Listen To Me (Rizzoli & Isles #13)(10)

What secrets could a fifty-two-year-old widowed nurse be hiding? Jane wondered. Sofia had no criminal record, not even an outstanding parking ticket. Their search of her house had turned up no illicit drugs or stashes of cash, and her bank account was modest.

Maybe the secret wasn’t about her.

“What about her husband, Tony?” Jane asked. “What did he do for a living?”

“He was a mail carrier,” said Mary Beth. “Thirty years on the job and he loved it. Loved talking to people on his route. He even loved all their dogs, and they loved him.”

“No, they loved his dog biscuits,” said Fran Souza with a sad laugh. “Tony kept a bag of them in his mail truck.”

“But he really did love dogs. They both did. After Tony died, Sofia was talking about getting one, maybe a big ol’ golden retriever. Then she thought it wouldn’t be fair to the dog, being left at home alone while she worked.” Mary Beth paused. “It’s too bad she didn’t have a dog. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

Fran asked, softly: “Was it quick? Did she suffer?”

Jane thought of the smears of dried blood across the living room floor, evidence of Sofia’s desperate attempt to escape. Yes, she did suffer. Sofia had lived long enough to be terrified. To know she was about to die. “We’re waiting for the autopsy report,” was all she said.

“Is Maura Isles doing it?” asked Antrim.

Jane looked at him. “Do you know Dr. Isles?”

“Oh yes. We both play in the same orchestra.”

“She’s in an orchestra?”

“It’s a doctors’ orchestra. We rehearse once a week at Brookline High School. She’s our pianist, and a very good one.”

“I know she plays the piano, but I didn’t know about any orchestra.”

“We’re just amateurs, but we have a good time. You should come to our concert in a few weeks. I’m a lowly second violinist, but Maura? She’s a real musician and will be our featured soloist.”

And she never told me.

What else had Maura kept from her? Jane wondered as she and Frost rode the elevator to the first floor, as they walked across the parking lot to her car. It was a small thing, yet it bothered her. She knew Maura was a private person, but they had been friends for years, had faced the worst together, and there was no more powerful bonding experience than facing death, side by side.

She slid in behind the wheel and looked at Frost. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

“Who?”

“Maura. Why didn’t she mention she’s in an orchestra?”

Frost shrugged. “Do you tell her everything?”

“No, but this is different. A concert’s kind of a big deal.”

“Maybe she’s embarrassed.”

“That there’s one more thing she can do and I can’t?”

He laughed. “See? You find that annoying, don’t you?”

“I’m more annoyed she didn’t tell me about it.” Her cell phone rang with a nerve-jarring scream of violins. “Another thing to annoy me.”

“You gonna answer her? ’Cause she’ll just call again.”

Resignedly, Jane picked up the phone. “Hey, Ma. I’m in the middle of something right now.”

“You’re always in the middle of something. When can we talk?”

“Is this about Tricia Talley again?”

“You know what that Revere detective said? He told Jackie that Tricia will come home when she runs out of money. Who says that to the mother of a missing kid? I’m telling you, the police are not taking this seriously.”

“Unlike the last three times Tricia ran away from home?”

“Poor Jackie’s a mess. She wants to talk to you.”

“Revere PD needs to handle this, Ma. They won’t like it if I interfere.”

“Interfere in what, their complete dereliction of duty? Jane, you’ve known the Talleys most of your life. You babysat that girl. You can’t ignore a missing-persons case just because you’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“A dead body isn’t a fish, Ma.”

“Well, Tricia could be a dead body. Is that what it’ll take to get you interested?”

Jane rubbed her temple, trying to stave off an incipient headache. “Okay, okay. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“When?”

“Sometime in the afternoon. I’ve got to view an autopsy. And I have a lot of things I need to follow up on.”

“Oh, and you know those new people across the street? The Greens?”

“Are you still spying on them?”

“There’s some kind of weird hammering going on in their house. You know what Homeland Security says. ‘If you see something, say something.’ Well, I’m just saying something.”

Yeah, Ma. You always do.





“How come you never told us you played in an orchestra?” said Jane. “It seems like something you might have mentioned.”

Maura heard the note of accusation in Jane’s voice and she took her time before answering the question. Instead she remained focused on the body that was stretched out on the autopsy table. Sofia Suarez’s clothes had already been removed—blue hospital scrubs, a size-46B bra, white cotton underwear—and under the bright morgue lights every flaw, every scar acquired during the woman’s fifty-two years of life, was exposed. Maura did not yet focus on the shattered skull or the ruined face; instead she focused on the burn scar on the back of the left hand and the arthritic bulge of the right thumb. Souvenirs, perhaps, of hours spent in the kitchen, chopping and frying and kneading. Aging was a cruel process. Cellulite now dimpled thighs that once would have been slim and smooth. An appendectomy scar rippled the lower abdomen. On her neck and chest were freckles and skin tags and rough black seborrheic keratoses that the largest organ of the body so often acquires over the decades. Flaws that Maura was starting to find on her own skin, a depressing reminder that old age came for everyone, if you were lucky.