Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

scanning the papers. He peered at the odometer. “Looks like she put in about ninety miles. Not much driving for a six-day rental.”
    “She was here for a medical conference,” said Jane. “And she was staying at this hotel. She probably didn’t get much of a chance for sightseeing.” Jane peered through the window, careful not to touch the glass. Except for a folded
USA Today
lying on the front passenger seat, the interior looked spotless. Of course it would be; Maura was a neatness freak, and Jane had never spied so much as a stray Kleenex in her Lexus. “What’s the date on that newspaper?” she asked.
    Queenan unfolded the
USA Today
. “It’s last Tuesday’s.”
    “The day she flew here,” said Brophy. “She must have picked it up at the airport.”
    Queenan straightened. “Let’s take a look in the trunk,” he said. He circled to the rear, brushed off the snow, and pressed the unlock button on the remote. They all gathered around to watch, and Jane noticed Queenan hesitate before reaching down with a gloved hand to lift open the trunk. The same thought was probably going through all their heads at that moment.
A missing woman. An abandoned vehicle
. Too many surprises had been found in car trunks, too many horrors folded like embryos inside steel wombs. In these freezing temperatures, there would be no odors to alert anyone, no olfactory clues of what might lie inside. As Queenan lifted the trunk, Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. She stared into the now revealed space.
    “Empty and clean as a whistle,” said Queenan, and she heard relief in his voice. He looked at Gabriel. “So we have a rental car that looks to be in good shape, and no luggage. Wherever your friend went, she took her stuff with her. That sounds like a planned jaunt to me.”
    “Then where is she?” said Jane. “Why isn’t she answering her cell phone?”
    Queenan looked at her as though she were merely an irritatingdistraction. “I don’t know your friend. Maybe you have a better handle on that answer than I do.”
    The Hertz lady said, “When can we get this vehicle back? It’s part of our fleet.”
    “We’ll need to hold on to it for a while,” said Queenan.
    “How long?”
    “Until we decide if a crime has actually been committed. At the moment, I’m not sure.”
    “Then how do you explain her disappearance?” said Jane.
    Once again, that flicker of irritation passed through his eyes when he looked at her. “I said I’m not sure. I’m keeping an open mind, ma’am. How about we all try doing that?”
    “I CAN’T SAY I really remember this particular guest,” said Michelle, a desk clerk at the Mountain Lodge. “But then, we had two hundred doctors, plus their families, staying here last week. There’s no way I could have kept track of everyone.”
    They had crowded into the manager’s office, which was barely large enough to hold them all. The manager stood near the door with his arms crossed as he watched the interview. It was his presence, more than the questions, that seemed to make Michelle nervous, and she kept glancing toward her boss, as if afraid he’d disapprove of her answers.
    “Then you don’t recognize her picture?” Queenan asked, tapping on the official photo that Jane had printed off the Massachusetts medical examiner’s website. It was an image of a somber professional. Maura gazed directly at the camera, her mouth neutral and unsmiling—appropriate for the line of work she was in. When one’s job involved slicing open the dead, a broad grin would be unsettling.
    Michelle studied the photo again with self-conscious diligence. She was young, in her midtwenties, and having so many people watching would make it difficult for anyone to concentrate. Especially when one of those people was your boss.
    Jane said to the manager, “Would you mind stepping out, sir?”
    “This is my office.”
    “We only need to borrow it for a short time.”
    “Since this business involves my hotel, I think I should know exactly what’s going on.” He looked at the clerk. “Do you remember her or not, Michelle?”
    The young woman gave a helpless shrug. “I can’t be sure. Are there any other pictures?”
    After a silence, Brophy said quietly: “I have one.” From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced the photo. It was a casual snapshot of Maura seated at her kitchen table, a glass of red wine in front of her. Compared with the somber photo from the ME’s office, this