“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.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“I spoke to the cop who helped her do it.”
“A cop?”
“A Detective Ballard, out in Newton.”
“So the alias—it wasn’t because she was running from the law?”
“No. You can probably guess what she was running from. It’s an old story.”
“A man?”
“Unfortunately, a very wealthy man. Dr. Charles Cassell.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“Castle Pharmaceuticals. He founded it. Anna was a researcher in his company. They became involved, but three years later, she tried to leave him.”
“And he wouldn’t let her.”
“Dr. Cassell sounds like the kind of guy you don’t just walk out on. She ended up in a Newton ER one night with a black eye. From there, it got seriously scary. Stalking. Death threats. Even a dead canary in her mailbox.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s true love for you. Sometimes, the only way you can stop a man from hurting you is to shoot him—or to hide. Maybe she’d still be alive if she’d chosen the first option.”
“He found her.”
“All we have to do is prove it.”
“Can you?”
“We haven’t been able to talk to Dr. Cassell yet. Quite conveniently, he left Boston the morning after the shooting. He’s been traveling on business for the past week, and isn’t expected home till tomorrow.” Rizzoli lifted the glass of orange juice to her lips, and the clatter of ice cubes jarred Maura’s nerves. Rizzoli set the drink back down and was silent for a moment. She seemed to be buying time, but for what? Maura wondered.
“There’s something else about Anna Leoni you need to know,” Rizzoli said. She pointed to the file on the table. “I brought that for you.”
Maura opened t
he folder and felt a jolt of recognition. It was a color photocopy of a wallet-sized photo. A young girl with black hair and a serious gaze was standing between an older couple whose arms enfolded her in a protective embrace. She said, softly: “That girl could be me.”
“She was carrying that in her wallet. We believe that’s Anna at around ten years old, with her parents, Ruth and William Leoni. They’re both dead now.”
“These are her parents?”
“Yes.”
“But … they’re so old.”
“Yes, they were. The mother, Ruth, was sixty-two years old when that photo was taken.” Rizzoli paused. “Anna was their only child.”
An only child. Older parents. I know where this is going, thought Maura, and I’m afraid of what she’s about to tell me. This is why she really came tonight. It’s not just about Anna Leoni and her abusive lover; it’s about something far more startling.
Maura looked up at Rizzoli. “She was adopted?”
Rizzoli nodded. “Mrs. Leoni was fifty-two the year Anna was born.”
“Too old for most agencies.”
“Which is why they probably had to arrange a private adoption, through an attorney.”
Maura thought of her own parents, now both dead. They too had been older, in their forties.
“What do you know about your own adoption, Doc?”
Maura took a deep breath. “After my father died, I found my adoption papers. It was all done through an attorney here in Boston. I called him a few years ago, to see if he would tell me my birth mother’s name.”
“Did he?”
“He said my records were sealed. He refused to release any information.”
“And you didn’t pursue it?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Was the attorney’s name Terence Van Gates?”
Maura went dead silent. She didn’t have to answer the question; she knew Rizzoli could read it in her stunned gaze. “How did you know?” Maura asked.
“Two days before her death, Anna checked into the Tremont Hotel, here in Boston. From her hotel room, she made two phone calls. One was to Detective Ballard, who was out of town at the time. The other was to Van Gates’s law office. We don’t know why she contacted him—he hasn’t returned my calls yet.”
Now the revelation is coming, thought Maura. The real reason she’s here tonight, in my kitchen.
“We know Anna Leoni was adopted. She had your blood type and your birth date. And just before she died, she was talking to Van Gates—the attorney who handled your adoption. An amazing set of coincidences.”
“How long have you known all this?”
“A few days.”
“And you didn’t tell me? You kept it from me.”
“I didn’t want to upset you if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Well, I am upset that you waited this long.”
“I had to, because there was one more thing I needed to find out.” Rizzoli took a deep breath. “This afternoon, I had a talk with Walt DeGroot in the DNA lab. Earlier this week, I asked him to expedite that test you requested. This afternoon, he showed me the autorads he’d developed. He did two separate VNTR profiles. One was Anna Leoni’s. The other was yours.”
Maura sat frozen, braced for the blow she knew was about to fall.
“They’re a match,” said Rizzoli. “The two genetic profiles are identical.”
SEVEN
THE CLOCK ON the kitchen wall ticked. The ice cubes slowly melted in the glasses on the table. Time moved on, but Maura felt trapped in that moment, Rizzoli’s words looping endlessly in her head.
“I’m sorry,” said Rizzoli. “I didn’t know how else to tell you. But I thought you had a right to know that you have a …” Rizzoli stopped.
Had. I had a sister. And I never even knew she existed.
Rizzoli reached across the table and grasped Maura’s hand. It was unlike her; Rizzoli was not a woman who easily gave comfort or offered hugs. But here she was, holding Maura’s hand, watching her as though she expected Maura to crumble.
“Tell me about her,” Maura said softly. “Tell me what kind of woman she was.”
“Detective Ballard’s the one you should talk to.”
“Who?”
“Rick Ballard. He’s in Newton. He was assigned to her case after Dr. Cassell assaulted her. I think he got to know her pretty well.”
“What did he tell you about her?”
“She grew up in Concord. She was briefly married, at twenty-five, but it didn’t last. They had an amicable divorce, no kids.”
“The ex-husband’s not a suspect?”
“No. He’s since remarried, and he’s living in London.”
A divorcée, like me. Is there a gene that preordains failed marriages?
“As I said, she worked for Charles Cassell’s company, Castle Pharmaceuticals. She was a microbiologist, in their research division.”
“A scientist.”
“Yeah.”
Again, like me, thought Maura, gazing at her sister’s face in the photo. So I know that she valued reason and logic, as I do. Scientists are governed by intellect. They take comfort in facts. We would have understood each other.
“It’s a lot to absorb, I know it is,” said Rizzoli. “I’m trying to put myself in your place, and I really can’t imagine. It’s like discovering a parallel universe, where there’s another version of you. Finding out she’s been here all this time, living in the same city. If only …” Rizzoli stopped.
Is there any phrase more useless than “if only”?
“I’m sorry,” said Rizzoli.
Maura breathed deeply and sat up straight, indicating she was not in need of hand-holding. That she was capable of dealing with this. She closed the folder and slid it back to Rizzoli. “Thank you, Jane.”
“No, you keep it. That photocopy’s meant for you.”
They both stood up. Rizzoli reached into her pocket and laid a business card on the table. “You might want this, too. He said you could call him with any questions.”
Maura looked down at the name on the card: RICHARD D. BALLARD, DETECTIVE. NEWTON POLICE DEPARTMENT.
“He’s the one you should talk to,” said Rizzoli.
They walked together to the front door, Maura still in control of her emotions, still playing the proper hostess. She stood on the porch long enough to give a good-bye wave, then she shut the door and went into the living room. Stood there, listening as Rizzoli’s car drove away, leaving only the quiet of a suburban street. All alone, she thought. Once again I’m all alone.
She went into the living room. From the bookshelf, she pulled down an old photo album. She had not looked at its pages in years, not since her father’s death, when she’d cleaned his house a few weeks after the funeral. She had found the album on his nightstand, and had imagined him sitting in bed on the last night of his life, alone in that big house, gazing at the photos of his young family. The last images he would have seen, before turning off the light, would have been happy faces.
She opened the album and gazed at those faces now. The pages were brittle, some of the photos nearly forty years old. She lingered over the first one of her mother, beaming at the camera, a dark-haired infant in her arms. Behind them was a house that Maura did not remember, with Victorian trim and bow windows. Underneath the photo, her mother, Ginny, had written in her characteristically neat hand: Bringing Maura home.
There were no pictures taken in the hospital, none of her mother in pregnancy. Just this sudden, sharp image of Ginny smiling in the sunshine, holding her instant baby. She thought of another dark-haired baby, held in another mother’s arms. Perhaps, on that very same day, a proud father in another town had snapped off a photo of his new daughter. A girl named Anna.
Maura turned the pages. Saw herself grow from a toddler to a kindergartener. Here on a brand-new bicycle, steadied by her father’s hand. There at her first piano recital, dark hair gathered back with a green bow, her hands poised on the keys.
>
She turned to the last page. Christmas. Maura, about seven years old, standing flanked by her mother and father, their arms intertwined in a loving weave. Behind them was a decorated tree, sparkling with tinsel. Everyone smiling. A perfect moment in time, thought Maura. But they never last; they arrive and then they vanish, and we can’t bring them back; we can only make new ones.
She’d reached the end of the album. There were others, of course, at least four more volumes in the history of Maura, every event recorded and catalogued by her parents. But this was the book her father had chosen to keep beside his bed, with the photos of his daughter as an infant, of himself and Ginny as energetic parents, before the gray had crept into their hair. Before grief, and Ginny’s death, had touched their lives.
She gazed down at her parents’ faces and thought: How lucky I am that you chose me. I miss you. I miss you both so much. She closed the album and stared through tears at the leather cover.
If only you were here. If only you could tell me who I really am.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the business card that Rizzoli had left on the table. On the front was printed Rick Ballard’s work number at the Newton PD. She flipped over the card and saw he’d written his home number as well, with the words: “Call me anytime. Day or night. —R.B.”
She went to the phone and dialed his home number. On the third ring, a voice answered: “Ballard.” Just that one name, spoken with crisp efficiency. This is a man who gets right down to business, she thought. He’s not going to welcome a call from a woman in emotional meltdown. In the background she could hear a TV commercial playing. He was at home, relaxing; the last thing he’d want was to be bothered.
“Hello?” he said, now with a note of impatience.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to call you at home. Detective Rizzoli gave me your card. My name is Maura Isles, and I …” And I what? Want you to help me get through this night?
“I was expecting you to call, Dr. Isles,” he said.
“I know I should have waited till morning, but—”
“Not at all. You must have a lot of questions.”
“I’m having a really hard time with this. I never knew I had a sister. And suddenly—”
“Everything’s changed for you. Hasn’t it?” The voice that had sounded brusque only a moment before was now so quiet, so sympathetic, that she found herself blinking back tears.
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