Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

better luck with these people,” she muttered, and stalked off down the driveway.
    “Was that a reporter?” Gabriel asked, with the sympathy of a fellow lawman.
    “Naw, county social worker. Those bleeding hearts are a real pain in the ass.” The deputy looked Gabriel up and down. “Can I help you, sir?”
    “Sheriff Fahey is expecting us. Detective Queenan called to let him know we were coming.”
    “You the folks from Boston?”
    “Yes, sir. Agent Dean and Detective Rizzoli.” Gabriel struck just the right note of respect to emphasize that he knew whose jurisdiction they were in. And who was in charge.
    The deputy, who looked no older than his midtwenties, was young enough to be flattered by Gabriel’s approach. “Come with me, sir. Ma’am.”
    They followed him to the Circle B check-in cottage. Inside, a wood fire crackled in the hearth, and low pine beams overhead made the space feel as claustrophobic as a dark cave. The cold wind outside had numbed Jane’s face, and she stood near the fire as the heat slowly brought sensation back to her cheeks. The room was a time capsule from the 1960s, the wall adorned with bullwhips and spurs and muddy-colored paintings of cowboys. She heard voices talking in the back room—two men, she thought, until she peered through the doorway and saw that one of them was a blond woman with weather-beaten skin and a smoker’s hacking cough.
    “… never did lay eyes on the wife,” the woman said. “He’s the one who checked in.”
    “Why didn’t you ask for his ID?”
    “He paid cash and signed in. This ain’t Russia, you know. Last I checked, folks are free to come and go in this country. Besides, he looked like good people.”
    “You could tell?”
    “Polite and respectful. Drove in during that snowstorm Saturday, and said they needed a place to stay while they waited for the roads to be cleared. Sounded reasonable to me.”
    “Sheriff?” the deputy called out. “Those people from Boston are here.”
    Fahey waved at them through the doorway. “Hold on,” he said, and continued his conversation with the manager. “They checked in two days ago, Marge. When was the last time you cleaned their cabin?”
    “Never got the chance. They had the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the knob Saturday and Sunday. Figured they wanted their privacy so I left ’em alone. Then this morning, I noticed it wasn’t hanging there anymore. So I went into the room around two o’clock to clean it. That’s when I found ’em.”
    “So the last time you saw that man alive was when he checked in?”
    “They couldn’t have been dead all that time. They took the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door, didn’t they? Or someone did.”
    “Okay.” Fahey sighed and zipped up his jacket. “DCI’s coming in to assist, so they’ll be talking to you, too.”
    “Yeah?” The woman hacked a watery cough. “Maybe they’ll need rooms for the night. I got vacancies.”
    Fahey came out of the office and nodded at the new arrivals. He was a beefy man in his fifties, and like his younger deputy he sported a military buzz cut. His stony gaze went right past Jane and fixed on Gabriel. “You’re the folks who reported that missing woman?”
    “We’re hoping this isn’t her,” said Gabriel.
    “She went missing Saturday, right?”
    “Yes. From Teton Village.”
    “Well, the timing’s right. These people checked in on Saturday. Why don’t you come with me?”
    He led them up a path of trampled snow, past other cabins that stood dark and clearly unoccupied. Except for guest reception, there was only one other building that had its lights on, and it stood at the outer edge of the property. When they reached cabin eight, the sheriff paused to hand them latex gloves and paper shoe covers, the must-wear fashion at any crime scene.
    “Before you walk in, I need to warn you,” Fahey said. “It’s not going to be pleasant.”
    “Never is,” said Gabriel.
    “What I mean is, they’re gonna be hard to identify.”
    “There’s disfigurement?” Gabriel asked it so calmly that the sheriff frowned at him.
    “Yeah, you could say that,” Fahey finally answered, and opened the door.
    Jane stared across the threshold into cabin eight. Even from the doorway, she could see the blood, alarming splatters of it arcing across the wall. Wordlessly she stepped into the room, and as the unmade bed came into view she saw the source of all that blood.
    The body lying beside the bed was faceup on the