At home she changed into shorts and a T-shirt and threw herself into preparing dinner. Sipped chilled white Bordeaux as she sliced chicken and onions and garlic. The steamy fragrance of jasmine rice filled the kitchen. No time to think of B positive blood and black-haired women; the oil’s smoking in the pot. Time to sauté the chicken, add the curry paste. Pour in the can of coconut milk. She covered the pot to let it simmer. Looked up at the kitchen window and suddenly caught a reflection of herself in the glass.
I look like her. Exactly like her.
A chill swept through her, as though the face in the window was not a reflection, but a phantom staring back. The lid on the pot rattled from the rising steam. Ghosts trying to get out. Desperate to get her attention.
She turned off the burner, crossed to the telephone, and dialed a pager number she knew by heart.
A moment later, Jane Rizzoli called. In the background, Maura could hear a phone ringing. So Rizzoli was not at home yet, but probably sitting at her desk in Schroeder Plaza.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Maura. “But I need to ask you something.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just want to know one more thing about her.”
“Anna Jessop?”
“Yes. You said she had a Massachusetts driver’s license.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the birth date on her license?”
“What?”
“Today, in the autopsy lab, you said she was forty years old. What day was she born?”
“Why?”
“Please. I just need to know.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
Maura heard the shuffling of pages, then Rizzoli came back on the line. “According to that license, her birthday’s November twenty-fifth.”
For a moment, Maura did not say anything.
“You still there?” asked Rizzoli.
“Yes.”
“What’s the problem, Doc? What’s going on?”
Maura swallowed. “I need you to do something for me, Jane. It’s going to sound crazy.”
“Try me.”
“I want the crime lab to run my DNA against hers.”
Over the line, Maura heard the other telephone finally stop ringing. Rizzoli said, “Tell me that again. Because I don’t think I heard you right.”
“I want to know if my DNA matches Anna Jessop’s.”
“Look, I agree there’s a strong resemblance-”
“There’s more.”
“What else are you talking about?”
“We both have the same blood type. B positive.”
Rizzoli said, reasonably: “How many other people have B positive? It’s like, what? Ten percent of the population?”
“And her birthday. You said her birthday’s November twenty-fifth. Jane, so is mine.”
That news brought dead silence. Rizzoli said softly: “Okay, you just made the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.”
“You see why I want it, now? Everything about her-from the way she looks, to her blood type, to her date of birth…” Maura paused. “She’s me. I want to know where she comes from. I want to know who that woman is.”
A long pause. Then Rizzoli said, “Answering that question is turning out to be a lot harder than we thought.”
“Why?”
“We got back a credit report on her this afternoon. Found out that her MasterCard account is only six months old.”
“So?”
“Her driver’s license is four months old. The plates on her car were issued only three months ago.”
“What about her residence? She had an address in Brighton, right? You must have spoken to her neighbors.”
“We finally got hold of the landlady late last night. She says she rented it out to Anna Jessop three months ago. She let us into the apartment.”
“And?”
“It’s empty, Doc. Not a stick of furniture, not a frying pan, not a toothbrush. Someone had paid for cable TV and a phone line, but no one was there.”
“What about the neighbors?”
“Never saw her. They called her ‘the ghost.’”
“There must be some prior address. Another bank account-”
“We’ve looked. We can’t find anything on this woman that dates back earlier.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Rizzoli, “that until six months ago, Anna Jessop didn’t exist.”
FOUR
WHEN RIZZOLI WALKED INTO J. P. DOYLE’S, she found the usual suspects gathered around the bar. Cops, most of them, trading the day’s war stories over beer and peanuts. Located right down the street from Boston PD’s Jamaica Plain substation, Doyle’s was probably the safest watering hole in the city. Make one false move, and a dozen cops would be on you like a New England Patriots’ pile-on. She knew this crowd, and they all knew her. They parted to let the pregnant lady through, and she saw a few grins as she waddled in among them, her belly leading the way like a ship’s prow.
“Geez, Rizzoli,” someone called out. “You putting on weight or what?”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “But unlike you, I’ll be skinny by August.”
She made her way toward Detectives Vann and Dunleavy, who were waving at her from the bar. Sam and Frodo-that’s what everyone called the pair. The fat Hobbit and the skinny one, partners so long they acted like an old married couple, and probably spent more time with each other than they did with their wives. Rizzoli seldom saw the two apart, and she figured it was only a matter of time before they started dressing in matching outfits.
They grinned and saluted her with identical pints of Guinness.
“Hey, Rizzoli,” said Vann.
“-you’re late,” said Dunleavy.
“Already on our second round-”
“-You want one?”
Jesus, they even finished each other’s sentences. “It’s too noisy in here,” she said. “Let’s go in the other room.”
They headed into the dining area, toward her usual booth beneath the Irish flag. Dunleavy and Vann slid in opposite her, sitting cozily side by side. She thought of her own partner, Barry Frost, a nice guy, even a swell guy, but with whom she had absolutely nothing in common. At the end of the day, she went her way, Frost went his. They liked each other well enough, but she didn’t think she could stand much more togetherness than that. Certainly not as much as these two guys.
“So you’ve got yourself a Black Talon vic,” said Dunleavy.
“Last night, out in Brookline,” she said. “First Talon since your case. That was what, two years ago?”
“Yeah, about.”
“Closed?”
Dunleavy gave a laugh. “Nailed tight as a coffin.”
“Who was the shooter?”
“Guy named Antonin Leonov. Ukrainian immigrant, two-bit player, trying to go big league. Russian mob would’ve taken him out eventually, if we hadn’t arrested him first.”
“What a moron,” snorted Vann. “He had no idea we were watching him.”
“Why were you?” she asked.
“We got a tip he was expecting a delivery from Tajikistan,” said Dunleavy. “Heroin. Big one. We were on his tail for almost a week, and he never spotted us. So we follow him to his partner’s house. Vassily Titov. Titov must’ve pissed off Leonov or something. We watch as Leonov goes into Titov’s house. Then we hear gunshots, and Leonov comes back out.”
“And we’re waiting for him,” said Vann. “Like I said, a moron.”
Dunleavy raised his Guinness in a toast. “Open and shut. Perp’s caught with the weapon. We’re there to witness it. Don’t know why he even bothered to plead innocent. Took the jury less than an hour to come back with the verdict.”
“Did he ever tell you how he got hold of those Black Talons?” she asked.
“You kidding?” said Vann. “He wouldn’t tell us anything. Hardly spoke any English, but he sure as hell knew the word Miranda.”
“We brought a team in to search his house and business,” said Dunleavy. “Found, like, eight boxes of Black Talons stored in his warehouse, can you believe it? Don’t know how he got his hands on so many, but he had quite a stash.” Dunleavy shrugged. “So that’s the scoop on Leonov. I don’t see how he connects with your shooting.”