Body Double

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 stu

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

RICK BALLARD 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 pla

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 a

“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 A

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 A

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