Yes, Maura could, but she didn’t want to say it. She just sat staring at the glass on the coffee table. At the melting ice cubes.
“If we were fooled, anyone else could have been as well,” said Rizzoli. “Including whoever fired that bullet into her head. It was just before eight P.M. when your neighbor heard the backfire. Already getting dark. And there she was, sitting in a parked car just a few yards from your driveway. Anyone seeing her in that car would assume it’s you.”
“You think I was the target,” said Maura.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Maura shook her head. “None of this makes sense.”
“You have a very public job. You testify at homicide trials. You’re in the newspaper. You’re our Queen of the Dead.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s what all the cops call you. What the press calls you. You know that, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t mean I like that nickname. In fact, I can’t stand it.”
“But it does mean you’re noticed. Not just because of what you do, but also because of the way you look. You know the guys notice you, don’t you? You’d have to be blind not to see it. Nice-looking woman always gets their attention. Right, Frost?”
Frost gave a start, obviously not expecting to be put on the spot, and his cheeks reddened. Poor Frost, so easily caught in a blush. “It’s only human nature,” he admitted.
Maura looked at Father Brophy, who did not return her gaze. She wondered if he, too, was subject to the same laws of attraction. She wanted to think so; she wanted to believe that Daniel was not immune to the same thoughts that went through her head.
“Nice-looking woman in the public eye,” said Rizzoli. “Gets stalked, attacked in front of her own residence. It’s happened before. What was the name of that actress out in L.A.? The one who got murdered.”
“Rebecca Schaefer,” said Frost.
“Right. And then there’s the Lori Hwang case here. You remember her, Doc.”
Yes, Maura remembered it, because she had performed the autopsy on the Channel Six newscaster. Lori Hwang had been on the air only a year when she was shot to death in front of the studio. She’d never realized she was being stalked. The perp had been watching her on TV and had written a few fan letters. And then one day he had waited outside the studio doors. As Lori had stepped out and walked toward her car, he had fired a bullet into her head.
“That’s the hazard of living in the public eye,” said Rizzoli. “You never know who’s watching you on all those TV screens. You never know who’s in the car right behind yours when you drive home from work at night. It’s not something we even think about-that someone might be following us. Fantasizing about us.” Rizzoli paused. Said, quietly: “I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to be the focus of someone’s obsession. I’m not even that much to look at, but it happened to me.” She held out her hands, revealing the scars on her palms. The permanent souvenirs of her battle with the man who had twice almost taken her life. A man who still lived, though trapped in a quadriplegic’s body.
“That’s why I asked whether you’d received any strange letters,” said Rizzoli. “I was thinking about her. Lori Hwang.”
“Her killer was arrested,” said Father Brophy.
“Yes.”
“So you’re not implying it’s the same man.”
“No, I’m just pointing out the parallels. A single gunshot wound to the head. Women in public jobs. It just makes you think.” Rizzoli struggled to her feet. It took some effort to push herself out of the easy chair. Frost was quick to offer her his hand, but she ignored it. Though heavily pregnant, Rizzoli was not one to reach for assistance. She hoisted her purse over her shoulder and gave Maura a searching look. “Do you want to stay somewhere else tonight?”
“This is my house. Why would I go anywhere else?”
“Just asking. I guess I don’t need to tell you to lock your doors.”
“I always do.”
Rizzoli looked at Eckert. “Can Brookline PD watch the house?”
He nodded. “I’ll make sure a patrol car comes by every so often.”
“I appreciate that,” said Maura. “Thank you.”
Maura accompanied the three detectives to the front door and watched them walk to their cars. It was now after midnight. Outside, the street had been transformed back into the quiet neighborhood she knew. The Brookline PD cruisers were gone; the Taurus had already been towed away to the crime lab. Even the yellow police tape had been removed. In the morning, she thought, I’ll wake up and think I imagined the whole thing.
She turned and faced Father Brophy, who was still standing in her foyer. She had never felt more uneasy in his company than at this moment, the two of them alone in her house. The possibilities surely swirled in both their heads. Or just mine? Late at night, alone in your bed, do you ever think of me, Daniel? The way I think of you?
“Are you sure you feel safe staying here alone?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine.” And what’s the alternative? That you spend the night with me? Is that what you’re offering?
He turned toward the door.
“Who called you here, Daniel?” she asked. “How did you know?”
He looked back at her. “Detective Rizzoli did. She told me…” He paused. “You know, I get calls like this all the time from the police. A death in the family, someone needs a priest. I’m always willing to respond. But this time…” He paused. “Lock your doors, Maura,” he said. “I don’t ever want to go through another night like this one.”
She watched him walk out of her house and climb into his car. He did not immediately start the engine; he was waiting to make sure that she was safely inside for the night.
She closed the door and locked it.
Through the living room window, she watched Daniel drive away. For a moment she stared at the empty curb, feeling suddenly abandoned. Wishing, at that moment, that she could call him back. And what would happen then? What did she want to happen between them? Some temptations, she thought, are best kept beyond our reach. She scanned the dark street one last time, then stepped away from the window, aware that she was framed by the light in her living room. She closed the curtains and went from room to room, checking the locks and the windows. On this warm June night, she would normally sleep with her bedroom window open. But tonight, she left the windows closed and turned on the air conditioner.
In the early morning she awakened, shivering from the chill air blowing out the vent. Her dreams had been of Paris. Of strolling under blue skies, past buckets of roses and star-gazer lilies, and for a moment, she did not remember where she was. Not in Paris any longer, but in my own bed, she realized. And something terrible has happened.
It was only five A.M., yet she felt wide awake. It’s eleven A.M. in Paris, she thought. There the sun is shining and if I were there now, I would already have had my second cup of coffee. She knew that jet lag would catch up with her later today, that this burst of early morning energy would be gone by afternoon, but she could not force herself to sleep any longer.
She rose and got dressed.
The street in front of her house looked the same as it always had. The first streaks of dawn lit the sky. She watched the lights come on in Mr. Telushkin’s house next door. He was an early riser, usually heading off to work at least an hour before she did, but this morning, she’d been the first to awaken, and she saw her neighborhood with fresh eyes. Saw the automatic sprinklers come on across the street, water hissing circles on the lawn. She saw the paperboy cycle past, baseball cap turned backward, and heard the thump of The Boston Globe hitting her front porch. Everything seems the same, she thought, but it’s not. Death has paid a visit to my neighborhood, and everyone who lives here will remember it. They will look out their front windows at the curb where the Taurus was parked, and shudder at how close it came to touching any one of us.