Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

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 the snowbank? Cathy was already walking toward the front porch, boots crunching over compacted snow, but Jane paused by the car. They had no search warrant. They had no reason to be here, except that Deputy Martineau was a puzzle to her, and any good homicide investigation included a victimology analysis. Why was this particular man attacked? What actions did he take that led to his death in the windswept driveway on Doyle Mountain? So far, all the attention had been focused on the alleged shooter, Julian Perkins. It was time to focus on Bobby Martineau.
    She followed Cathy up the driveway, her boots finding traction on the gritty sand scattered across the ice. Cathy was already knocking on the front door.
    As expected, no one answered.
    Jane noted the rotten windowsills, the peeling paint. Firewood had been carelessly piled up at one end of the porch, against a railing that looked dangerously close to collapse. Peering through the front window, she saw a sparsely furnished living room. A pizza box and two beer cans were on the coffee table. She saw nothing that surprised her, nothing she wouldn’t expect to see in the home of a bachelor living alone on a deputy’s salary.
    “Boy, this is a dump,” said Cathy, looking at the detached garage, which seemed to sag under the weight of snow on its roof.
    “Do you know about any of his friends? Anyone who might know him well?”
    “Probably in the sheriff’s office, but good luck getting them to say anything negative. Like I said, a dead cop is always a hero.”
    “Depending on how the cop ended up dead.” Jane tried thedoorknob and found it locked. She turned her focus to the detached garage. The driveway leading to the bay door was plowed clear, and she spotted tire tracks—wide ones, from a truck. Gingerly she made her way down the slippery porch steps. At