Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

kept their hands in their pockets; it was too cold for standard courtesies.
    “You’re the one who called it in?” Jane asked.
    “Yes, ma’am. I was just telling Detective Frost here how shocked I was when I found out what was in here.”
    A gust of wind sent scraps of paper fluttering across the concrete floor. Jane said to the patrolman standing outside, “Can you close the door?”
    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