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“You want to look for yourself?” It was an uncharacteristically cranky response from Frost, but maybe she’d asked for it. And that sunburn must be bothering him.
She had already walked through the house earlier, and now she walked it again, her shoe coverswhishing across the floor. She glanced into the spare room, where the bed was covered with folded laundry and linens. Next came the bathroom, its under-sink cabinet overflowing with the usual face creams and ointments that promised, but never delivered, eternal youth. In the medicine cabinet were bottles of pills for hypertension and allergies as well as a prescription bottle of hydrocodone, six months expired. Nothing in the bathroom looked disturbed,which bothered Jane. The medicine cabinet was one of the first places a burglar normally raided, and hydrocodone would be a prize worth snatching.
Jane continued to the main bedroom where she saw, on the dresser, another framed photo of Sofia and her husband in happier times. Alive times. They were standing arm in arm on a beach, and the years since their wedding photo had added both wrinkles and pounds. Their waists were thicker, their laugh lines deeper. She opened the closet and saw that, along with Sofia’s clothes, Tony’s jackets and slacks were still hanging. How painful it must have been for her to open this closet every morning to see her dead husband’s clothes. Or was it a comfort, being able to touch the fabric he’d worn, to inhale his scent?
Jane closed the closet door. Frost was right: If Sofia did own an Apple laptop, it was not in this house.
She went into the kitchen, where the countertop held sacks of masa and plastic bags filled with dried corn husks. The kitchen was otherwise uncluttered, the surfaces wiped clean. Sofia was a nurse; perhaps it was second nature for her to wipe down and sterilize surfaces. Jane opened the pantry cabinet and saw shelves filled with unfamiliar condiments and sauces. She imagined Sofia pushing her grocery cart down the aisles, planning the meals she would cook for herself. The woman lived alone and probably dined alone, and based on her extravagantly stocked spice cabinet, she must have drawn comfort from cooking. It was yet another piece of the puzzle that was Sofia Suarez, a woman who loved to cook and knit. A woman who missed her dead husband so much she kept his clothes in the closet and a shrine to him in the living room. A woman who loved romance novels and her goldfish. A woman who lived alone but certainly did not die alone. Someone had stood over her, holding theinstrument of her death. Someone had watched her take her last breaths.
She looked down at the broken glass from the shattered window in the kitchen door, the point of entry. The intruder had smashed the glass in the doorframe, reached in, and slid open the bolt. She stepped out into the side yard, a stark strip of gravel with one empty trash can and a few weeds popping out. There were more shards out here, but the gravel preserved no footprints, and the gate had a simple latch, easily lifted from the outside. No security cameras, no alarm system. Sofia must have felt safe in this neighborhood.
Jane’s cell phone rang with the screech of violins. It was the movie theme fromPsychoand it set her nerves on edge—appropriately so. Without looking at the caller’s name, she silenced the phone and walked back inside.
A nurse. Who the hell kills a nurse?
“Aren’t you going to answer her?” asked Maura as Jane returned to the dining room.
“No.”
“But it’s your mother calling.”
“That’s why I’m not going to answer it.” She saw Maura’s raised eyebrow. “This is the third time she’s called today. I already know what she’s gonna say.What kind of cop are you? Don’t you even care about a kidnapping?”
“Someone’s been kidnapped?”
“No. It’s just some girl from her neighborhood who took off. It’s not the first time she’s run away.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“I’ve already talked to Revere PD and the ball’s in their court. They don’t need me butting in.” Jane looked down again at the body. “I’ve got enough things on my mind.”
“Detective Rizzoli?” a voice called out.
Jane turned to see a patrolman standing in the front door. “Yeah?”
“The neighbor’s granddaughter just arrived. She’s ready to translate for you, if you want to come next door.”
Jane and Frost stepped outside, where the sunlight was so bright Jane paused for a moment, blinking against the glare as she took in the audience watching them. A dozen neighbors stood on the sidewalk, drawn by the spectacle of official vehicles parked on their street. As a CSU van pulled up behind the row of patrol cars, two gray-haired women shook their heads, their hands pressed to their mouths in dismay. This was not the circus atmosphere Jane so often encountered downtown, where crime scenes were entertainment. Sofia’s death had clearly shaken those who knew her, and they watched in mournful silence as Jane and Frost walked to the neighbor’s house.
The front door was opened by a young Asian woman dressed in pinstripe slacks and a pressed white blouse, oddly businesslike attire for a Saturday morning. “She’s still pretty upset, but she’s anxious to talk to you.”
“You’re her granddaughter?” asked Jane.
“Yes. Lena Leong. I’m the one who called 911. Grandma called me first, in a panic, and she asked me to call the police for her because she’s not comfortable speaking English. I would have gotten here sooner to translate, but I had to meet a client downtown.”
“On a Saturday morning?”
“Some of my clients can’t come in any other time. I’m an immigration attorney and I represent a lot of restaurant workers. Saturday morning’s the only time they’re free to see me. You do what you have to do.” Lena waved them inside. “She’s in the kitchen.”
Jane and Frost walked through the living room, where the plaid sofa looked pristine under plastic slipcovers. On the coffee table was a bowl of fruit carved from stone, jade-colored apples, and rose quartz grapes. Eternally gleaming produce that would never spoil.
“How old’s your grandmother?” Frost asked as they followed Lena to the kitchen.
“She’s seventy-nine.”
“And she doesn’t speakanyEnglish?”
“Oh, she understands way more than she lets on, but she’s too embarrassed to actually speak it.” Lena paused in the hallway and pointed to the photo on the wall. “That’s Grandma and my parents and me, when I was six years old. My parents live down in Plymouth and they keep asking Grandma to move in with them but she refuses. She’s lived in this house for forty-five years and she’s not about to give up her independence.” Lena shrugged. “She’s stubborn. What can you do?”
