Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen Page B

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
    W HEN R IZZOLI WALKED INTO J. P. D OYLE’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