Ice Cold (24 page)

J
ANE WATCHED HER HUSBAND METHODICALLY PACK AN INTERNAL
-frame backpack, cramming every nook with necessities. In went the sleeping bag and Therm-a-Rest, the one-man tent, winter camping stove, and freeze-dried meals. In smaller pockets he stuffed a compass and knife and headlamp, parachute cord and first-aid kit. No space was wasted, no ounce of weight unnecessary. He and Sansone had bought the equipment earlier that evening and now Gabriel’s items were organized on the hotel bed, small items clustered into stuff sacks, the water bottles wrapped with ever-useful duct tape. He had done this many times before, as a young back-country hiker, and later as a marine. The weapon now strapped to his hip was an unnerving reminder that this was not merely a winter camping trip.

“I should be going with you two,” said Jane.

“No you shouldn’t. You need to stay behind and monitor phone calls.”

“What if something goes wrong out there?”

“If it does, I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re here and safe.”

“Gabriel, I always thought we were a team.”

He set down the backpack and shot her a wry smile. “And which member of this team is allergic to camping in any way, shape, or form?”

“I’ll do it if I have to.”

“You have no winter camping experience.”

“Sansone doesn’t, either.”

“But he’s fit and strong. I don’t think you can even lift that pack. Go ahead. Try.”

She grabbed the backpack and hefted it off the bed. Through gritted teeth she said, “I can do it.”

“Now imagine that much weight on your back as you climb a mountain. Imagine carrying that pack for hours, for days, and at altitude. Imagine trying to keep up with men who have about fifty pounds more muscle than you have. Jane, we both know that’s not realistic.”

She released the pack and it thudded onto the floor. “You don’t know this terrain.”

“We’ll be traveling with people who do.”

“Can you trust their judgment?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” He closed the backpack and set it in the corner. “The important thing is that we’re out there with them. They may be too quick to pull the trigger, and Maura’s in the line of fire.”

Jane dropped onto the bed and sighed. “What the hell’s she doing out there, anyway? Her actions don’t make any sense!”

“That’s why you have to stay available on the phone. She called you once. She may try to reach you again.”

“And how will I reach
you?”

“Sansone’s bringing a satellite phone. It’s not as if we’re dropping off the face of the earth.”

But it feels that way, she thought as she lay in bed beside him that night. He was about to hike into the wild, yet he slept soundly, untroubled by fears. She was the one who lay awake, fretting that she was neither strong enough nor experienced enough to join him. She thought of herself as any man’s equal, but this time she had to acknowledge the sorry truth. She could not carry that backpack. She could not keep up with Gabriel. After a few miles, she’d probably collapse in the snow, screwing up the expedition and embarrassing herself.

So how will Maura manage to survive?

That question took on more urgency when she woke up before dawn and looked out the window at wind-whipped snow flying across the hotel parking lot. She imagined that wind stinging her eyes, flash-freezing her skin. It was a brutal day to launch a search.

The sun had not yet risen when she, Gabriel, and Sansone drove up to the staging point. A dozen other members of the search team had already arrived, along with the tracking dogs, and the men stood around in the predawn gloom, sipping steaming coffee. Jane could hear the excitement in their voices, could feel the electricity in the air. They were like any cops just before a raid, oozing testosterone and twitching for action.

As Gabriel and Sansone pulled on their backpacks, she heard Sheriff Fahey ask: “Where do you two think you’re going with those packs?”

Gabriel turned to him. “You did ask for search-and-rescue volunteers.”

“We didn’t request a federal agent for the team.”

“I’m a trained hostage negotiator,” said Gabriel. “And I know Maura Isles. She’ll trust me.”

“This is rugged terrain. You have to know what you’re doing.”

“Eight years in the Marine Corps. Winter mountain operations training. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Unable to argue with those qualifications, Fahey turned to Sansone, but the man’s stony expression stopped Fahey cold from even trying to challenge him. With a grunt, Fahey stalked off. “Where’s Monty Loftus?” he yelled. “We can’t wait around for him much longer!”

“Told me he’s not coming,” someone answered.

“After the fuss he threw last night? I thought he’d be here for sure.”

“Maybe he looked in the mirror and remembered he’s seventy-one.”

Amid the laughter that followed, one of the handlers called out: “Dogs have got the scent!”

The search team started into the woods, and Gabriel turned to Jane. They shared a last kiss, an embrace, and then he was on his way. So many times before, she had admired his easy athleticism, the confidence in his gait. Even the heavy backpack did not slow him down. As she stood at the edge of the trees watching him, she could still see the young marine he once was.

“This is not going to come out well,” a voice said.

Jane turned and saw Cathy Weiss shaking her head.

“They’re going to hunt him down like an animal,” said Cathy.

“It’s Maura Isles I’m worried about,” said Jane. “And my husband.”

They stood side by side as the departing search team threaded its way into the woods. Slowly the driveway emptied out as vehicles began to leave, but the two women remained, watching until the men finally vanished among the trees.

“At least he seems like a levelheaded man,” said Cathy.

Jane nodded. “That would describe Gabriel.”

“But the rest of those guys, they’re ready to shoot first and ask questions later. Hell, Bobby could have slipped on the ice and shot
himself.”
Cathy huffed out a sigh of frustration. “How does anyone know what really happened? No one saw it.”

And there was no video of the shooting, thought Jane. That detail alone deeply bothered her. Martineau’s dash camera had been in perfect working order. It had simply been turned off, in violation of sheriff’s department regulations. The last footage recorded was while Martineau was en route to Doyle Mountain. Moments before he arrived at the house, he had deliberately shut off the camera.

She turned to Cathy. “How well did you know Deputy Martineau?”

“I’ve had dealings with him.” By the tone of her voice, those dealings did not sound cordial.

“Did you ever have any reason not to trust him?”

For a moment Cathy stared at her in the bone-chilling dawn, and the steam from their breaths mingled, coalescing into a vaporous union.

“I was wondering when someone would finally get up the nerve to ask that question,” she said.

“B
OBBY
M
ARTINEAU
is now considered a hero. And we’re not supposed to speak ill of dead heroes. Even if they deserve it,” said Cathy.

“So you weren’t a fan of his.”

“Between you and me, Bobby was an abusive control freak.” Cathy kept her gaze on the road as she spoke, driving with care on pavement coated in snow and ice. Jane was glad she wasn’t the one navigating these unfamiliar roads, even more glad that they were traveling in Cathy’s rugged four-wheel-drive SUV. “In my line of work,” said Cathy, “you find out pretty quick which families in the county are in trouble. Who’s getting divorced, whose kids are missing too much school. And whose wives are showing up at work with black eyes.”

“Bobby’s?”

“She’s his ex-wife now. It took her long enough to wake up and get out. Two years ago, Patsy finally left him and moved to Oregon. I only wish she’d hung around here to press charges, because guys like Bobby shouldn’t be wearing badges.”

“He beat up his wife, and he was still in uniform?”

“It probably happens in Boston, too, right? People refuse to believe that a fine, upstanding citizen like Bobby would clock his wife.” Cathy snorted. “If the boy really did shoot him, maybe Bobby deserved it.”

“You don’t really mean that, do you?”

Cathy looked at her. “Maybe I do. Just a little. I work with victims. I know what years of abuse can do to a kid. To a woman.”

“This is starting to sound personal for you.”

“You see too much of it, and yeah. It becomes personal. No matter how hard you try not to let it.”

“So Bobby was a jerk who beat up his wife. It doesn’t explain why he shut off his dash camera. What was he trying to hide up on Doyle Mountain?”

“I don’t know the answer to that one.”

“Did he know Julian Perkins?”

“Oh sure. The kid’s been picked up by just about every deputy in the county for one offense or another.”

“So they have a history, the two of them.”

Cathy thought about this as she guided her truck up a road where the houses had become few and far between. “Julian didn’t like the police, but that’s a typical teenage boy for you. Cops are the enemy. Still, I don’t think that would explain it. And let’s not forget.” She glanced at Jane. “Bobby shut off the dash camera
before
he got to Doyle Mountain. Before he knew the kid was up there. Whatever his reason, it had something to do with your friend Maura Isles.”

Whose actions remained the biggest mystery of all.

“Here it is,” said Cathy, and she pulled the SUV to the side of the road. “You wanted to know about Bobby. Well, that’s where he lived.”

Jane looked at the modest house across the road. Great mounds of snow had piled up on either side of the plowed driveway, and the building seemed to be in hiding, its windows peeking over the snow as though to catch a furtive glimpse of passersby. There were no nearby homes, no neighbors easily available for her to interview.

“He lived alone?” asked Jane.

“As far as I know. Doesn’t look like anyone’s at home.”

Jane zipped up her jacket and stepped out of the car. Heard the rattle of wind in the trees, and felt its sting on her cheeks. Was that why she suddenly felt a chill sweep through her? Or was it this house, the house of a dead man, its windows peering darkly above the snowbank? Cathy was already walking toward the front porch, boots crunching over compacted snow, but Jane paused by the car. They had no search warrant. They had no reason to be here, except that Deputy Martineau was a puzzle to her, and any good homicide investigation included a victimology analysis. Why was this particular man attacked? What actions did he take that led to his death in the windswept driveway on Doyle Mountain? So far, all the attention had been focused on the alleged shooter, Julian Perkins. It was time to focus on Bobby Martineau.

She followed Cathy up the driveway, her boots finding traction on the gritty sand scattered across the ice. Cathy was already knocking on the front door.

As expected, no one answered.

Jane noted the rotten windowsills, the peeling paint. Firewood had been carelessly piled up at one end of the porch, against a railing that looked dangerously close to collapse. Peering through the front window, she saw a sparsely furnished living room. A pizza box and two beer cans were on the coffee table. She saw nothing that surprised her, nothing she wouldn’t expect to see in the home of a bachelor living alone on a deputy’s salary.

“Boy, this is a dump,” said Cathy, looking at the detached garage, which seemed to sag under the weight of snow on its roof.

“Do you know about any of his friends? Anyone who might know him well?”

“Probably in the sheriff’s office, but good luck getting them to say anything negative. Like I said, a dead cop is always a hero.”

“Depending on how the cop ended up dead.” Jane tried the doorknob and found it locked. She turned her focus to the detached garage. The driveway leading to the bay door was plowed clear, and she spotted tire tracks—wide ones, from a truck. Gingerly she made her way down the slippery porch steps. At the garage bay door she hesitated, knowing that, by opening that door, she was about to cross an ethical line. She had no warrant, and this wasn’t even her own jurisdiction. But Bobby Martineau was dead so he could hardly complain about it. And in the end, this was all about justice, wasn’t it? Justice for Bobby himself, as well as for the boy accused of killing him.

She reached down for the bay door handle, but the tracks had iced over and she couldn’t make it budge. Cathy pitched in and together they strained to lift the door. Suddenly it jerked free, and they slid it up. They stood, staring in astonishment.

A massive black behemoth gleamed inside.

“Will you look at that,” murmured Cathy. “It’s so new, it’s still got the dealer plates on it.”

Admiringly, Jane stroked the flawless finish as she walked around the truck. It was a Ford F-450 XLT. “This baby’s gotta cost at least fifty thousand bucks,” she said.

“How could Bobby afford this?”

Jane circled to the front bumper and halted. “An even better question is, how could he afford
that?”