Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

know where to start looking.”
    “Why the hell would anyone look
here?
” Arlo pointed out. “This is the middle of nowhere! It’ll be spring before the road clears, which means months could go by before they find us.” Arlo sank on the twin bed, next to Elaine, and dropped his head in his hands. “Jesus, we are fucked.”
    Doug looked around at his dispirited companions. “Well, I’m not panicking. We have food and firewood, so we won’t starve and we won’t freeze.” He gave Arlo a hearty slap on the back. “Come on, man. It’s an adventure. It could be a lot worse.”
    “How much worse?” said Arlo.
    No one answered. No one wanted to.

B Y THE TIME D ETECTIVE J ANE R IZZOLI ARRIVED AT THE SCENE, A group of bystanders had already gathered, attracted by the flashing lights of the Boston PD cruisers, and by the uncanny instinct that always seemed to draw crowds to places where bad things had happened. Violence gave off its version of pheromones, and these people had caught its scent and now stood pressed up against the U-Store-More chain-link fence, hoping for a glimpse of what had brought the police into their neighborhood.
    Jane parked her car and stepped out, buttoning her coat against the cold. This morning the rain had stopped, but with clearing skies had come dropping temperatures, and she realized she hadn’t brought any warm gloves, only the latex ones. She wasn’t ready for winter yet, hadn’t put the ice scraper and snow brush in her car. But tonight, winter was definitely blowing in.
    She walked through the gate and onto the property, checking in with the patrolman who stood guard. The bystanders were watchingher, their camera phones out and snapping photos.
Hey, Ma, check out my shots of the crime scene
. Honestly, people, Jane thought. Get a life. She could feel those cameras trained on her as she walked across icy pavement, toward storage locker 22. Three well-bundled patrolmen stood outside the unit, hands buried in their pockets, caps pulled low against the cold.
    “Hey, Detective,” one of them called out.
    “It’s in there?”
    “Yeah. Detective Frost is already inside with the manager.” The cop reached down for the handle and yanked up the aluminum door. It rattled open, and in the cluttered space beyond, Jane saw her partner, Barry Frost, standing with a middle-aged woman. The woman wore a white down jacket that was so voluminous, she looked like she had pillows strapped to her chest.
    Frost introduced them. “This is Dottie Dugan, manager of U-Store-More. And this is my partner, Detective Jane Rizzoli,” he said.
    They all 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