Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

love me, if you ever loved me, you’ll pay it. Please, please pay it
.
    She slid to the floor, hugging herself, withdrawing into despair. Her own private box, deeper and darker than any prison anyone could shut her into.
    “Lady. Lady.”
    In mid-sob she froze, not certain she’d actually heard the whisper. Now she was hearing voices. She was going insane.
    “Talk to me, lady.”
    She turned on the flashlight and aimed it overhead. That’s where the voice had come from—the air grate.
    “Can you hear me?” It was a man’s voice. Low, mellifluous.
    “Who are you?” she said.
    “Did you find the food?”
    “Who are you?”
    “Be careful with it. You have to make it last.”
    “My husband will pay you. I know he will. Please, just let me out of here!”
    “Are you having any pains?”
    “What?”
    “Any pains?”
    “I just want to get out! Let me
out
!”
    “When it’s time.”
    “How long are you going to keep me in here? When are you going to let me out?”
    “Later.”
    “What does that mean?”
    No answer.
    “Hello? Mister,
hello
? Tell my husband I’m alive. You tell him he
has
to pay you!”
    Footsteps creaked away.
    “Don’t go!” she screamed. “Let me out!” She reached up and pounded on the ceiling. Shrieked: “You have to
let me out
!”
    The footsteps were gone. She stared up at the grate. He said he’ll be back, she thought. Tomorrow he’ll be back. After Dwayne pays him, he’ll let me out.
    Then it occurred to her.
Dwayne
. The voice in the grate had not once mentioned her husband.

FIFTEEN
    J ANE R IZZOLI DROVE like the Bostonian she was, her hand quick to hit the horn, her Subaru weaving expertly past double-parked cars as they worked their way to the Turnpike on-ramp. Pregnancy had not mellowed her aggression; if anything, she seemed more impatient than usual as traffic conspired to hold them up at every intersection.
    “I don’t know about this, Doc,” she said, fingers drumming the steering wheel as they waited for a red light to count down. “This is just gonna screw around with your head. I mean, what good’s it gonna do you to see her?”
    “At least I’ll know who my mother is.”
    “You know her name. You know the crime she committed. Isn’t that enough?”
    “No, it’s not.”
    Behind them, a horn honked. The light had turned green.
    “Asshole,” said Rizzoli, and she roared through the intersection.
    They took the Massachusetts Turnpike west to Framingham, Rizzoli’s Subaru dwarfed by threatening convoys of big rigs and SUVs. After only a weekend on the quiet roads of Maine, it was a shock for Maura to be back on a busy highway, where one small mistake, one moment’s inattention, was all it took to close the gap between life and death. Rizzoli’s quick and fearless driving made Maura uneasy; she, who never took chances, who insisted on the safest car and double air bags, who never let her gas gauge fall below a quarter full, did not easily cede control. Not when two-ton trucks were roaring only inches from her window.
    It wasn’t until they’d exited the Turnpike, onto Route 126 through downtown Framingham, that Maura settled back, no longer poised to clutch the dashboard. But she faced other fears now, not of big rigs or hurtling steel. What she feared most was coming face-to-face with herself.
    And hating what she saw.
    “You can change your mind anytime,” said Rizzoli, as though reading her thoughts. “You ask, and I’ll turn the car around. We can go to Friendly’s instead, have a cup of coffee. Maybe some apple pie.”
    “Do pregnant women ever stop thinking about food?”
    “Not
this
pregnant woman.”
    “I’m not going to change my mind.”
    “Okay, okay.” Rizzoli drove in silence for a moment. “Ballard came in to see me this morning.”
    Maura looked at her, but Rizzoli’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “Why?”
    “He wanted to explain why he never told us about your mother. Look, I know you’re pissed at him, Doc. But I think he really was trying to protect you.”
    “Is that what he said?”
    “I believe him. Maybe I even agree with him. I thought about keeping that information from you, too.”
    “But you didn’t. You called me.”
    “The point is, I can see why he wouldn’t want to tell you.”
    “He had no excuse for keeping that information from me.”
    “It’s just a guy thing, you know? Maybe a cop thing, too. They want to protect the little lady—”
    “So they hold back the