Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Gabriel.”
    “But the rest of those guys, they’re ready to shoot first and ask questions later. Hell, Bobby could have slipped on the ice and shot
himself.”
Cathy huffed out a sigh of frustration. “How does anyone know what really happened? No one saw it.”
    And there was no video of the shooting, thought Jane. That detail alone deeply bothered her. Martineau’s dash camera had been in perfect working order. It had simply been turned off, in violation of sheriff’s department regulations. The last footage recorded waswhile Martineau was en route to Doyle Mountain. Moments before he arrived at the house, he had deliberately shut off the camera.
    She turned to Cathy. “How well did you know Deputy Martineau?”
    “I’ve had dealings with him.” By the tone of her voice, those dealings did not sound cordial.
    “Did you ever have any reason not to trust him?”
    For a moment Cathy stared at her in the bone-chilling dawn, and the steam from their breaths mingled, coalescing into a vaporous union.
    “I was wondering when someone would finally get up the nerve to ask that question,” she said.
    “B OBBY M ARTINEAU is now considered a hero. And we’re not supposed to speak ill of dead heroes. Even if they deserve it,” said Cathy.
    “So you weren’t a fan of his.”
    “Between you and me, Bobby was an abusive control freak.” Cathy kept her gaze on the road as she spoke, driving with care on pavement coated in snow and ice. Jane was glad she wasn’t the one navigating these unfamiliar roads, even more glad that they were traveling in Cathy’s rugged four-wheel-drive SUV. “In my line of work,” said Cathy, “you find out pretty quick which families in the county are in trouble. Who’s getting divorced, whose kids are missing too much school. And whose wives are showing up at work with black eyes.”
    “Bobby’s?”
    “She’s his ex-wife now. It took her long enough to wake up and get out. Two years ago, Patsy finally left him and moved to Oregon. I only wish she’d hung around here to press charges, because guys like Bobby shouldn’t be wearing badges.”
    “He beat up his wife, and he was still in uniform?”
    “It probably happens in Boston, too, right? People refuse to believethat a fine, upstanding citizen like Bobby would clock his wife.” Cathy snorted. “If the boy really did shoot him, maybe Bobby deserved it.”
    “You don’t really mean that, do you?”
    Cathy looked at her. “Maybe I do. Just a little. I work with victims. I know what years of abuse can do to a kid. To a woman.”
    “This is starting to sound personal for you.”
    “You see too much of it, and yeah. It becomes personal. No matter how hard you try not to let it.”
    “So Bobby was a jerk who beat up his wife. It doesn’t explain why he shut off his dash camera. What was he trying to hide up on Doyle Mountain?”
    “I don’t know the answer to that one.”
    “Did he know Julian Perkins?”
    “Oh sure. The kid’s been picked up by just about every deputy in the county for one offense or another.”
    “So they have a history, the two of them.”
    Cathy thought about this as she guided her truck up a road where the houses had become few and far between. “Julian didn’t like the police, but that’s a typical teenage boy for you. Cops are the enemy. Still, I don’t think that would explain it. And let’s not forget.” She glanced at Jane. “Bobby shut off the dash camera
before
he got to Doyle Mountain. Before he knew the kid was up there. Whatever his reason, it had something to do with your friend Maura Isles.”
    Whose actions remained the biggest mystery of all.
    “Here it is,” said Cathy, and she pulled the SUV to the side of the road. “You wanted to know about Bobby. Well, that’s where he lived.”
    Jane looked at the modest house across the road. Great mounds of snow had piled up on either side of the plowed driveway, and the building seemed to be in hiding, its windows peeking over the snow as though to catch a furtive glimpse of passersby. There were no nearby homes, no neighbors easily available for her to interview.
    “He lived alone?” asked Jane.
    “As far as I know. Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home.”
    Jane zipped up her jacket and stepped out of the car. Heard the rattle of wind in the trees, and felt its sting on her cheeks. Was that why she suddenly felt a chill sweep through her? Or was it this house, the house of a dead man, its windows peering darkly above