Body Double (12 page)

“Oh, Christ.”

“We have to deal with this together, Rick. We have to agree on how to handle it.”

Maura rose from the couch and went to the door, unsure of how to politely make her exit. She did not want to intrude on this family’s privacy, yet here she was, listening to an exchange she knew she shouldn’t be hearing. I should just say good-bye and go, she thought. Leave these beleaguered parents alone.

She walked into the hall and paused as she approached the living room. Katie’s mother glanced up, startled to see an unexpected visitor in the house. If the mother was any indication of what Katie would one day look like, then that sullen teenager was destined to be a statuesque blonde. The woman was almost as tall as Ballard, with the rangy leanness of an athlete. Her hair was tied back in a casual ponytail, and she wore no trace of makeup, but a woman with her stunning cheekbones needed little enhancement.

Maura said, “Excuse me for interrupting.”

Ballard turned to her, and gave a weary laugh. “I’m afraid you’re not exactly seeing us at our best. This is Katie’s mom, Carmen. This is Dr. Maura Isles.”

“I’m going to leave now,” said Maura.

“But we hardly got a chance to talk.”

“I’ll call you another time. I can see you have other things on your mind.” She nodded to Carmen. “Glad to meet you. Good night.”

“Let me walk you out,” said Ballard.

They stepped out of the house, and he gave a sigh, as though relieved to be away from the demands of his family.

“I’m sorry to intrude on that,” she said.

“I’m sorry you had to listen to it.”

“Have you noticed we can’t stop apologizing to each other?”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Maura.”

They reached her car and paused for a moment.

“I didn’t get to tell you much about your sister,” he said.

“Next time I see you?”

He nodded. “Next time.”

She slid into her car and closed the door. Rolled down her window when she saw him lean down to talk to her.

“I will tell you this much about her,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You look so much like Anna, it takes my breath away.”

She could not stop thinking of those words as she sat in her living room, studying the photo of young Anna Leoni with her parents. All these years, she thought, you were missing from my life, and I never realized it. But I must have known; on some level I must have felt my sister’s absence.

You look so much like Anna, it takes my breath away.

Yes, she thought, touching Anna’s face in the photo. It takes my breath away, too. She and Anna had shared the same DNA; what else had they shared? Anna had also chosen a career in science, a job governed by reason and logic. She too must have excelled in mathematics. Had she, like Maura, played the piano? Had she loved books and Australian wines and the History Channel?

There is so much more I want to know about you.

It was late; she turned off the lamp and went to her bedroom to pack.

EIGHT

P
ITCH BLACK.
Head aching. The scent of wood and damp earth and . . . something else that made no sense. Chocolate. She smelled chocolate.

Mattie Purvis opened her eyes wide, but she might as well have kept them tightly closed because she could see nothing. Not a glimmer of light, not a wisp of shadow on shadow.
Oh god, am I blind?

Where am I?

She was not in her own bed. She was lying on something hard, and it made her back ache. The floor? No, this wasn’t polished wood beneath her, but rough planks, gritty with dirt.

If only her head would stop pounding.

She closed her eyes, fighting off nausea. Trying, even through the pain, to remember how she could have arrived at this strange, dark place where nothing seemed familiar. Dwayne, she thought. We had a fight, and then I drove home. She struggled to retrieve the lost fragments of time. She remembered a stack of mail on the table. She remembered crying, her tears dripping onto envelopes. She remembered jumping up, and the chair hitting the floor.

I heard a noise. I went into the garage. I heard a noise and went into the garage, and . . .

Nothing. She could remember nothing after that.

She opened her eyes. It was still dark. Oh, this is bad, Mattie, she thought, this is very, very bad. Your head hurts, you’ve lost your memory, and you’re blind.

“Dwayne?” she called. She heard only the whoosh of her own pulse.

She had to get up. She had to find help, had to find a phone at the very least.

She rolled onto her right side to push herself up, and her face slammed up against a wall. The impact bounced her right onto her back again. She lay stunned, her nose throbbing. What was a wall doing here? She reached out to touch it and felt more rough wooden planks. Okay, she thought, I’ll just roll the other way. She turned to the left.

And collided with another wall.

Her heartbeat thudded louder, faster. She lay on her back again, thinking: walls on both sides. This can’t be. This isn’t real. Pushing up off the floor, she sat up, and slammed the top of her head. Collapsed, once again, onto her back.

No, no, no!

Panic seized her. Arms flailing, she hit barriers in every direction. She clawed at the wood, splinters digging into her fingers. Heard shrieks but did not recognize her own voice. Everywhere, walls. She bucked, thrashed, her fists pummeling blindly until her hands were bruised and torn, her limbs too exhausted to move. Slowly her shrieks faded to sobs. Finally, to stunned silence.

A box. I am trapped in a box.

She took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of her own sweat, her own fear. Felt the baby squirm inside her, another prisoner trapped in a small space. She thought of the Russian dolls her grandmother had once given her. A doll inside a doll inside a doll.

We’re going to die in here. We’re both going to die, my baby and me.

Closing her eyes, she fought back a fresh wave of panic.
Stop. Stop this right now. Think, Mattie.

Hand trembling, she reached toward her right side, touched one wall. Reached to her left. Touched another wall. How far apart was that? Maybe three feet wide, maybe more. And how long? She reached behind her head and felt a foot of space. Not so bad in that direction. A little room there. Her fingers brushed against something soft, just behind her head. She tugged it closer and realized it was a blanket. As she unrolled it, something heavy thudded onto the floor. A cold metal cylinder. Her heart was pounding again, this time not with panic, but with hope.

A flashlight.

She found the switch and flicked it on. Released a sharp breath of relief as a beam of light slashed the darkness.
I can see, I can see!
The beam skimmed across the walls of her prison. She aimed it toward the ceiling and saw there was barely enough head room for her to sit up, if she kept her head cocked.

Big-bellied and clumsy, she had to squirm to push herself up to a sitting position. Only then could she see what was at her feet: a plastic bucket and a bed pan. Two large jugs of water. A grocery sack. She wriggled toward the sack and looked inside. That’s why I smelled chocolate, she thought. Inside were Hershey bars, packets of beef jerky, and saltine crackers. And batteries—three packages of fresh batteries.

She leaned back against the wall. Heard herself suddenly laugh. A crazy, frightening laugh that wasn’t hers at all. It was a madwoman’s.
Well, this is dandy. I have everything I need to survive except . . .

Air.

Her laughter died. She sat listening to the sound of her own breathing. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Cleansing breaths. But oxygen runs out eventually. A box can hold only so much. Didn’t it already seem staler? Plus she had panicked—all that thrashing around. She had probably used up most of the oxygen.

Then she felt the cool whisper in her hair. She looked up. Aiming the flashlight just over her head, she saw the circular grate. It was only a few inches in diameter, but wide enough to bring in fresh air from above. She stared at that grate, bewildered. I am trapped in a box, she thought. I have food, water, and air.

Whoever had put her in here wanted to keep her alive.

NINE

R
ICK
B
ALLARD HAD TOLD HER
that Dr. Charles Cassell was wealthy, but Jane Rizzoli had not expected
this.
The Marblehead estate was surrounded by a high brick wall, and through the bars of the wrought-iron gate, she and Frost could see the house, a massive white Federal surrounded by at least two acres of emerald lawn. Beyond it glittered the waters of Massachusetts Bay.

“Wow,” said Frost. “This is all from pharmaceuticals?”

“He started off by marketing a single weight-loss drug,” said Rizzoli. “Within twenty years, he built up to
that.
Ballard says this is not the kind of guy you ever want to cross.” She looked at Frost. “And if you’re a woman, you sure as hell don’t leave him.”

She rolled down her window and pushed the intercom button.

A man’s voice crackled over the speaker: “Name, please?”

“Detectives Rizzoli and Frost, Boston PD. Here to see Dr. Cassell.”

The gate whined open, and they drove through, onto a winding driveway that brought them to a stately portico. She parked behind a fire-engine-red Ferrari—probably the closest her old Subaru would ever get to celebrity cardom. The front door swung open even before they could knock, and a burly man appeared, his gaze neither friendly nor unfriendly. Though dressed in a polo shirt and tan Dockers, there was nothing casual about the way this man was eyeing them.

“I’m Paul, Dr. Cassell’s assistant,” he said.

“Detective Rizzoli.” She held out her hand, but the man did not even glance at it, as though it was not worth his attention.

Paul ushered them into a house that was not at all what Rizzoli had expected. Though the exterior had been traditional Federal, inside she found the decor starkly modern, even cold, a white-walled gallery of abstract art. The foyer was dominated by a bronze sculpture of intertwining curves, vaguely sexual.

“You do know that Dr. Cassell just got home from a trip last night,” said Paul. “He’s jet-lagged and not feeling well. So if you could keep it short.”

“He was away on business?” said Frost.

“Yes. It was arranged over a month ago, in case you’re wondering.”

Which didn’t mean a thing, thought Rizzoli, except that Cassell was capable of planning his moves ahead of time.

Paul led them through a living room decorated in black and white, with only a single scarlet vase to shock the eye. A flat-screen TV dominated one wall, and a smoked-glass cabinet contained a dazzling array of electronics. A bachelor’s dream pad, thought Rizzoli. Not a single feminine touch, just guy stuff. She could hear music and she assumed it was a CD playing. Jazz piano chords melted together in a mournful walk down the keys. There was no melody, no song, just notes blending in wordless lament. The music grew louder as Paul led them toward a set of sliding doors. He opened them, and announced:

“The police are here, Dr. Cassell.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

“No, Paul, you can leave us.”

Rizzoli and Frost stepped into the room, and Paul slid the doors shut behind them. They found themselves in a space so gloomy that they could barely make out the man seated at the grand piano. So it had been live music, not a CD playing. Heavy curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out all but a sliver of daylight. Cassell reached toward a lamp and switched it on. It was only a dim globe shaded by Japanese rice paper, but it made him squint. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the piano beside him. He was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot—not the face of a cold corporate shark, but of a man too distraught to care what he looked like. Even so, it was an arrestingly handsome face, with a gaze so intense it seemed to burn its way into Rizzoli’s brain. He was younger than she had expected a self-made mogul to be, perhaps in his late forties. Still young enough to believe in his own invincibility.

“Dr. Cassell,” she said, “I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD. And this is Detective Frost. You do understand why we’re here?”

“Because he sicced you on me. Didn’t he?”

“Who?”

“That Detective Ballard. He’s like a goddamn pit bull.”

“We’re here because you knew Anna Leoni. The victim.”

He reached for his glass of whiskey. Judging by his haggard appearance, it was not his first drink of the day. “Let me tell you something about Detective Ballard, before you go believing everything he says. The man is a genuine, class-A asshole.” He downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp.

She thought of Anna Leoni, her eye swollen shut, her cheek bruised purple.
I think we know who the real asshole is.

Cassell set the empty glass down. “Tell me how it happened,” he said. “I need to know.”

“We have a few questions, Dr. Cassell.”

“First tell me what happened.”

This is why he agreed to see us, she thought. He wants information. He wants to gauge how much we know.

“I understand it was a gunshot wound to the head,” he said. “And she was found in a car?”

“That’s right.”

“That much I already learned from
The Boston Globe.
What kind of weapon was used? What caliber bullet?”

“You know I can’t reveal that.”

“And it happened in Brookline? What the hell was she doing there?”

“That I can’t tell you, either.”

“Can’t tell me?” He looked at her. “Or you don’t know?”

“We don’t know.”

“Was anyone with her when it happened?”

“There were no other victims.”

“So who are your suspects? Aside from me?”

“We’re here to ask
you
the questions, Dr. Cassell.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and crossed to a cabinet. Took out a bottle of whiskey and refreshed his glass. Pointedly he did not offer his visitors a drink.

“Why don’t I just answer the one question you came to ask,” he said, settling back onto the piano bench. “No, I did not kill her. I haven’t even seen her in months.”