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she’d lap it up and beg for more, all the while taking notes. That’s why he’d call her. He’d want to crow about his accomplishment. He’d want a willing ear, and she’s the obvious person to call. Dr. Murder.” With an angry twist of the key, she started the car. Cold air blasted from the heating vents. “That’s why he called her. To brag. To bask in her attention.”
    “Why would she lie about it?”
    “Why wouldn’t she tell us where she was last night? It makes you wonder who she was with. Whether that call wasn’t an invitation.”
    Frost frowned at her. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
    “Sometime before midnight, our perp does his slice-and-dice on Lori-Ann Tucker. Then he makes a phone call to O’Donnell. She claims she wasn’t home—that her answering machine picked up. But what if she
was
at home at the time? What if they actually spoke to each other?”
    “We called her house at two A.M. She wasn’t answering then.”
    “Because she was no longer at home. She said she was out with
friends.
” Jane looked at him. “What if it was just
one
friend? One bright, shiny new friend.”
    “Come on. You really think she’d protect this perp?”
    “I wouldn’t put anything past her.” Jane let out the brake and pulled away from the curb. “Anything.”

FIVE
    “This is no way to spend Christmas day,” said Angela Rizzoli, glancing up from the stove at her daughter. Four pots simmered on the burners, lids clattering, as steam curled in a wispy wreath around Angela’s sweat-dampened hair. She lifted a pot lid and slid a plateful of homemade gnocchi into the boiling water. They plopped in, their splash announcing that dinner was now imminent. Jane gazed around the kitchen at endless platters of food. Angela Rizzoli’s worst fear was that someone, someday, would leave her house hungry.
    Today was not that day.
    On the countertop was a roasted leg of lamb, fragrant with oregano and garlic, and a pan of sizzling potatoes browned with rosemary. Jane saw ciabatta bread and a salad of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella. A green bean salad was the lone contribution that Jane and Gabriel had brought to the feast. On the stove, the simmering pots released yet other aromas, and in the boiling water, tender gnocchi bobbed and swirled.
    “What can I do in here, Mom?” asked Jane.
    “Nothing. You worked today. You sit there.”
    “You want me to grate the cheese?”
    “No, no. You must be tired. Gabriel says you were up all night.” Angela gave the pot a quick stir with a wooden spoon. “I don’t see why you had to work today, too. It’s unreasonable.”
    “It’s what I gotta do.”
    “But it’s Christmas.”
    “Tell it to the bad guys.” Jane pulled the grater from the drawer and began scraping a block of Parmesan cheese across the blades. She could not just sit still in this kitchen. “How come Mike and Frankie aren’t helping in here, anyway? You must’ve been cooking all morning.”
    “Oh, you know your brothers.”
    “Yeah.” She snorted.
Unfortunately.
    In the other room, football was blaring from the TV, as usual. Men’s shouts joined the roar of stadium crowds, all cheering some guy with a tight butt and a pigskin ball.
    Angela bustled over to inspect the green bean salad. “Oh, this looks good! What’s in the dressing?”
    “I don’t know. Gabriel made it.”
    “You’re so lucky, Janie. You got a man who cooks.”
    “You starve Dad a few days, he’ll know how to cook, too.”
    “No, he wouldn’t. He’d just waste away at the dining table, waiting for dinner to float in all by itself.” Angela lifted up the pot of boiling water and turned it upside down, dumping the cooked gnocchi into a colander. As the steam cleared, Jane saw Angela’s sweating face, framed by tendrils of hair. Outside, the wind sliced across ice-glazed streets, but here in her mother’s kitchen, heat flushed their faces and steamed the windows.
    “Here’s Mommy,” said Gabriel,