Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(44)

Dining on rice noodles and tofu that night, did Jodi have any inkling it would be one of her last meals? That all her efforts to eat healthy would soon be irrelevant?

Jane scrolled back through Jodi’s earlier entries, about books she’d read and movies she’d enjoyed, about friends’ weddings and birthdays, about a gloomy day in October when she’d wondered about the point of life. Back another few weeks to September, more cheerful, the start of a new school year.

How nice to see familiar faces back in the library.



Then, in early September, she posted a photo of a smiling young man with dark hair, along with a melancholy entry.

Six years ago, I lost the love of my life. I will never stop missing you, Elliot.



Elliot. “His son,” Jane said softly.

“What?”

“Jodi’s Facebook entry is about a man named Elliot. She writes: Six years ago, I lost the love of my life.”

“Six years ago?” Frost looked at her with startled eyes. “That’s when Elliot Gott vanished.”

IN THE MONTH OF November, after clocks switch to standard time, the sun sets early in New England, and at four thirty on that gloomy afternoon it already felt like dusk. The sky had been threatening to rain all day, and a fine drizzle misted the windshield by the time Jane and Frost arrived at Jodi Underwood’s residence. A gray Ford Fusion was parked in front of it, and on the driver’s side they could see the silhouette of a woman’s head. Even before Jane had her seat belt unbuckled, the Ford’s door swung open and the driver stepped out. She was statuesque, her hair stylishly streaked with gray, and dressed in smart but practical attire: gray pants and suit jacket, a tan raincoat, and sturdy, comfortable flats. It was an outfit that could have come from Jane’s closet, which wasn’t surprising, since this woman, too, was a cop.

“Detective Andrea Pearson,” the woman said. “Brookline PD.”

“Jane Rizzoli, Barry Frost,” said Jane. “Thanks for meeting us.”

They shook hands but wasted no time lingering in the thickening drizzle, and Pearson immediately led them up the steps to the front door of the house. It was a modest residence, with a small front yard dominated by paired forsythia bushes, their branches stripped of leaves by autumn. A scrap of police tape still clung to the porch railing, a bright warning flag that announced: Tragedy ahead.

“I have to say, I was startled to get your call,” Detective Pearson said as she pulled out the house key. “We haven’t been able to pry Jodi Underwood’s phone logs from her carrier yet, and her cell phone’s missing. So we had no idea that she and Mr. Gott traded phone calls.”

“You said her phone’s missing,” said Jane. “Was it stolen?”

“Along with other things.” Detective Pearson unlocked the door. “Robbery was the motive here. At least, that’s what we assumed.”

They stepped into the house, and Detective Pearson switched on the lights. Jane saw wood floors, a living room furnished with sleek Swedish minimalism, but no bloodstains. The only evidence that a crime had been committed here were the smudges of fingerprint powder.

“Her body was lying right here, near the front door,” said Detective Pearson. “After Jodi didn’t show up for work Monday morning, the school called her sister Sarah, who drove straight over. She was found around ten A.M. The body was dressed in pajamas and a robe. The cause of death was pretty obvious. There were ligature marks around her neck, and the ME agreed it was strangulation. The victim also had a bruise on her right temple, maybe from an initial blow to stun her. There was no evidence of sexual assault. It was a blitz attack, a rapid takedown that probably happened right after she opened the door.”

“You said she was wearing pajamas and a robe?” said Frost.

Pearson nodded. “The ME estimated time of death between eight P.M. and two A.M. If she made that phone call to Gott at nine forty-six P.M., that narrows down the time of death for us.”

“Assuming the call actually came from her and not someone else using her phone.”

Pearson paused. “That is a possibility, since her cell phone’s missing. Every call made to her on Monday morning went straight to voice mail, so whoever has it seems to have turned it off.”

“You said you thought that robbery was the motive. What else was taken?” asked Jane.

“According to her sister Sarah, the missing items include Jodi’s MacBook Air laptop, a camera, cell phone, and her purse. There have been other break-ins in this neighborhood, but those happened while the occupants were away. The same sorts of valuables were taken, mostly electronics.”

“Do you think this was the same perp?”

Detective Pearson didn’t answer right away, but stared down at the floor, as if she could still see Jodi Underwood’s body lying at her feet. A silvery curl of hair slid across her cheek, and she brushed it back. Looked at Jane. “I’m not sure. With the other burglaries, there were fingerprints left behind, obviously an amateur at work. But this crime scene, there was no evidence left behind. No fingerprints, no tool marks, no footwear evidence. It’s so clean, so efficient, it almost seems …”

“Professional.”

Detective Pearson nodded. “That’s why I’m intrigued by her phone calls with Leon Gott. Did that crime scene look like a targeted killing?”