NINE

Rick Ballard had told her that Dr. Charles Cassell was wealthy, but Jane Rizzoli had not expected this. The Marblehead estate was surrounded by a high brick wall, and through the bars of the wrought-iron gate, she and Frost could see the house, a massive white Federal surrounded by at least two acres of emerald lawn. Beyond it glittered the waters of Massachusetts Bay.

“Wow,” said Frost. “This is all from pharmaceuticals?”

“He started off by marketing a single weight-loss drug,” said Rizzoli. “Within twenty years, he built up to that. Ballard says this is not the kind of guy you ever want to cross.” She looked at Frost. “And if you’re a woman, you sure as hell don’t leave him.”

She rolled down her window and pushed the intercom button.

A man’s voice crackled over the speaker: “Name, please?”

“Detectives Rizzoli and Frost, Boston PD. Here to see Dr. Cassell.”

The gate whined open, and they drove through, onto a winding driveway that brought them to a stately portico. She parked behind a fire-engine-red Ferrari—probably the closest her old Subaru would ever get to celebrity cardom. The front door swung open even before they could knock, and a burly man appeared, his gaze neither friendly nor unfriendly. Though dressed in a polo shirt and tan Dockers, there was nothing casual about the way this man was eyeing them.

“I’m Paul, Dr. Cassell’s assistant,” he said.

“Detective Rizzoli.” She held out her hand, but the man did not even glance at it, as though it was not worth his attention.

Paul ushered them into a house that was not at all what Rizzoli had expected. Though the exterior had been traditional Federal, inside she found the decor starkly modern, even cold, a white-walled gallery of abstract art. The foyer was dominated by a bronze sculpture of intertwining curves, vaguely sexual.

“You do know that Dr. Cassell just got home from a trip last night,” said Paul. “He’s jet-lagged and not feeling well. So if you could keep it short.”

“He was away on business?” said Frost.

“Yes. It was arranged over a month ago, in case you’re wondering.”

Which didn’t mean a thing, thought Rizzoli, except that Cassell was capable of planning his moves ahead of time.

Paul led them through a living room decorated in black and white, with only a single scarlet vase to shock the eye. A flat-screen TV dominated one wall, and a smoked-glass cabinet contained a dazzling array of electronics. A bachelor’s dream pad, thought Rizzoli. Not a single feminine touch, just guy stuff. She could hear music and she assumed it was a CD playing. Jazz piano chords melted together in a mournful walk down the keys. There was no melody, no song, just notes blending in wordless lament. The music grew louder as Paul led them toward a set of sliding doors. He opened them, and announced:

“The police are here, Dr. Cassell.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

“No, Paul, you can leave us.”

Rizzoli and Frost stepped into the room, and Paul slid the doors shut behind them. They found themselves in a space so gloomy that they could barely make out the man seated at the grand piano. So it had been live music, not a CD playing. Heavy curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out all but a sliver of daylight. Cassell reached toward a lamp and switched it on. It was only a dim globe shaded by Japanese rice paper, but it made him squint. A glass of what looked like whiskey sat on the piano beside him. He was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot—not the face of a cold corporate shark, but of a man too distraught to care what he looked like. Even so, it was an arrestingly handsome face, with a gaze so intense it seemed to burn its way into Rizzoli’s brain. He was younger than she had expected a self-made mogul to be, perhaps in his late forties. Still young enough to believe in his own invincibility.

“Dr. Cassell,” she said, “I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD. And this is Detective Frost. You do understand why we’re here?”

“Because he sicced you on me. Didn’t he?”

“Who?”

“That Detective Ballard. He’s like a goddamn pit bull.”

“We’re here because you knew Anna Leoni. The victim.”

He reached for his glass of whiskey. Judging by his haggard appearance, it was not his first drink of the day. “Let me tell you something about Detective Ballard, before you go believing everything he says. The man is a genuine, class-A asshole.” He downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp.

She thought of Anna Leoni, her eye swollen shut, her cheek bruised purple. I think we know who the real asshole is.

Cassell set the empty glass down. “Tell me how it happened,” he said. “I need to know.”

“We have a few questions, Dr. Cassell.”

“First tell me what happened.”

This is why he agreed to see us, she thought. He wants information. He wants to gauge how much we know.

“I understand it was a gunshot wound to the head,” he said. “And she was found in a car?”

“That’s right.”

“That much I already learned from The Boston Globe. What kind of weapon was used? What caliber bullet?”

“You know I can’t reveal that.”

“And it happened in Brookline? What the hell was she doing there?”

“That I can’t tell you, either.”

“Can’t tell me?” He looked at her. “Or you don’t know?”

“We don’t know.”

“Was anyone with her when it happened?”

“There were no other victims.”

“So who are your suspects? Aside from me?”

“We’re here to ask you the questions, Dr. Cassell.”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and crossed to a cabinet. Took out a bottle of whiskey and refreshed his glass. Pointedly he did not offer his visitors a drink.

“Why don’t I just answer the one question you came to ask,” he said, settling back onto the piano bench. “No, I did not kill her. I haven’t even seen her in months.”

Frost asked: “When was the last time you saw Ms. Leoni?”

“It would have been sometime in March, I think. I drove by her house one afternoon. She was out on the sidewalk, getting her mail.”

“Wasn’t that after she took out the restraining order against you?”

“I didn’t get out of my car, okay? I didn’t even speak to her. She saw me and went right into the house without saying a word.”

“So what was the point of that drive-by?” said Rizzoli. “Intimidation?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I just wanted to see her, that’s all. I missed her. I still …” He paused and cleared his throat. “I still miss her.”

Now he’s going to say that he loved her.

“I loved her,” he said. “Why would I hurt her?”

As if they’d never heard a man say that before.

“Besides, how could I? I didn’t know where she was. After she moved, that last time, I couldn’t find her.”

“But you tried?”

“Yes, I tried.”

“Did you know she was living in Maine?” asked Frost.

A pause. He looked up, frowning. “Where in Maine?”

“A little town called Fox Harbor.”

“No, I didn’t know that. I assumed she was somewhere in Boston.”

“Dr. Cassell,” said Rizzoli, “where were you last Thursday night?”

“I was here, at home.”

“All night?”

“From five P.M. on. I was packing for my trip.”

“Can anyone verify that you were here?”

“No. Paul had the night off. I freely admit I have no alibi. It was just me here, alone with my piano.” He banged the keyboard, playing a dissonant chord. “I flew out the next morning. Northwest Airlines, if you want to check.”

“We will.”

“The reservations were made six weeks ago. I had meetings already planned.”

“That’s what your assistant told us.”

“Did he? Well, it’s true.”

“Do you keep a gun?” asked Rizzoli.

Cassell went very still, his dark eyes searching hers. “Do you honestly think I did it?”

“Could you answer the question?”

“No, I do not have a gun. Not a pistol or a rifle or a pop-gun. And I didn’t kill her. I didn’t do half the things she accused me of.”

“Are you saying she lied to the police?”

“I’m saying she exaggerated.”

“We’ve seen the photo of her taken in the ER, the night you gave her a black eye. Did she exaggerate that charge as well?”

His gaze dropped, as though he could not bear her accusatory look. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t deny hitting her. I regret it. But I don’t deny it.”

“What about repeatedly driving past her house? Hiring a private detective to follow her? Showing up on her doorstep, demanding to speak to her?”

“She wouldn’t answer any of my calls. What was I supposed to do?”

“Take a hint, maybe?”

“I don’t sit back and just let things happen to me, Detective. I never have. That’s why I own this house, with that view out there. If I really want something, I work hard for it. And then I hold on to it. I wasn’t going to just let her walk out of my life.”

“What was Anna to you, exactly? Just another possession?”

“Not a possession.” He met her gaze, his eyes naked with loss. “Anna Leoni was the love of my life.”

His answer took Rizzoli aback. That simple statement, said so quietly, had the honest ring of truth to it.

“I understand you were together for three years,” she said.

He nodded. “She was a microbiologist, working in my research division. That’s how we met. One day she walked into a board meeting to give us an update on antibiotic trials. I took one look at her, and I thought: She’s the one. Do you know what it’s like, to love someone so much, and then watch them walk away from you?”

“Why did she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have an idea.”

“I don’t. Look at what she had here! This house, anything she wanted. I don’t think I’m ugly. Any woman would’ve been thrilled to be with me.”

“Until you started hitting her.”

A silence.

“How often did that happen, Dr. Cassell?”

He sighed. “I have a stressful job …”

“Is that your explanation? You slapped your girlfriend because you had a hard day at the office?”

He did not answer. Instead he reached for his glass. And that, no doubt, was part of the problem, she thought. Mix a hard-driving executive with too much booze, and you get a girlfriend with black eyes.

He set the glass down again. “I just wanted her to come home.”

“And your way of convincing her was to cram death threats in her door?”

“I didn’t do that.”

“She filed multiple complaints with the police.”

“Never happened.”

“Detective Ballard says it did.”

Cassell gave a snort. “That moron believed everything she told him. He likes playing Sir Galahad, it makes him feel important. Did you know he showed up here once, and told me that if I ever touched her again, he’d beat the shit out of me. I think that’s pretty pitiful.”

“She claimed you slashed her window screens.”

“I didn’t.”

“Are you saying she did it herself?”

“I’m just saying I didn’t.”

“Did you scratch her car?”

“What?”

“Did you mark up her car door?”

“That’s a new one to me. When did that supposedly happen?”

“And the dead canary in her mailbox?”

Cassell gave an incredulous laugh. “Do I look like somebody who’d do something that perverted? I wasn’t even in town when that supposedly happened. Where’s the proof it was me?”

She regarded him for a moment, thinking: Of course he denies it, because he’s right; we can’t prove he slashed her screens or scratched her car or put a dead bird in her mailbox. This man didn’t get where he is by being stupid.

“Why would Anna lie about it?” she said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But she did.”