Body Double

“We can subpoena your files. Or I can ask you politely.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then he released a sigh of capitulation. “Okay, I don’t need to go through this again. I’ll just tell you, okay? The mother’s name was Amalthea Lank. She was twenty-four years old. And she needed money-badly.”

Rizzoli frowned. “Are you telling me she got paid for giving up her babies?”

“Well…”

“How much?”

“It was substantial. Enough for her to get a fresh start in life.”

“How much?”

He blinked. “It was twenty thousand dollars, each.”

“For each baby?”

“Two happy families walked away with a child. She walked away with cash. Believe me, adoptive parents pay a lot more today. Do you know how hard it is to adopt a healthy Caucasian newborn these days? There just aren’t enough to go around. It’s supply and demand, that’s all.”

Rizzoli sank back, appalled that a woman would sell her babies for cold hard cash.

“Now that’s all I can tell you,” said Van Gates. “If you want to find out more, well, maybe you cops should try talking to each other. You’d save a lot of time.”

That last statement puzzled her. Then she remembered what he’d said only a moment earlier: I don’t need to go through this again.

“Who else has asked you about this woman?” she said.

“You people all go about it the same way. You come in, threaten to make my life miserable if I don’t cooperate-”

“It was another cop?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t remember. It was months ago. I must’ve blocked out his name.”

“Why did he want to know?”

“Because she put him up to it. They came in together.”

“A

“He was doing it for her. A favor.” Van Gates snorted. “We should all have cops doing us favors.”

“This was several months ago? They came in to see you together?”

“I just said that.”

“And you told her the mother’s name?”

“Yeah.”

“So why did A

“Because she saw some photo in The Boston Globe. A lady who looks just like her.”

“Dr. Maura Isles.”

He nodded. “Ms. Leoni asked me directly, so I told her.”

“Told her what?”

“That she had a sister.”

THIRTEEN

THE BONES CHANGED EVERYTHING.

Maura had pla

Four o’clock came and went.

The cardboard boxes began to fill with bones. Ribs and lumbar vertebrae. Femurs and tibias. The bulldozer had not, in fact, scattered the bones far. The female’s remains were all located within a six-foot radius; the male’s, bound together in a web of blackberry roots, were even more contained. There appeared to be only two individuals, but it took all afternoon to unearth them. Gripped by the excitement of the dig, Maura could not bring herself to leave, not when every shovelful of dirt she sifted might reveal some new prize. A button or a bullet or a tooth. As a Stanford University undergraduate, she had spent a summer working on an archaeological site in Baja. Though the temperatures there had soared well into the nineties, and her only shade was a broad-brimmed hat, she had worked straight into the hottest part of the day, driven by the same fever that afflicts treasure hunters who believe that the next artifact is only inches away. That fever was what she experienced now, kneeling among the ferns, swatting at blackflies. It was what kept her digging through the afternoon and into the evening as storm clouds moved in. As thunder rumbled in the distance.

That, and the quiet thrill she felt whenever Rick Ballard came near.

Even as she sifted through dirt, teased away roots, she was aware of him. His voice, his proximity. He was the one who brought her a fresh water bottle, who handed her the sandwich. Who stopped to place a hand on her shoulder and ask how she was doing. Her male colleagues at the M.E.’s office seldom touched her. Perhaps it was her aloofness, or some silent signal she gave off that told them she did not welcome personal contact. But Ballard did not hesitate to reach for her arm, to rest his hand on her back.

His touches left her flushed.

When the CSU team began packing up their tools for the day, she was startled to realize it was already seven, and daylight was fading. Her muscles ached, her clothes were filthy. She stood on legs trembling with weariness, and watched Daljeet tape shut the two boxes of remains. They each picked up a box and carried them across the field, to his vehicle.

“After today, I think you owe me di

“Restaurant Julien, I promise. Next time I’m down in Boston.”

“Believe me, I plan to collect.”

He loaded the boxes into his car and shut the door. Then they shook hands, filthy palm to filthy palm. She waved as he drove away. Most of the search team had already left; only a few cars remained.

Ballard’s Explorer was among them.

She paused in the deepening dusk and looked at the clearing. He was standing near the woods, talking to Detective Corso, his back to her. She lingered, hoping that he would notice she was about to leave.

And then what? What did she want to happen between them?

Get out of here before you make an idiot of yourself.

Abruptly she turned and walked to her car. Started the engine and pulled away so quickly the tires spun.

Back in the cottage, she peeled off her soiled clothes. Took a long shower, lathering up twice to wash away every trace of the oily mosquito repellant. When she stepped out of the bathroom, she realized she had no more clean clothes to change into. She had pla

She opened the closet door and gazed at A

The ringing telephone made her turn and face the nightstand. Somehow she knew, even before she picked it up, that it was Ballard.

“I didn’t see you leave,” he said.

“I came back to the house to take a shower. I was such a mess.”

He laughed. “I’m feeling pretty grungy myself.”

“When are you driving back to Boston?”

“It’s already so late in the day. I think I might as well just stay another night. What about you?”

“I don’t really feel like driving back tonight, either.”

A moment passed.

“Did you find a hotel room here?” she asked.

“I brought my tent and sleeping bag with me. I’m staying at a campground up the road.”

It took her five seconds to make a decision. Five seconds to consider the possibilities. And the consequences.