Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

pulled off her gloves and ran her bare fingers above the orbit, feeling the robust curve of the supraorbital ridge. Then she flipped over the skull, to examine the occipital protuberance.
    This did not make sense.
    She rocked back on her knees. Her blouse was sweat-soaked in the cloying air. Except for the buzz of insects, the clearing had gone silent. Trees loomed on all sides, guarding this secret enclosure. Gazing at that impenetrable wall of green, she felt eyes staring back, as though the forest itself was watching her. Waiting for her next move.
    “What’s going on, Dr. Isles?”
    She looked up at Detective Corso. “We have a problem,” she said. “This skull—”
    “What about it?”
    “You see the heavy ridges here, above the eye sockets? And look back here, at the base of the skull. If you run your finger across it, you can feel a bump. It’s called the occipital protuberance.”
    “So?”
    “It’s where the ligamentum nuchae attaches, anchoring the muscles from the back of the neck to the cranium. The fact that bump is so prominent tells me this individual had robust musculature. This is almost certainly a man’s skull.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “That pelvis over there is from a woman.”
    Corso stared at her. Turned to look at Dr. Singh.
    “I completely agree with Dr. Isles,” said Daljeet.
    “But that would mean . . .”
    “We have the remains of two different individuals here,” said Maura. “One male, one female.” She stood up and met Corso’s gaze. “The question is, how many others are buried out here?”
    For a moment, Corso seemed too startled to respond. Then he turned and slowly scanned the clearing, as though really seeing it for the first time.
    “Chief Gresham,” he said, “we’re going to need volunteers. A lot of them. Cops, firemen. I’ll call in our team from Augusta, but it won’t be enough. Not for what we need to do.”
    “How many people are you talking about?”
    “Whatever it takes to walk this site.” Corso was staring at the surrounding trees. “We’re going to comb every square inch of this place. The clearing, the woods. If there’s more than two people buried here, I’m going to find them.”

TWELVE
    J ANE R IZZOLI HAD GROWN UP in the suburb of Revere, just over the Tobin Bridge from downtown Boston. It was a working-class neighborhood of boxy homes on postage-stamp lots, a place where, every fourth of July, hot dogs sizzled on backyard grills and American flags were proudly displayed on front porches. The Rizzoli family had known its share of ups and downs, including a few terrible months when Jane was ten years old, and her father had lost his job. She’d been old enough to sense her mother’s fear and absorb her father’s angry desperation. She and her two brothers knew what it was like to live on that knife edge between comfort and ruin, and even though she enjoyed a steady paycheck, she could never quite silence the whispers of insecurity from her childhood. She would always think of herself as the girl from Revere who’d grown up dreaming of one day having a big house in a grander neighborhood, a house with enough bathrooms so she wouldn’t have to pound on the door every morning, demanding her turn in the shower. It would have to have a brick chimney and a double front door and a brass knocker. The house she was now staring at from her car had all those features and more: the brass knocker, the double front door, and not one chimney, but two. Everything she’d dreamed about.
    But it was the ugliest house she’d ever seen.
    The other homes on this East Dedham street were what you’d expect to find in a comfortable middle-class neighborhood: two-car garages and neatly kept front yards. Late-model cars parked in driveways. Nothing fancy, nothing that demanded
look at me.
But this house—well, it didn’t just demand your attention. It shrieked for it.
    It was as if Tara, the plantation house from
Gone with the Wind,
had been whooshed up in a tornado and plopped down on a city lot. It had no yard to speak of, just a rim of land along the sides so narrow you could barely push a lawnmower between the wall and the neighbor’s fence. White columns stood sentinel on a porch where Scarlett O’Hara could have held court in full view of the traffic on Sprague Street. The house made her think of Johnny Silva in the old neighborhood, and how he had blown his first paycheck on a cherry-red Corvette. “Trying to pretend he’s not