Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

gave a rueful laugh.
    “I hope my visit isn’t making things worse.”
    “This has nothing to do with you, believe me. Our family’s going through a tough transition right now. My wife and I separated last year, and Katie refuses to accept it. It’s led to a lot of fights, a lot of tension.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Divorce is never pleasant.”
    “Mine certainly wasn’t.”
    “But you did get past it.”
    She thought of Victor, who had so recently intruded upon her life. And how, for a brief time, he had lured her into thoughts of reconciliation. “I’m not sure one ever gets past it,” she said. “Once you’ve been married to someone, they’re always part of your life, good or bad. The key is to remember the good parts.”
    “Not so easy, sometimes.”
    They were silent for a moment. The only sound was the TV’s irritating pulse of teen defiance. Then he straightened, squaring his broad shoulders, and looked at her. It was a gaze she could not easily turn away from, a gaze that told her she was the sole focus of his attention.
    “Well. You came to hear about Anna.”
    “Yes. Detective Rizzoli told me you knew her. That you tried to protect her.”
    “I didn’t do a good enough job,” he said quietly. She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, and then his gaze dropped to the file on the coffee table. He picked up the folder and handed it to her. “It’s not pleasant to look at. But you have a right to see it.”
    She opened the folder and stared at a photograph of Anna Leoni, posed against a stark white wall. She was wearing a paper hospital gown. One eye was swollen almost shut, and the cheek was bruised purple. Her intact eye gazed at the camera with a stunned expression.
    “That’s the way she looked when I first met her,” he said. “That photo was taken in the ER last year, after the man she’d been living with struck her. She’d just moved out of his home in Marblehead, and was renting a house here, in Newton. He showed up at her front door one night and tried to talk her into coming back. She told him to leave. Well, you don’t
tell
Charles Cassell to do anything. That’s what happened.”
    Maura heard the anger in his voice, and she looked up. Saw that his mouth had tightened. “I understand she pressed charges.”
    “Hell, yes. I coached her through it every step of the way. A man who hits a woman understands only one thing: punishment. I was going to make damn sure he faced the consequences. I deal with domestic abuse all the time, and it makes me angry every time I see it. It’s like flipping a switch inside me; all I want to do is nail the guy. That’s what I tried to do to Charles Cassell.”
    “And what happened?”
    Ballard gave a disgusted shake of his head. “He ended up in jail for one lousy night. When you have money, you can buy yourself out of just about anything. I hoped that would be the end of it—that he’d stay away from her. But this is a man who’s not used to losing. He kept calling her, showing up on her doorstep. She moved twice, but each time he found her. She finally took out a restraining order, but it didn’t stop him from driving past her house. Then, around six months ago, it started to get deadly serious.”
    “How?”
    He nodded at the file. “It’s there. She found it wedged in her front door one morning.”
    Maura turned to a photocopied sheet. On it were only two typed words centered on a blank sheet of paper.
    You’re dead.
    Fear whispered up Maura’s spine. She imagined waking up one morning. Opening her front door to pick up the newspaper, and seeing this single sheet of white paper flutter to the ground. Unfolding it to read those two words.
    “That was only the first note,” he said. “There were others that came afterwards.”
    She turned to the next page. It had the same two words.
    You’re dead.
    And turned to a third, and a fourth sheet.
    You’re dead.
    You’re dead.
    Her throat had gone dry. She looked at Ballard. “Wasn’t there something she could do to stop him?”
    “We tried, but we could never prove he actually wrote those. Just like we couldn’t prove he was the one who scratched her car or slashed her window screens. Then one day she opened her mailbox. Inside was a dead canary with its neck broken. That’s when she decided she wanted to get the hell out of Boston. She wanted to disappear.”
    “And you helped her.”
    “I never stopped helping her. I was the one she called whenever Cassell