Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

French roast she found in the freezer. Anna’s coffee. She poured hot water through the filter as she inhaled the steamy fragrance. She was surrounded by Anna’s purchases. The microwave popcorn and packages of spaghetti. The expired cartons of peach yogurt and milk. Each item represented a moment in her sister’s life when she had paused before a grocery store shelf and thought: I need this, too. And then later, upon the return home, she had emptied sacks and put away these choices. When Maura looked at the contents of the cabinets, it was her sister’s hand she saw, stacking the cans of tuna on the flowered shelf paper.
    She carried her coffee mug outside to the front porch and stood sipping from it as she surveyed the yard where sunlight dappled the little garden patch. Everything is so green, she marveled. The grass, the trees, the light itself. In the high canopy of branches, birds sang. I can see now why she might want to live here. Why she would want to wake up every morning to the smell of the woods.
    Suddenly the birds rose flapping from the trees, startled by a new sound: the low rumble of machinery. Though Maura could not see the bulldozer, she could certainly hear it through the woods, sounding annoyingly close. She remembered what Miss Clausen had told her, that the lot next door was being cleared. So much for a peaceful Sunday morning.
    She went down the steps and circled around to the side of the house, trying to see the bulldozer through the trees, but the woods were too thick, and she could not catch even a glimpse of it. But looking down, she did spot animal tracks, and remembered the two deer she had seen through her bedroom window that morning. She followed them along the side of the house, noticing other evidence of their visit in the chewed leaves of the hostas planted against the foundation, and marveled at how bold those deer had been, grazing right up against the wall. She continued toward the back, and came to a halt at another set of tracks. These were not from deer. She stood very still for a moment. Her heart began to thud, and her hands went clammy around the mug. Slowly, her gaze followed the tracks toward a soft patch of dirt beneath one of the windows.
    A boot’s imprints were pressed into the soil where someone had stood, peering into the house.
    Into her bedroom.

ELEVEN
    F ORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, a Fox Harbor police cruiser came bouncing down her dirt road. It pulled up in front of the cottage, and a cop climbed out. He was in his fifties, bull-necked, his blond hair going bald on top.
    “Dr. Isles?” he said, offering her a meaty handshake. “Roger Gresham, chief of police.”
    “I didn’t know I’d get the chief himself.”
    “Yeah, well, we were planning to drive up here anyway when your call came in.”
    “We?” She frowned as another vehicle, a Ford Explorer, came up the driveway and pulled up next to Gresham’s cruiser. The driver stepped out and waved at her.
    “Hello, Maura,” said Rick Ballard.
    For a moment she just looked at him, startled by his unexpected arrival. “I had no idea you were here,” she finally said.
    “I drove up last night. When did you get in?”
    “Yesterday afternoon.”
    “You spent the night in this house?”
    “The motel was full. Miss Clausen—the rental agent—offered to let me sleep here.” She paused. Added on a defensive note, “She did say the police were finished with it.”
    Gresham gave a snort. “Bet she charged you for the night, too. Didn’t she?”
    “Yes.”
    “That Britta, she’s something else. She’d charge ya for air if she could.” Turning toward the house, he said: “So where did you see those footprints?”
    Maura led the men past the front porch and around the corner of the house. They stayed to the side of the path, scanning the ground as they moved. The bulldozer had fallen silent, and now the only sounds were their footfalls on the carpet of leaves.
    “Fresh deer tracks here,” said Gresham, pointing.
    “Yes, there were a pair of deer that came through here this morning,” said Maura.
    “That could explain those tracks you saw.”
    “Chief Gresham,” said Maura, and sighed. “I
can
tell a boot print from a deer track.”
    “No, I mean some guy might’ve been out here hunting. Out of season, you understand. Followed those deer outta the woods.”
    Ballard suddenly halted, his gaze fixed on the ground.
    “Do you see them?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said. His voice was strangely