The Silent Girl

cop. Keep up with her, and you’ll do fine.”
    “Tam,” said Jane, hanging up her phone. “You stay and finish up here. I have to go.”
    “What’s happened?”
    “That was Frost. We found the victim’s car.”
    T HE FOURTH FLOOR of the Tyler Street parking garage was nearly empty, but the blue Honda Civic sat all by itself in a remote corner space. It was a dim and isolated spot, the sort of place you would choose if you did not want anyone to see you walking to your car. As Jane and Frost inspected the vehicle, their only audience was a lone garage employee and the two Boston PD officers who’d spotted the car earlier that morning.
    “The entry ticket on the dashboard has a time stamp of eight fifteen PM Wednesday,” said Frost. “I checked the security tape, and it shows the Honda driving in at that time. Five minutes later, a woman walks out of the garage. Her hoodie’s up, so you can’t see her face on the camera, but it looks like her. Car hasn’t left the garage since.”
    As Frost spoke, Jane did a slow walk-around of the Honda. It was a three-year-old model with no major dings or scratches. The tires were in good condition. The trunk was open, the hatch lifted for her to inspect the interior.
    “License plates were reported stolen five days ago in Springfield,” said Frost. “Vehicle was stolen a week ago, also in Springfield.”
    Jane frowned into the trunk, which was empty except for the spare tire. “Geez, it’s a lot cleaner than mine.”
    Frost laughed. “You could say that about a lot of cars.”
    “Says the guy with OCD.”
    “Looks like it’s been recently detailed. Glove compartment’s got the real owner’s registration and insurance card. And you’re gonna love what was left on the front seat.” He pulled on gloves and opened the driver’s door. “Handheld GPS.”
    “Why do you always get to find the fun stuff?”
    “I’m guessing it’s a brand-new unit, because she’d plugged in only two addresses. Both in Boston.”
    “Where?”
    “The first is a private residence in Roxbury Crossing, owned by a Louis Ingersoll.”
    Jane glanced at him in surprise. “Would that be
Detective
Lou Ingersoll?”
    “One and the same. It’s the address Boston PD has listed for him.”
    “He retired from homicide, what? Sixteen, seventeen years ago?”
    “Sixteen. Can’t get hold of him right now. I called his daughter, and she says Lou took off up north to go fishing for the week. There may not be cell coverage wherever he is. Or he turned off his phone and doesn’t want to be bothered.”
    “What about the second address on the GPS?”
    “It’s a business, right here in Chinatown. Someplace called the Dragon and Stars Martial Arts Academy. Their answering machine said they open at noon.” Frost glanced at his watch. “Which would be ten minutes ago.”

T HE DRAGON AND STARS ACADEMY OF MARTIAL ARTS WAS LOCATED on the second floor of a tired brick building on Harrison Avenue, and as Jane and Frost climbed the narrow stairway, they could hear chants and grunts and thumping feet, and could already smell the sweaty locker-room odor. Inside the studio, a dozen students garbed in black pajama-like costumes moved with such total focus that not a single one seemed to notice the two detectives’ entrance. Except for a faded martial arts poster, it was a starkly empty room with bare walls and a scuffed wood floor. For a moment Jane and Frost stood ignored near the door, watching the class leap and kick.
    Suddenly a young Asian woman stepped out of formation and ordered: “Complete the exercise!” Then she crossed the room to meet the two visitors. She was slender as a dancer, her skin aglow with sweat, but despite her exertions she did not seem at all out of breath. “May I help you?” she asked.
    “We’re from Boston PD. I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, and this is Detective Frost. We’d like to speak to the owner of this studio.”
    “May I see identification?” The request was brusque and not at all what Jane expected from someone who looked like she was barelyout of high school. As the girl studied Jane’s ID, Jane studied the girl. Maybe not as young as she appeared, Jane decided. Early twenties and American Chinese, by the sound of her voice, with a tattoo of a tiger on her left forearm. With her short, spiky hair and her sullen gaze, she looked like an Asian version of a Goth girl, small but dangerous.
    The girl handed back the ID. “I see you’re with homicide.