Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

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 looked like a different woman entirely, her face flushed with alcohol and laughter. The photo was worn around the edges from repeated handling; it was something that he probably always carried with him, to be brought out and gazed at in lonely moments. For Daniel Brophy, there must be many such moments, torn between duty and longing, between God and Maura.
    “Does she look familiar?” Queenan asked Michelle.
    The young woman frowned. “This is the same woman? She looks so different in this picture.”
    Happier. In love
.
    Michelle looked up. “You know, I think I do remember her. Was she here with her husband?”
    “She’s not married,” said Jane.
    “Oh. Well, maybe I’m thinking of the wrong woman, then.”
    “Tell us about the woman you do remember.”
    “She was with this guy. A really cute guy with blond hair.”
    Jane avoided looking at Brophy; she didn’t want to see his reaction. “What else do you remember about them?”
    “They were going out to dinner together. I remember they stopped at the desk, and he asked for directions to the restaurant. I just assumed they were married.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he was laughing and said something like, ‘You see? I
have
learned to ask for directions.’ I mean, that’s something a guy would say to his wife, right?”
    “When did you see this couple?”
    “It would have been Thursday night. Because I was off duty on Friday.”
    “And Saturday, the day she checked out? Were you working that morning?”
    “Yes, but a lot of us were on duty. That’s when the conference ended and we had all those guests checking out. I don’t remember seeing her then.”
    “Someone at the desk must have helped her check out.”
    “Actually, no,” the manager said. He held up a computer printout. “You said you wanted her room bill, so I ran off a copy. Looks like she used the