Body Double

“You’ve made enemies in court. Perps you’ve helped convict.”

“I’m sure you have too, Jane. Just by doing your job.”

“Have you received any specific threats? Any letters or phone calls?”

“My phone number’s unlisted. And Louise never gives out my address.”

“What about letters sent to you at the medical examiner’s office?”

“There’s been the occasional weird letter. We all get them.”

“Weird?”

“People writing about space aliens or conspiracies. Or accusing us of trying to cover up the truth about an autopsy. We just put those letters in the screwball file. Unless there’s an overt threat, in which case we refer it to the police.”

Maura saw Frost scribble in his notebook, and she wondered what he had written. By now she was so angry, she wanted to reach across the coffee table and snatch the notebook out of his hands.

“Doc,” said Rizzoli quietly, “do you have a sister?”

The question, so out of the blue, startled Maura and she stared at Rizzoli, her irritation suddenly forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have a sister?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“I just need to know.”

Maura released a sharp breath. “No, I don’t have a sister. And you know that I’m adopted. When the hell are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

Rizzoli and Frost looked at each other.

Frost closed his notebook. “I guess it’s time to show her.”

Rizzoli led the way to the front door. Maura stepped outside, into a warm summer night that was lit up like a garish carnival by the flashing lights from the cruisers. Her body was still functioning on Paris time, where it was now four A.M., and she saw everything through a haze of exhaustion, the night as surreal as a bad dream. The instant she emerged from her house, all faces turned to stare at her. She saw her neighbors gathered across the street, watching her across the crime scene tape. As medical examiner, she was accustomed to being in the public eye, her every move followed by both police and media, but tonight the attention was somehow different. More intrusive, even frightening. She was glad to have Rizzoli and Frost flanking her, as though to shield her from curious eyes as they moved down the sidewalk, toward the dark Ford Taurus parked at the curb in front of Mr. Telushkin’s house.

Maura did not recognize the car, but she did recognize the bearded man standing beside it, his thick hands gloved in latex. It was Dr. Abe Bristol, her colleague from the M.E.’s office. Abe was a man of hearty appetites, and his girth reflected his love of rich foods, his belly spilling over his belt in flabby excess. He stared at Maura and said, “Christ, it’s uncanny. Could’ve fooled me.” He nodded toward the car. “I hope you’re ready for this, Maura.”

Ready for what?

She looked at the parked Taurus. Saw, backlit by the flashing lights, the silhouette of a figure slumped over the steering wheel. Black splatters obscured the windshield. Blood.

Rizzoli shone her flashlight on the passenger door. At first, Maura did not understand what she was supposed to be looking at; her attention was still focused on the blood-spattered window, and the shadowy occupant in the driver’s seat. Then she saw what Rizzoli’s Maglite beam was shining on. Just below the door handle were three parallel scratches, carved deep into the car’s finish.

“Like a claw mark,” said Rizzoli, curling her fingers as though to trace the scar.

Maura stared at the marks. Not a claw, she thought as a chill ran up her back. A raptor’s talon.

“Come around to the driver’s side,” said Rizzoli.

Maura asked no questions as she followed Rizzoli around the rear of the Taurus.

“ Massachusetts license plate,” Rizzoli said, her flashlight beam sweeping across the rear bumper, but it was just a detail mentioned in passing; Rizzoli continued around to the driver’s side of the car. There she paused and looked at Maura.

“This is what got us all so shook up,” she said. She aimed her flashlight into the car.

The beam fell squarely on the woman’s face, which stared toward the window. Her right cheek rested against the steering wheel; her eyes were open.

Maura could not speak. She gaped at the ivory skin, the black hair, the full lips, slightly parted, as though in surprise. She reeled backward, her limbs suddenly boneless, and she had the dizzying sense that she was floating away, her body no longer anchored to the earth. A hand grasped her arm, steadying her. It was Father Brophy, standing right behind her. She had not even noticed he was there.

Now she understood why everyone had been so stunned by her arrival. She stared at the corpse in the car, at the face illuminated by Rizzoli’s flashlight beam.

It’s me. That woman is me.

TWO

SHE SAT ON THE COUCH, sipping vodka and soda, the ice cubes clattering in her glass. To hell with plain water; this shock called for sterner medicine, and Father Brophy had been understanding enough to mix her a strong drink, handing it to her without comment. It’s not every day you see yourself dead. Not every day you walk onto a crime scene and encounter your lifeless doppelganger.

“It’s just a coincidence,” she whispered. “The woman looks like me, that’s all. A lot of women have black hair. And her face-how can you really see her face in that car?”

“I don’t know, Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The resemblance is pretty scary.” She sank into the easy chair, groaning as the cushions swallowed up her heavily pregnant frame. Poor Rizzoli, thought Maura. Women who are eight months pregnant should not be dragging themselves through homicide investigations.

“Her hairstyle is different,” said Maura.

“A little longer, that’s all.”

“I have bangs. She doesn’t.”

“Don’t you think that’s sort of a superficial detail? Look at her face. She could be your sister.”

“Wait till we see her with more light. Maybe she won’t look like me at all.”

Father Brophy said, “The resemblance is there, Maura. We all saw it. She looks exactly like you.”

“Plus, she’s sitting in a car in your neighborhood,” added Rizzoli. “Parked practically in front of your house. And she had this lying on the back seat.” Rizzoli held up an evidence bag. Through the transparent plastic, Maura could see it contained an article torn from The Boston Globe. The headline was large enough for her to read it even from across the coffee table.

RAWLINS INFANT WAS BATTERED BABY, MEDICAL EXAMINER TESTIFIES.

“It’s a photo of you, Doc,” said Rizzoli. “The caption says ‘Medical Examiner Dr. Maura Isles leaves the courtroom after testifying in Rawlins trial.’” She looked at Maura. “The victim had this in her car.”

Maura shook her head. “Why?”

“That’s what we’re wondering.”

“The Rawlins trial-that was almost two weeks ago.”

“Do you remember seeing that woman in the courtroom?”

“No. I’ve never seen her before.”

“But she’s obviously seen you. In the newspaper, anyway. And then she shows up here. Looking for you? Stalking you?”

Maura stared at her drink. The vodka was making her head float. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she thought, I was walking the streets of Paris. Enjoying the sunshine, savoring the scents drifting from the street cafes. How did I manage to take a wrong turn into this nightmare?