Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

daughter just like you, her mother used to complain.
    And here she is
.
    Groaning, Jane shoved herself off the sofa, the bad cop at last springing into action. “Time for bed, Regina,” she said.
    “No.”
    “Yes it is.”
    “No!”
The imp scampered away, black curls bouncing. Jane corralled her in the kitchen and scooped her up. It was like trying to hold on to a flopping fish, every muscle and sinew fighting her.
    “No
go!
No
go!”
    “Yes, go,” said Jane, carrying her daughter toward the nursery as little arms and legs flailed at her. She set Regina in the crib, turned off the light, and shut the door. That only made her cries more piercing. Not wails of distress but of sheer fury.
    The phone rang.
Oh hell, it’s the neighbors, calling to complain again
.
    “Tell them that giving her Valium is not an option!” Jane said as Gabriel went into the kitchen to answer the phone.
    “We’re the ones who need the Valium,” he told her, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    Too weary to stand straight, she slumped in the kitchen doorway, imagining the diatribe now pouring from that receiver. It had to be those Windsor-Millers, the thirty-somethings who’d moved into the building only a month ago. Already they’d called to complain at least a dozen times.
Your child keeps us awake all night. We both have demanding jobs, you know. Can’t you control her?
TheWindsor-Millers had no kids of their own, so it wouldn’t occur to them that an eighteen-month-old couldn’t be turned on and off like a TV set. Jane had once caught a glimpse inside their apartment, and it was spotless. White sofa, white carpet, white walls. The apartment of a couple who’d freak out at the thought of sticky little hands getting anywhere near their precious furniture.
    “It’s for you,” said Gabriel, holding out the receiver.
    “The neighbors?”
    “Daniel Brophy.”
    She glanced at the kitchen clock. Calling at midnight? Something had to be wrong. She took the phone. “Daniel?”
    “She wasn’t on the plane.”
    “What?”
    “I’ve just left the airport. Maura wasn’t on the flight she booked. And she never called me. I don’t know what—” He paused, and Jane heard the sound of a car horn blaring.
    “Where are you?” she asked.
    “I’m driving into the Sumner Tunnel right now. I’m going to lose you any second.”
    “Why don’t you come over to our place?” said Jane.
    “You mean right now?”
    “Gabriel and I are both awake. We should talk about this. Hello? Hello?”
    The tunnel had cut off their connection. She hung up and looked at her husband. “It sounds like we’ve got a problem.”
    Half an hour later, Father Daniel Brophy arrived. By then Regina had finally cried herself to sleep; the apartment was quiet when he walked in. Jane had seen this man at work under the most trying of circumstances, at crime scenes where wailing relatives reached out to him for comfort. He had always radiated quiet strength, and just by his touch or a few soft words, he could soothe even the most distraught. Tonight it was Brophy himself who looked distraught. He removed his black winter coat, and Jane saw that hewas not wearing his clerical collar but a blue sweater and oxford shirt. Civilian clothes that made him appear more vulnerable.
    “She never showed up at the airport,” he said. “I waited around for nearly two hours. I know her flight landed, and all the baggage was claimed. But she wasn’t there.”
    “Maybe you missed each other,” said Jane. “Maybe she got off the plane and couldn’t find you.”
    “She would have called me.”
    “You tried calling her?”
    “Repeatedly. No answer. I haven’t been able to reach her all weekend. Not since I spoke to you.”
    And I brushed off his concerns, she thought, feeling a twinge of guilt.
    “I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “I think we’re going to need it.”
    They sat in the living room, Jane and Gabriel on the sofa, Brophy in the armchair. The warmth of the apartment had not brought any color to Brophy’s cheeks; he was still sallow, and both his hands were curled into fists on his knees.
    “So your last conversation with Maura wasn’t exactly a happy one,” said Jane.
    “No. I … I had to cut it off abruptly,” Brophy admitted.
    “Why?”
    His face snapped even tighter. “We need to talk about Maura, not me.”
    “We are talking about her. I’m trying to understand her state of mind. Do you think she felt snubbed when you cut