Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

pillow. Her gaze paused on the tabloid newspaper lying on the backseat.
    The
Weekly Confidential.
    Again, she was struck by how incongruous that newspaper was, in a man’s car. Could Joe really have cared about what was troubling Melanie Griffith, or whose out-of-town husband was enjoying lap dances? The
Confidential
was a woman’s tabloid; women
did
care about the woes of film stars.
    She left the kitchen and peeked into her daughter’s room. Regina was still asleep—one of those rare moments that would all too soon be over. Quietly she closed the nursery door, then slipped out of the apartment and headed up the hall to her neighbor’s.
    It took a few moments for Mrs. O’Brien to answer her door, but she was clearly delighted to have a visitor. Any visitor.
    “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Jane.
    “Come in, come in!”
    “I can’t stay. I left Regina in her crib, and—”
    “How is she? I heard her crying again last night.”
    “I’m sorry about that. She’s not a good sleeper.”
    Mrs. O’Brien leaned close and whispered. “Brandy.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “On a pacifier. I did it with both my boys, and they slept like angels.”
    Jane knew the woman’s two sons.
Angels
was not a word that still applied to them. “Mrs. O’Brien,” she said, before she had to listen to any more bad-mother tips, “you subscribe to the
Weekly Confidential,
don’t you?”
    “I just got this week’s issue. ‘Pampered Hollywood pets!’ Did you know some hotels have special rooms just for your dog?”
    “Do you still have any issues from last month? I’m looking for the one with Melanie Griffith on the cover.”
    “I know just the one you’re talking about.” Mrs. O’Brien waved her into the apartment. Jane followed her into the living room and stared in amazement at tottering stacks of magazines piled on every horizontal surface. There had to be a decade’s worth of
People
and
Entertainment Weekly
and
US
magazines.
    Mrs. O’Brien went straight to the appropriate pile, rifled through the stack of
Confidential
s, and pulled out the issue with Melanie Griffith. “Oh yes, I remember, this was a
good
one,” she said. “ ‘Plastic Surgery Disasters!’ If you ever think about getting a face-lift, you’d better read this issue. It’ll make you forget the whole thing.”
    “Do you mind if I borrow it?”
    “You’ll bring it back, though?”
    “Yes, of course. It’s just for a day or two.”
    “Because I
do
want it back. I like to reread them.”
    She probably remembered every detail, too.
    Back at her own kitchen table, Jane looked at the tabloid’s issue date: July 20th. It had gone on sale only a week before Olena was pulled from Hingham Bay. She opened the
Confidential
and began to read. Found herself enjoying it even as she thought: God, this is trash, but it’s
fun
trash. I had no idea
he
was gay, or that
she
hasn’t had sex in four years. And what the hell was this craze about colonics, anyway? She paused to ogle the plastic surgery disasters, then moved on, past the fashion emergencies and “I Saw Angels” and “Courageous Cat Saves Family.” Had Joseph Roke lingered over the same gossip, the same celebrity fashions? Had he studied the faces disfigured by plastic surgeons and thought:
Not for me. I’ll grow old gracefully?
    No, of course not. Joseph Roke wasn’t a man who’d read this.
    Then how did it end up in his car?
    She turned to the classified ads on the last two pages. Here were columns of advertisements for psychic services and alternative healers and business opportunities at home. Did anyone actually answer these? Did anyone really think you could make “up to $250 a day at home stuffing envelopes”? Halfway down the page, she came to the personal ads, and her gaze suddenly froze on a two-line ad. On four familiar words.
    The Die Is Cast.
    Beneath it was a time and date and a telephone number with a 617 area code. Boston.
    The phrase could be just a coincidence, she thought. It could be two lovers arranging a furtive meeting. Or a drug pickup. Most likely it had nothing at all to do with Olena and Joe and Mila.
    Heart thumping, she picked up the kitchen telephone and dialed the number in the ad. It rang. Three times, four times, five times. No answering machine picked up, and no voice came on the line. It just kept ringing until she lost count.
Maybe it’s the phone of a dead woman.
    “Hello?” a man said.
    She froze, her hand already poised to hang up. She