Body Double

you, isn’t it?” he asked.

Well, that was a stupid question, she thought. “That’s my house, there. What’s going on, officer?”

The patrolman huffed out a sharp breath. “Um-I think you’d better come with me.”

He took her by the arm and led her through the crowd. Her neighbors solemnly parted before her, as though making way for a condemned prisoner. Their silence was eerie; the only sound was the crackle of police radios. They reached a barrier of yellow police tape, strung between stakes, several of them pounded into Mr. Telushkin’s front yard. He’s proud of his lawn and he’s not going to be happy about that, was her immediate and utterly inane thought. The patrolman lifted the tape and she ducked under it, crossing into what she now realized was a crime scene.

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.

“Could you please take her into the house, Father?” Rizzoli said.

Maura asked: “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Go inside, Doc. Please. We’ll explain later.”

Maura felt Brophy’s arm slip around her waist, his firm grasp clearly communicating that this was not the time for her to resist. That she should simply obey the detective’s request. She allowed him to guide her to her front door, and she registered the secret thrill of the close contact between them, the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She was so aware of him standing beside her that her hands were clumsy as she inserted the key into her front door. Though they had been friends for months, she had never before invited Daniel Brophy into her house, and her reaction to him now was a reminder of why she had so carefully maintained a distance between them. They stepped inside, into a living room where the lamps were already on, lit by automatic timers. She paused for a moment near the couch, uncertain of what to do next.

It was Father Brophy who took command.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing her to the couch. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“You’re the guest in my house. I should be offering you the drink,” she said.

“Not under the circumstances.”

“I don’t even know what the circumstances are.”

“Detective Rizzoli will tell you.” He left the room and came back with a glass of water-not exactly her beverage of choice at that moment, but then, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask a priest to fetch the bottle of vodka. She sipped the water, feeling uneasy under his gaze. He sank into the chair across from her, watching her as though afraid she might vanish.

At last she heard Rizzoli and Frost come into the house, heard them murmuring in the foyer to a third person, a voice Maura didn’t recognize. Secrets, she thought. Why is everyone keeping secrets from me? What don’t they want me to know?

She looked up as the two detectives walked into the living room. With them was a man who introduced himself as Brookline Detective Eckert, a name she’d probably forget within five minutes. Her attention was completely focused on Rizzoli, with whom she had worked before. A woman she both liked and respected.

The detectives all settled into chairs, Rizzoli and Frost facing Maura across the coffee table. She felt outnumbered, four to one, everyone’s gazes on her. Frost pulled out his notepad and pen. Why was he taking notes? Why did this feel like the start of an interrogation?

“How are you doing, Doc?” Rizzoli asked, her voice soft with concern.

Maura laughed at the trite question. “I’d be doing a lot better if I knew what was going on.”

“Can I ask you where you’ve been tonight?”

“I just got home from the airport.”

“Why were you at the airport?”

“I flew in from Paris. From Charles de Gaulle. It was a long flight, and I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

“How long were you in Paris?”

“A week. I flew there last Wednesday.” Maura thought she detected a note of accusation in Rizzoli’s brusque questions, and her irritation was now building toward anger. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask my secretary, Louise. She’s the one who booked the flight for me. I was there for a meeting-”

“The International Conference of Forensic Pathology. Is that correct?”

Maura was taken aback. “You already know?”

“Louise told us.”

They’ve been asking questions about me. Even before I got home, they were talking to my secretary.

“She told us your plane was supposed to land at five P.M. at Logan,” said Rizzoli. “It’s now nearly ten o’clock. Where’ve you been?”

“We had a late departure from Charles de Gaulle. Something about extra security checks. The airlines are so paranoid, we were lucky just to get off the ground three hours late.”

“So your departure was three hours delayed.”

“I just told you that.”

“What time did you land?”

“I don’t know. About eight thirty.”

“It took you an hour and a half to get home from Logan?”

“My suitcase didn’t show up. I had to file a claims form with Air France.” Maura stopped, suddenly at her limit. “Look, goddamn it, what is this all about? Before I answer any more questions, I have a right to know. Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, Doc. We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re just trying to figure out the time frame.”

“Time frame for what?”

Frost said, “Have you received any threats, Dr. Isles?”

She looked at him in bewilderment. “What?”

“Do you know anyone who might have reason to hurt you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Maura gave a frustrated laugh. “Well, is anyone ever sure?”

“You must have had a few cases in court where your testimony pissed off someone,” said Rizzoli.

“Only if they’re pissed off by the truth.”