Ice Cold (11 page)

T
HE GIRL WAS TWENTY-THREE POUNDS OF
NO! N
O, BED
! N
O, SLEEP
!
No, no, no!

Jane and Gabriel slumped bleary-eyed on the sofa and watched their daughter, Regina, spin around and around like a pygmy dervish.

“How long can she possibly stay awake?” asked Jane.

“Longer than we can.”

“You’d think she’d get sick and throw up.”

“You would think,” said Gabriel.

“Someone has to take control here.”

“Yeah.”

“Someone has to be the parent.”

“I absolutely agree.” He looked at Jane.

“What?”

“It’s your turn to play bad cop.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re so good at it. Besides, I put her to bed the last three times. She just doesn’t listen to me.”

“Because she figured out that Mr. FBI is a total marshmallow.”

He looked at his watch. “Jane, it’s midnight.”

Their daughter only whirled faster. When I was her age, was I just as exhausting? Jane wondered. This must be what the term
poetic justice
meant. Someday, you’ll have a daughter just like you, her mother used to complain.

And here she is
.

Groaning, Jane shoved herself off the sofa, the bad cop at last springing into action. “Time for bed, Regina,” she said.

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

“No!”
The imp scampered away, black curls bouncing. Jane corralled her in the kitchen and scooped her up. It was like trying to hold on to a flopping fish, every muscle and sinew fighting her.

“No
go!
No
go!”

“Yes, go,” said Jane, carrying her daughter toward the nursery as little arms and legs flailed at her. She set Regina in the crib, turned off the light, and shut the door. That only made her cries more piercing. Not wails of distress but of sheer fury.

The phone rang.
Oh hell, it’s the neighbors, calling to complain again
.

“Tell them that giving her Valium is not an option!” Jane said as Gabriel went into the kitchen to answer the phone.

“We’re the ones who need the Valium,” he told her, then picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

Too weary to stand straight, she slumped in the kitchen doorway, imagining the diatribe now pouring from that receiver. It had to be those Windsor-Millers, the thirty-somethings who’d moved into the building only a month ago. Already they’d called to complain at least a dozen times.
Your child keeps us awake all night. We both have demanding jobs, you know. Can’t you control her?
The Windsor-Millers had no kids of their own, so it wouldn’t occur to them that an eighteen-month-old couldn’t be turned on and off like a TV set. Jane had once caught a glimpse inside their apartment, and it was spotless. White sofa, white carpet, white walls. The apartment of a couple who’d freak out at the thought of sticky little hands getting anywhere near their precious furniture.

“It’s for you,” said Gabriel, holding out the receiver.

“The neighbors?”

“Daniel Brophy.”

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Calling at midnight? Something had to be wrong. She took the phone. “Daniel?”

“She wasn’t on the plane.”

“What?”

“I’ve just left the airport. Maura wasn’t on the flight she booked. And she never called me. I don’t know what—” He paused, and Jane heard the sound of a car horn blaring.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m driving into the Sumner Tunnel right now. I’m going to lose you any second.”

“Why don’t you come over to our place?” said Jane.

“You mean right now?”

“Gabriel and I are both awake. We should talk about this. Hello? Hello?”

The tunnel had cut off their connection. She hung up and looked at her husband. “It sounds like we’ve got a problem.”

Half an hour later, Father Daniel Brophy arrived. By then Regina had finally cried herself to sleep; the apartment was quiet when he walked in. Jane had seen this man at work under the most trying of circumstances, at crime scenes where wailing relatives reached out to him for comfort. He had always radiated quiet strength, and just by his touch or a few soft words, he could soothe even the most distraught. Tonight it was Brophy himself who looked distraught. He removed his black winter coat, and Jane saw that he was not wearing his clerical collar but a blue sweater and oxford shirt. Civilian clothes that made him appear more vulnerable.

“She never showed up at the airport,” he said. “I waited around for nearly two hours. I know her flight landed, and all the baggage was claimed. But she wasn’t there.”

“Maybe you missed each other,” said Jane. “Maybe she got off the plane and couldn’t find you.”

“She would have called me.”

“You tried calling her?”

“Repeatedly. No answer. I haven’t been able to reach her all weekend. Not since I spoke to you.”

And I brushed off his concerns, she thought, feeling a twinge of guilt.

“I’ll make some coffee,” she said. “I think we’re going to need it.”

They sat in the living room, Jane and Gabriel on the sofa, Brophy in the armchair. The warmth of the apartment had not brought any color to Brophy’s cheeks; he was still sallow, and both his hands were curled into fists on his knees.

“So your last conversation with Maura wasn’t exactly a happy one,” said Jane.

“No. I … I had to cut it off abruptly,” Brophy admitted.

“Why?”

His face snapped even tighter. “We need to talk about Maura, not me.”

“We are talking about her. I’m trying to understand her state of mind. Do you think she felt snubbed when you cut the call short?”

He looked down. “Probably.”

“Did you call her back?” asked Gabriel, using his
just-the-facts
voice.

“Not that night. It was late. I didn’t try calling her until Saturday.”

“And she didn’t answer.”

“No.”

“Maybe she’s just annoyed with you,” said Jane. “You know, it’s been tough on her this past year. Having to hide what’s going on between you.”

“Jane,” cut in Gabriel. “This isn’t helping.”

Brophy gave a sigh. “But I deserve it,” he said softly.

Yes you do. You broke your vows, and now you’re breaking her heart
.

“Do you think Maura’s state of mind could explain this?” Gabriel asked, again in his matter-of-fact law enforcement voice. Of the three of them, he was the only one who seemed to be approaching this logically. She had seen him react to other tense situations in just this way, had watched her husband grow calmer and more focused as everything and everyone around him melted down. Hand him a crisis, and Gabriel Dean could instantly transform from an exhausted father into the Bureau man she sometimes forgot he was. He was watching Brophy with eyes that gave away nothing, but noticed everything.

“Was she upset enough to do something rash?” Gabriel asked. “Hurt herself? Maybe worse?”

Brophy shook his head. “Not Maura.”

“People do surprising things under stress.”

“She
wouldn’t! Come on, Gabriel, you know her. You both do.” Brophy looked at Jane, then back at Gabriel. “Do you really think she’s that immature? That she’d drop out of sight just to punish me?”

“She’s done the unexpected before,” said Jane. “She fell in love with you.”

He flushed, color at last suffusing his cheeks. “But she wouldn’t do something irresponsible. Disappear like this.”

“Disappear? Or just stay away from you?”

“She had a reservation on that flight. She asked me to pick her up at the airport. When Maura says she’ll do something, she does it. And if she can’t follow through, she’ll call. No matter how upset she might be with me, she wouldn’t stoop to something like this. You know that about her, Jane. We both do.”

“But if she were distraught enough?” said Gabriel. “People do drastic things.”

Jane frowned at him. “You’re talking what? Suicide?”

Gabriel kept his gaze on Brophy. “Exactly what’s happened between you two recently?”

Brophy’s head drooped. “I think we’ve both come to realize that … something has to change.”

“Did you tell her you were going to end it?”

“No.” Brophy looked up. “She knows I love her.”

But that’s not enough, thought Jane. Not enough to build a life.

“She wouldn’t hurt herself.” Brophy straightened in the chair, his face hardening in a look of certainty. “She wouldn’t play games. Something is wrong, and I can’t believe you’re not taking this seriously.”

“We are,” said Gabriel calmly. “That’s why we’re asking these questions, Daniel. Because these are the same questions the police will ask in Wyoming. About her state of mind. About whether she might have chosen to disappear. I just want to be sure
you
know the answers.”

“Which hotel was she staying at?” asked Jane.

“It’s in Teton Village. The Mountain Lodge. I’ve already called them, and they said she checked out Saturday morning. A day early.”

“Do they know where she went?”

“No.”

“Could she have flown home earlier? Maybe she’s already back in Boston.”

“I called her home phone. I even drove by her house. She’s not there.”

“Do you know anything else about her travel arrangements?” Gabriel asked.

“I have her flight numbers. I know she rented a car in Jackson. She was planning to drive around the area after the conference was over.”

“Which rental agency?”

“Hertz.”

“Do you know if she’s spoken to anyone besides you? Her colleagues at the ME’s office, maybe? Her secretary?”

“I called Louise on Saturday, and she hadn’t heard anything, either. I didn’t follow up on it because I assumed …” He looked at Jane. “I thought you would check on her.”

There was no note of accusation in his voice, but there might as well have been. Jane felt a guilty flush in her cheeks. He
had
called her, and she’d dropped the ball because her mind had been on other things. Bodies in freezers. Uncooperative toddlers. She had not really believed that anything was wrong, had thought it was merely a lovers’ spat followed by silent treatment. This sort of thing happened all the time, didn’t it? Plus, there was the fact that Maura had checked out of her hotel a day early. That didn’t sound like an abduction, but a deliberate change in plans. None of it absolved Jane of the fact that she’d done nothing beyond placing that call to Maura’s cell phone. Now almost two days had passed, the golden forty-eight, that window of opportunity when you’re most likely to find a missing person and identify a perp.

Gabriel stood. “I think it’s time to make some calls,” he said, and went into the kitchen. She and Brophy sat silent, listening to him speak in the other room. Using his FBI voice, as Jane liked to call it, the quiet and authoritative tone he adopted for official business. Hearing it now, she found it hard to believe that that voice belonged to the same man who’d been so easily defeated by a stubborn toddler. I should be the one making the calls, she thought. I’m the cop who failed to follow up. But she knew that just hearing those letters
FBI
would make whoever was on the other end of the line snap to attention. When your husband’s a fibbie, you might as well take advantage of it.

“… female, age forty-two, I think. Black hair. Five foot six, around a hundred twenty pounds …”

“Why would she check out of the hotel a day early?” Brophy said softly. He was sitting rigid in the armchair, staring straight ahead. “That’s what I haven’t figured out yet, why she did that. Where was she going, another town, another hotel? Why suddenly change her plans?”

Maybe she met someone. A man
. Jane didn’t want to say it, but that was the first thought that occurred to her, the first thought that would occur to any cop. A lonely woman on a business trip. A woman whose lover has just disappointed her. Along comes an attractive stranger who suggests a little drive out of town. Ditch the old plans and have a little adventure.

Maybe she had an adventure with the wrong man
.

Gabriel came back into the living room, carrying the portable phone. “He’ll call us right back.”

“Who?” asked Brophy.

“The detective in Jackson. He said they’ve had no traffic fatalities over the weekend, and he’s not aware of any hospitalized patients who remain unidentified.”

“What about …” Brophy paused.

“Or bodies, either.”

Brophy swallowed and slumped back into the chair. “So we know that much, at least. She’s not lying in some hospital.”

Or the morgue
. It was an image Jane tried to block out, but there it was: Maura stretched out on the table like so many other corpses that Jane had stared down at. Anyone who’d ever stood in an autopsy room and watched a postmortem had surely imagined the nightmarish scene of someone they knew or loved lying on the table. No doubt it was the same image that was now tormenting Daniel Brophy.

Jane brewed another pot of coffee. Out in Wyoming, it would be eleven
PM.
The phone remained ominously silent as they watched the clock.