Tess Gerritsen - Body Double

She wondered if Daniel thought her detached, even callous, for her response. But he did not seem to take offense. He simply nodded, accepting her statistic in the spirit she had offered it, as a simple fact.

“The five-year survival rates weren’t quite so good back then,” he said. “By the time she was diagnosed, she was pretty sick. I can’t tell you how devastating it was, to all of us. To my mother, especially. Her only girl. Her baby. I was fourteen then, and I was the one who kind of took over keeping an eye on Sophie. Even with all the attention she got, all the coddling, she never acted spoiled. Never stopped being the sweetest kid you could imagine.” He still wasn’t looking at Maura; he was gazing at the floor, as though unwilling to reveal the depth of his pain.

“Daniel?” she said.

He took a deep breath, straightened. “I’m not sure how to tell this story to a seasoned skeptic like you.”

“What happened?”

“Her doctor informed us that she was terminal. In those days, when a doctor renders his opinion, you accept it as gospel. That night, my parents and brothers went off to church. To pray for a miracle, I guess. I stayed behind in the hospital, so Sophie wouldn’t be alone. She was bald by then. Lost it all with the chemotherapy. I remember her falling asleep in my lap. And me praying. I prayed for hours, made all sorts of crazy promises to God. If she had died, I don’t think I would have set foot in church again.”

“But she lived,” said Maura softly.

He looked at her and smiled. “Yes, she did. And I kept all those promises I made. Every single one. Because that day, He was listening to me. I don’t doubt it.”

“Where is Sophie now?”

“Happily married, living in Manchester. Two adopted kids.” He sat down facing her across the kitchen table. “So here I am.”

“Father Brophy.”

“Now you know why I made the choice.”

And was it the right one? she wanted to ask, but didn’t.

They refilled their wineglasses. She sliced crusty French bread and tossed the salad. Ladled steaming coq au vin into serving bowls. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; was that what she was trying to reach, what she really wanted? Daniel Brophy’s heart?

Maybe it’s because I can’t have him that I feel safe wanting him. He’s beyond my reach, so he can’t hurt me, the way Victor did.

But when she’d married Victor, she’d thought he could never hurt her either.

We’re never as impervious as we think.

They had just finished their meal when the ringing of the doorbell made them both stiffen. Innocent though the evening had been, they exchanged uneasy glances, like two guilty lovers caught in the act.

Jane Rizzoli was standing on Maura’s front porch, black hair frizzed to an unruly mass of curls in the humid summer air. Though the night was warm, she was dressed in one of the dark business pantsuits she always wore to work. This was not a social call, thought Maura, as she met Rizzoli’s somber gaze. Glancing down, she saw that Rizzoli was carrying a briefcase.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Doc. But we need to talk. I thought it’d be better to see you here, and not at your office.”

“Is this about the case?”

Rizzoli nodded. Neither one of them had to specify which case they were talking about; they both knew. Though she and Rizzoli respected each other as professionals, they had not yet crossed that line into a comfortable friendship, and tonight, they regarded each other with a measure of uneasiness. Something has happened, Maura thought. Something that has made her wary of me.

“Please come in.”

Rizzoli stepped into the house and paused, sniffing the scent of food. “Am I interrupting your dinner?”

“No, we just finished.”

The we did not escape Rizzoli’s notice. She gave Maura an inquiring look. Heard footsteps and turned to see Daniel in the hallway, carrying wineglasses back to the kitchen.

“Evening, Detective!” he called.

Rizzoli blinked in surprise. “Father Brophy.”

He continued into the kitchen, and Rizzoli turned back to Maura. Though she didn’t say anything, it was clear what she was thinking. The same thing that woman parishioner had been thinking. Yes, it looks bad, but nothing has happened. Nothing except dinner and conversation. Why the hell must you look at me like that?

“Well,” said Rizzoli. A lot of meaning was crammed into that one word. They heard the sound of clattering china and silverware. Daniel was loading the dishwasher. A priest at home in her kitchen.

“I’d like to talk to you in private, if I could,” said Rizzoli.

“Is that really necessary? Father Brophy is my friend.”

“This is going to be tough enough to talk about as it is, Doc.”

“I can’t just tell him to leave.” She stopped at the sound of Daniel’s footsteps emerging from the kitchen.

“But I really should go,” he said. He glanced at Rizzoli’s briefcase. “Since you obviously have business to discuss.”

“Actually, we do,” said Rizzoli.

He smiled at Maura. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Wait,” said Maura. “Daniel.” She stepped outside with him, onto the front porch, and closed the door behind her. “You don’t have to leave,” she said.

“She needs to talk to you in private.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why? It was a wonderful evening.”

“I feel as if you’re being chased out of my house.”

He reached out and grasped her arm in a warm and reassuring squeeze. “Call me whenever you need to talk again,” he said. “No matter what the hour.”

She watched him walk toward his car, his black clothes blending into the summer night. When he turned to wave good-bye, she caught a glimpse of his collar, one last glimmer of white in the darkness.

She stepped back into the house and found Rizzoli still standing in the hallway, watching her. Wondering about Daniel, of course. She wasn’t blind; she could see that something more than friendship was growing between them.

“So can I offer you a drink?” asked Maura.

“That’d be great. Nothing alcoholic.” Rizzoli patted her belly. “Junior’s too young for booze yet.”

“Of course.”

Maura led the way down the hall, forcing herself to play the proper hostess. In the kitchen she dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured orange juice. Added a splash of vodka to hers. Turning to set the drinks on the kitchen table, she saw Rizzoli take a file folder from her briefcase and set it on the kitchen table.

“What’s that?” asked Maura.

“Why don’t we both sit down first, Doc? Because what I’m gonna tell you may be kind of upsetting.”

Maura sank into a chair at the kitchen table; so did Rizzoli. They sat facing each other, the folder lying between them. A Pandora’s box of secrets, thought Maura, staring at the file. Maybe I don’t really want to know what’s inside.

“Do you remember what I told you last week, about Anna Jessop? That we could find almost no records on her that went back more than six months? And the only residence we had for her was an empty apartment?”

“You called her a phantom.”

“In a sense, that’s true. Anna Jessop didn’t really exist.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because there was no Anna Jessop. It was an alias. Her real name was Anna Leoni. About six months ago, she took on an entirely new identity. Started closing her accounts, and finally moved out of her house. Under the new name, she rented an apartment in Brighton that she never intended to move into. It was just a blind alley, in case anyone managed to learn her new name. Then she packed up and moved to Maine. A small town, halfway up the coast. That’s where she’s been living for the last two months.”