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The average American cell phoneuser sends or receives 250 calls a month, and in that regard, Sofia Suarez had been utterly average, judging by the previous year’s phone log. Jane sat at her desk, combing through a year’s worth of calls, searching for any entry that stood out as unusual, any name that sent off a warning flare in her head, but nothing caught her attention. There were repeated calls to and from Pilgrim Hospital where she was employed, to a hairdresser and a credit card company, a plumber and an auto repair garage. And, prior to last November, numerous ones to her husband Tony. The pattern revealed the life of an ordinary woman who had her hair done once a month, whose car needed an occasional oil change, whose sink sometimes backed up.
As Jane scanned down the list, Frost was doing likewise at his desk, another set of eyes examining the same log to and from Sofia’s phone.
In November, the rhythm abruptly changed to a frantic tempo,with most of the calls going to the same number: Pilgrim Hospital, where her husband was now lying in intensive care. Here was the record of Sofia’s growing desperation as she reached out again and again for updates on Tony’s condition.
On December 14, her calls to the hospital abruptly stopped. That was the day her husband died.
Jane imagined the days leading up to that date, the jolt of anxiety Sofia must have felt every time her phone rang. As a nurse, Sofia would have recognized the signs that her husband’s body was failing. She would have seen the end coming. Jane thought again of the couple’s smiling faces in their wedding photo, a reminder that even in the happiest moments, tragedy was waiting in the wings.
She left behind that sad month and moved on to the log for January. February. March. Calls to and from Pilgrim Hospital, to a local dentist, and to Jamal Bird. No surprises. Jane turned to the month of April and stopped. Here was yet another abrupt change in pattern with a series of new phone numbers. In the last few weeks of her life, Sofia Suarez was reaching out to people and places she’d never contacted before.
She swiveled around toward Frost. “April,” she said. “Have you looked at that yet?”
“Getting to it. Why?”
“Take a look at April twentieth. She called a number listed to a Gregory Bouchard in Sacramento, California.”
Frost scanned down the log until he found the right date. “I see it. It was fifty-five seconds long. Not much of a conversation. Who is this Bouchard guy?”
“Let’s find out.” She picked up her desk phone and dialed the number. It rang three times and was answered by a man’s breezy “Hello?”
Jane put it on speakerphone so Frost could listen in. “I’mDetective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. Am I speaking to Gregory Bouchard?”
A beat of silence, then a cautious “Yeah, that’s me. What’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the death of a woman named Sofia Suarez. According to her phone records, she called your number on April twentieth. Can you tell us anything about that call?”
There was a long pause. “Did you say Sofia’sdead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What happened? Was there an accident?”
“I’m afraid not. This is a homicide investigation.”
“Oh god. Katie’s going to freak out.”
“Katie?”
“My wife. She’s the one Sofia was trying to reach.”
“Did they manage to talk?”
“No, Katie was away on a work trip when Sofia left the voicemail. Katie tried calling back when she got home, but they never connected.”
“May I speak to your wife?”
“She’s not home. She works as a traveling nurse for Nat Geo tours. You know, keeping the rich folks alive and well. I’ll check her itinerary, but I think right now they’re somewhere in the South Pacific.”
“What about the voicemail Sofia left on your phone? Do you still have the recording?”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s been erased.”
“Do you know what her message was?”
“Um, sort of. I heard it when Katie played it back and…” Over the phone, Jane heard him take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m kind of shaken up about this. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.”
“Her voicemail, Mr. Bouchard?”
