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Bubbles spiraled past a Cinderella-pinkcastle, stirring a forest of plastic kelp where a pirate’s chest overflowed with gemstones. A mermaid with swirling red hair reclined on her clamshell bed, surrounded by a legion of crustacean admirers. Only one occupant of this underwater wonderland was actually alive, and at that moment it was staring through the blood-spattered glass at Detective Jane Rizzoli.
“This is a pretty fancy aquarium for one little goldfish,” said Jane. “I think she’s got the whole cast ofThe Little Mermaidin here. All this for a fish that’s just gonna get flushed down the toilet in a year.”
“Not necessarily. That’s a fantail goldfish,” said Dr. Maura Isles. “A fish like that can theoretically live for ten, twenty years. The oldest one on record lived for forty-three years.”
Peering through the glass, Jane had a watery view of Maura, who was crouched on the other side of the aquarium, examining the body of Sofia Suarez, fifty-two years old. Even at tenforty-five on a Saturday morning, Maura managed to look coolly elegant, a trick Jane had never been able to pull off. It wasn’t just Maura’s tailored slacks and blazer and her geometrically clipped black hair; no, there was something about Maura herself. To most cops at Boston PD, she was an intimidating figure in bloodred lipstick, a woman who used her intellect as a shield. And that intellect was now fully engaged in reading the language of death in the wounds and the blood spatters.
“Is that true? Goldfish can really live forty-three years?” said Jane.
“Look it up.”
“Why would you happen to know that completely useless piece of information?”
“No information is useless. It’s just a key waiting for the right lock to open.”
“Well, I am going to look it up. ’Cause every goldfish I ever owned was dead within a year.”
“No comment.”
Jane straightened and turned to survey once again the modest home of the woman who had lived and died here.Sofia Suarez, who were you?Jane read the clues in the books on the shelves, in the neatly lined-up remotes on the coffee table. A tidy woman who liked to knit, judging by the magazines on the end table. The bookcase was filled with nursing textbooks and romance novels, the collection of a woman who saw death in her job, yet still wanted to believe in love. And in one corner, on a little table adorned with bright plastic flowers, was the enshrined photo of a smiling man with twinkly eyes and a handsome swoop of black hair. A man whose ghostly presence still lingered in every room of this house.
Hanging above the dead man’s shrine was the wedding photo of a younger Sofia and her husband, Tony. On the day they’dmarried, joy had lit up both their faces. That day, they must have believed that many happy years lay before them, years of growing old together. But last year, death took the husband.
And last night, a killer came for the wife.
Jane circled to the front door, where a stethoscope lay coiled on the floor, spattered with blood.
Here is where the attack starts.
Was the killer already waiting for her as she walked through her door last night? Or was he surprised when he heard the key in the lock and panicked when he realized he was about to be discovered?
The first blow doesn’t kill her. She’s still alive. Still conscious.
Jane followed the trail of blood smeared along the floor, marking the victim’s desperate attempt to escape her attacker. It led from the front door, across the living room, and past the softly burbling aquarium.
And here is where it ends, she thought, gazing down at the body.
Sofia Suarez lay on her side on the tiled floor, her legs curled up like an infant still in the womb. She was dressed in her blue nurse’s scrubs and a hospital ID was still attached to her shirt:S.Suarez, RN. A halo of blood surrounded her crushed skull, and her face was now shattered beyond recognition. A sad remnant of the face that had beamed so joyfully in the wedding photo.
“I see an outline of footwear here, in this splatter,” said Maura. “And there’s a partial tread mark over there.”
Jane crouched to study the footwear impression. “Looks like some kind of boot. Men’s size seven or eight?” Jane turned toward the front door. “Her stethoscope’s near the door. She’s attacked soon after she walks into the house. Manages to crawlaway until this point. Curls up into this fetal position, maybe trying to protect herself, protect her head. And he hits her again.”
“Have you found the weapon?”
“No. What should we be looking for?”
Maura knelt beside the body and with her gloved hand gently parted the dead woman’s hair to expose the scalp. “These wounds are well-defined. Circular. I think you’re looking for a flat-head hammer.”
“We haven’t found any hammer. Bloody or otherwise.”
Jane’s partner, Barry Frost, emerged from the back bedroom. His usually pale face was an alarming shade of sunburned scarlet, a consequence of his hatless trip to the beach yesterday. It made Jane wince just to look at him. “I didn’t find her purse or her cell phone,” he said. “But I did find this. It was plugged into the bedroom socket.” He held up a charging cord. “Looks like it’s for an Apple laptop.”
“Where’s the laptop?” said Jane.
“Not here.”
“You sure?”
