“He started off by marketing a single weight-loss drug,” said Rizzoli. “Within twenty years, he built up to
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.
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
“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
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.”
Frost asked: “When was the last time you saw Ms. Leoni?”
“It would have been sometime in March, I think. I drove by her house one afternoon. She was out on the sidewalk, getting her mail.”
“Wasn’t that after she took out the restraining order against you?”
“I didn’t get out of my car, okay? I didn’t even speak to her. She saw me and went right into the house without saying a word.”
“So what was the point of that drive-by?” said Rizzoli. “Intimidation?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I just wanted to see her, that’s all. I missed her. I still…” He paused and cleared his throat. “I still miss her.”
“I loved her,” he said. “Why would I hurt her?”
As if they’d never heard a man say that before.
“Besides, how could I? I didn’t know where she was. After she moved, that last time, I couldn’t find her.”
“But you tried?”
“Yes, I tried.”
“Did you know she was living in Maine?” asked Frost.
A pause. He looked up, frowning. “Where in Maine?”
“A little town called Fox Harbor.”
“No, I didn’t know that. I assumed she was somewhere in Boston.”
“Dr. Cassell,” said Rizzoli, “where were you last Thursday night?”
“I was here, at home.”
“All night?”
