How old’s your grandmother?” Frost asked as they followed Lena to the kitchen.

  “She’s seventy-nine.”

  “And she doesn’t speak any English?”

  “Oh, she understands way more than she lets on, but she’s too embarrassed to actually speak it.” Lena paused in the hallway and pointed to the photo on the wall. “That’s Grandma and my parents and me, when I was six years old. My parents live down in Plymouth and they keep asking Grandma to move in with them but she refuses. She’s lived in this house for forty-five years and she’s not about to give up her independence.” Lena shrugged. “She’s stubborn. What can you do?”

  In the kitchen, they found Mrs. Leong sitting at the table with her head in her hands, her silver hair as unkempt as dandelion fluff. A cup of tea sat in front of her, the scent of jasmine wafting up with the steam.

  “Nai nai?” Lena said.

  Slowly Mrs. Leong looked up at her visitors, her eyes red from crying. She pointed to the other chairs and they all sat down, Lena taking the chair next to her grandmother.

  “First, Lena, can you tell us what she said to you on the phone?” said Frost, pulling out his notebook.

  “She said she and Sofia planned to get together this morning. But when Grandma went next door and rang the bell, no one answered. The door wasn’t locked, so she went inside. She saw the blood. And then she saw Sofia.”

  “What time was this?”

  Lena asked her grandmother, and Mrs. Leong responded with a long stream of Mandarin that was surely more than just the time of day.

  “A little before eight a.m.,” Lena said. “They were going to make tamales together. Usually they do it in January, but that was too soon after Tony died, and Sofia was still pretty shaken up.”

  “That would be Mr. Suarez?” asked Jane. “How did he die?”

  “It was a hemorrhagic stroke. They operated on him, but he never woke up. Spent three weeks in a coma before he died.” Lena shook her head. “He was such a nice man, so sweet with my grandma. With everyone, really. You’d see him and Sofia holding hands whenever they walked around the block. Like newlyweds.”

  Frost looked up from the notebook he’d been jotting in. “You said your grandmother and Sofia were going to make tamales this morning. How did they talk to each other?”

  Lena frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Your grandmother doesn’t speak English. And I assume Sofia didn’t speak Chinese.”

  “They didn’t need to talk because cooking is a language. They watched and tasted together. They were always passing dishes back and forth. Sofia’s tamales. My grandma’s amazing oxtail stew.”

  Jane looked at the spice rack by the stove, at the collection of condiments and sauces that were so different from Sofia’s. She remembered the sacks of masa in the dead woman’s kitchen and imagined these two women sitting side by side, wrapping corn husks around pillows of cornmeal, laughing and jabbering in different languages, but understanding each other perfectly.

  Jane watched as Mrs. Leong wiped her face, leaving wet streaks on her cheek, and she thought of her own mother, also fiercely independent, also living alone. She thought too of all the other women in this city, alone in their homes at night. Women who would be alert to the sound of shattering glass and unfamiliar footsteps.

  “Last night,” said
Jane, “did your grandmother hear anything unusual? Any voices, any disturbance?”

  Before Lena could translate, Mrs. Leong was already shaking her head. Clearly she understood the question, and she answered in another long stream of Mandarin.

  “She says she didn’t hear anything, but she goes to bed at ten,” said Lena. “Sofia worked the evening shift at the hospital, and she’d normally get home around eleven-thirty, midnight. By then, my grandmother would’ve been asleep.” Lena paused as Mrs. Leong spoke again. “She’s asking is that when it happened? Right after she got home?”

  “We believe so,” said Jane.

  “Was it a robbery? Because there’ve been a few break-ins in the neighborhood.”

  “When were these break-ins?” asked Frost.

  “There was one a few months ago, the next block over. The owners were at home in bed when it happened and they slept through the whole thing. After that, my dad installed new deadbolts in Grandma’s doors. I don’t think Sofia ever got around to doing hers.” Lena looked at Jane, then at Frost. “Is that what happened? Someone tried to rob her and she walked in on them?”

  “There are items missing from her house,” said Jane. “Her purse, her cell phone. And possibly a laptop computer. Does your grandmother know if Sofia owned one?”

  There was another rapid exchange of Mandarin. “Yes,” said Lena. “Grandma says Sofia was using it in her kitchen last week.”

  “Can she describe it? What color, what brand?”

  “Oh, I doubt she’d know anything about the brand.”

  “Apple,” said Mrs. Leong, and she pointed to a bowl of fruit on the countertop.

  Frost and Jane looked at each other in surprise. Did the woman just answer their question?

  Frost pulled out his cell phone and pointed to the logo on the back. “This kind of Apple? An Apple computer?”

  The woman nodded. “Apple.”

  Lena laughed. “I told you she understands more than she lets on.”