She knew it was a crime scene because she spotted a familiar figure standing at the center of it. Even from across the lawn, Maura could recognize homicide detective Jane Rizzoli. Now eight months pregnant, the petite Rizzoli looked like a ripe pear in a pantsuit. Her presence was yet another bewildering detail. What was a Boston detective doing here in Brookline, outside her usual jurisdiction? Rizzoli did not see Maura approaching; her gaze was fixed instead on a car parked at the curb in front of Mr. Telushkin’s house. She was shaking her head, clearly upset, her dark curls springing out in their usual disarray.
It was Rizzoli’s partner, Detective Barry Frost, who spotted Maura first. He glanced at her, glanced away, and then did a sudden double take, his pale face whipping back to stare at her. Wordlessly he tugged on his partner’s arm.
Rizzoli went absolutely still, the strobelike flashes of blue cruiser lights illuminating her expression of disbelief. She began to walk, as though in a trance, toward Maura.
“Doc?” Rizzoli said softly. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be? Why does everyone keep asking me that? Why do you all look at me as though I’m a ghost?”
“Because…” Rizzoli stopped. Gave a shake of her head, tossing unkempt curls. “Jesus. I thought for a minute you were a ghost.”
“What?”
Rizzoli turned and called out: “Father Brophy?”
Maura had not seen the priest standing off by himself at the periphery. Now he emerged from the shadows, his collar a slash of white across his neck. His usually handsome face looked gaunt, his expression shell-shocked. Why is Daniel here? Priests were not usually called to crime scenes unless a victim’s family requested counsel. Her neighbor Mr. Telushkin was not Catholic, but Jewish. He would have no reason to request a priest.