Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles 04 - Body Double Page 6

  Something she had already concluded. A feud between small-time Russian mobsters two years ago did not seem relevant to the murder of Anna Jessop. That Black Talon bullet was a dead link.

  “You’ll lend me that file on Leonov?” she asked. “I still want to look it over.”

  “On your desk tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, guys.” She slid out of the booth and hauled herself to her feet.

  “So when’re you popping?” asked Vann, nodding at her belly.

  “Not soon enough.”

  “The guys, they have a bet going, you know. On the baby’s sex.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I think we’re up to seventy bucks it’s a girl, forty bucks it’s a boy.”

  Vann giggled. “And twenty bucks,” he said, “is on other.”

  Rizzoli felt the baby give a kick as she let herself into her apartment. Settle down in there, Junior, she thought. It’s bad enough you treated me like a punching bag all day; now you’re going to keep it up all night as well? She didn’t know if she was carrying a boy, girl, or other; all she knew was that this kid was eager to be born.

  Just stop trying to kung-fu your way out, okay?

  She threw her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, kicked off her shoes by the door, and tossed her blazer over a dining room chair. Two days ago her husband, Gabriel, had left for Montana as part of an FBI team investigating a paramilitary weapons cache. Now the apartment was sliding back into the same comfortable anarchy that had reigned here before their marriage. Before Gabriel had moved in and instilled some semblance of discipline. Leave it to an ex-Marine to rearrange your pots and pans in order of size.

  In the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She scarcely recognized herself, apple-cheeked and sway-backed, her belly bulging beneath maternity stretch pants. When did I disappear? she thought. Am I still there, hidden somewhere in that distorted body? She confronted that stranger’s reflection, remembering how flat her belly had once been. She did not like the way her face had plumped up, the way her cheeks had turned as rosy as a child’s. The glow of pregnancy, Gabriel had called it, trying to reassure his wife that she did not, in fact, look like a shiny-nosed whale. That woman there is not really me, she thought. That’s not the cop who can kick down doors and blow away perps.

  She flopped on her back onto the bed and spread both arms across the mattress like a bird taking flight. She could smell Gabriel’s scent in the sheets. I miss you tonight, she thought. This was not the way marriage was supposed to be. Two careers, two work-obsessed people. Gabriel on the road, her alone in this apartment. But she’d known, going into it, that it would not be easy. That there’d be too many nights like this one, when his job, or hers, would keep them apart. She thought of calling him again, but they had already talked twice that morning, and Verizon was stealing enough of her paycheck as it was.

  Oh, what the hell.

  She rolled sideways, pushed herself off the bed, and was about to reach for the phone on the nightstand when it suddenly rang. Startled, she looked at the caller ID readout. An unfamiliar number—not Gabriel’s.

  She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Detective Rizzoli?” a man asked.

  “Yes it is.”

  “I apologize for the late hour. I just got back into town this evening, and—”

  ”Who’s calling, please?”

  “Detective Ballard, Newton PD. I understand you’re lead investigator on that shooting last night, out in Brookline. A victim named Anna Jessop.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Last year, I caught a case here. It involved a woman named Anna Jessop. I don’t know if it’s the same person, but—”

  “You said you’re with Newton PD?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you identify Ms. Jessop? If you viewed the remains?”

  A pause. “I think I need to. I need to be sure it’s her.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then I know who killed her.”

  Even before Detective Rick Ballard pulled out his ID, Rizzoli could have guessed the man was a cop. As she walked into the reception area of the M.E.’s building, he immediately rose to his feet, as though at attention. His eyes were a direct and crystalline blue, his brown hair clipped in a conservative cut, and his shirt was pressed with military neatness. He had the same quiet air of command that Gabriel possessed, the same rock-solid gaze that seemed to say, In a pinch, you can count on me. He made her wish, just for an instant, that she was slim-waisted again, and attractive. As they shook hands, as she looked at his ID, she felt him studying her face.

  Definitely a cop, she thought.

  “You ready to do this?” she asked. When he nodded, she glanced at the receptionist. “Is Dr. Bristol downstairs?”

  “He’s finishing up an autopsy right now. He said you can meet him down there.”

  They took the elevator to the basement level and walked into the morgue anteroom, where cabinets held supplies of shoe covers and masks and paper caps. Through the large viewing window they could see into the autopsy lab, where Dr. Bristol and Yoshima were at work on a gaunt, gray-haired man. Bristol spotted them through the glass and he waved in greeting.

  “Ten minutes more!” he said.

  Rizzoli nodded. “We’ll wait.”

  Bristol had just made the scalp incision. Now he peeled the scalp forward over the cranium, collapsing the face.

  “I always hate this part,” said Rizzoli. “When they start messing with the face. The rest, I can handle.”

  Ballard didn’t say anything. She looked at him and saw that his back was now rigid, his face grimly stoic. Since he was not a homicide detective, he probably did not make many visits to the morgue, and the procedure now going on beyond that window must surely strike him as appalling. She remembered the first visit she’d ever made here as a police cadet. She’d been part of a group from the academy, the only woman among the six brawny cadets, and the men had all towered over her. Everyone had expected the girl to be the squeamish one, that she’d be the one who’d turn away during the autopsy. But she had planted herself front and center, had watched the entire procedure without flinching. It was one of the men, the most strapping among them, who had paled and stumbled off to a nearby chair. She wondered if Ballard was about to do the same. Under fluorescent lights, his skin had taken on a sickly pallor.

  In the autopsy room, Yoshima began sawing the cranium open. The whir of blade against bone seemed to be more than Ballard could deal with. He turned from the window, fixing his gaze instead on the boxes of gloves stacked up in various sizes on the shelf. Rizzoli actually felt a little sorry for him. It had to be humiliating when you were a tough-looking guy like Ballard, to let a girl cop see you going rubber-kneed.

  She shoved a stool his way, then pulled one up for herself. Gave a sigh as she sat down. “Nowadays, I’m not so good at standing on my feet too long.”

  He sat down too, looking relieved to be focused on anything other than that whining bone saw. “Is that your first?” he asked, pointing to her belly.

  “Yep.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll be happy either way.”

  “That’s how I felt when my daughter was born. Ten fingers and toes, that’s all I was asking for . . .” He paused, swallowing hard, as the saw continued to whine.

  “How old is your daughter now?” asked Rizzoli, trying to distract him.

  “Oh, fourteen, going on thirty. Not a barrel of laughs right now.”

  “Rough age for girls.”

  “See all my gray hairs coming in?”

  Rizzoli laughed. “My mom used to do that. Point to her head and say, ‘These gray hairs are all your fault.’ I have to admit, I wasn’t nice to be around when I was fourteen. It’s the age.”

  “Well, we’ve got some problems going on, too. My wife and I separated last year. Katie’s getting pulled in different directions. Two working parents,
two households.”

  “That’s gotta be hard on a kid.”

  The whine of the bone saw mercifully ceased. Through the window, Rizzoli saw Yoshima remove the skullcap. Saw Bristol free up the brain, cupping it gently in both hands as he extracted it from the cranium. Ballard kept his gaze averted from the window, his attention focused on Rizzoli.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Working as a cop. Your condition and all.”

  “At least no one expects me to kick down any doors these days.”

  “My wife was a rookie when she got pregnant.”

  “Newton PD?”

  “Boston. They wanted to yank her right off patrol. She told them being pregnant was an advantage. Said perps are a lot more courteous.”

  “Perps? They’re never courteous to me.”

  In the next room, Yoshima was sewing the corpse’s incision closed with needle and suture, a macabre tailor stitching together not fabric, but flesh. Bristol stripped off his gloves, washed his hands, then lumbered out to meet his visitors.

  “Sorry for the delay. Took a little longer than I expected. The guy had tumors all over his abdomen and never saw a doctor. So instead, he gets me.” He reached out with a beefy hand, still damp, to greet Ballard. “Detective. So you’re here to take a look at our gunshot.”

  Rizzoli saw Ballard’s face tighten. “Detective Rizzoli asked me to.”

  Bristol nodded. “Well, let’s go then. She’s in the cold room.” He led them across the autopsy lab, through another doorway to the large refrigeration unit. It looked like any walk-in meat locker, with temperature dials and a massive stainless steel door. Hanging on the wall beside it was a clipboard with the log of deliveries. The name of the elderly man on whom Bristol had just finished the postmortem was there on the list, delivered at eleven P.M. last night. This was not a roster one wanted to be on.

  Bristol opened the door and wisps of condensation drifted out. They stepped inside, and the smell of chilled meat almost made Rizzoli gag. Since becoming pregnant, she had lost her tolerance for foul odors; even a whiff of decay could send her reeling for the nearest sink. This time she managed to hold back the nausea as she gazed with grim resolve at the row of gurneys in the cold room. There were five body bags, their contents shrouded in white plastic.

  Bristol walked up the row of gurneys and scanned the various tags. He stopped at the fourth one. “Here’s our girl,” he said, and unzipped the bag low enough to reveal the upper half of the torso, the Y-incision stitched together with mortician’s suture. More of Yoshima’s handiwork.

  As the plastic parted, Rizzoli’s gaze wasn’t on the dead woman, but on Rick Ballard. He was silent as he stared down at the corpse. The sight of Anna Jessop seemed to freeze him in place.

  “Well?” said Bristol.

  Ballard blinked, as though snapping out of his trance. He released a breath. “It’s her,” he whispered.

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.” Ballard swallowed. “What happened? What did you find?”

  Bristol glanced at Rizzoli, a silent request for her go-ahead to release the information. She gave a nod.

  “Single gunshot, left temple,” Bristol said, pointing to the entrance wound in the scalp. “Extensive damage to the left temporal as well as both parietal lobes, from intracranial ricochet. Massive intracranial bleed.”

  “That was the only wound?”

  “Correct. Very quick, very efficient.”

  Ballard’s gaze had drifted to the torso. To the breasts. It was not a surprising male response, when confronted with a nude young woman, but Rizzoli was nonetheless disturbed by it. Alive or dead, Anna Jessop had a right to her dignity. Rizzoli was relieved when Dr. Bristol matter-of-factly zipped the bag shut, granting the corpse its privacy.

  They walked out of the cold room and Bristol swung the heavy refrigerator door shut. “Do you know the names of next of kin?” he asked. “Anyone we need to notify?”

  “There are none,” said Ballard.

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “She has no living . . .” His voice abruptly faded. He had gone stock-still, and was staring through the window, into the autopsy lab.

  Rizzoli turned to see what he was looking at, and knew immediately what had caught his attention. Maura Isles had just walked into the lab, carrying an envelope of X-rays. She crossed to the viewing box, clipped up films, and turned on the light. As she stood gazing at images of shattered limb bones, she did not realize that she was being watched. That three pairs of eyes were staring at her through the window.

  “Who is that?” Ballard murmured.

  “That’s one of our M.E.’s,” said Bristol. “Dr. Maura Isles.”

  “The resemblance is scary, isn’t it?” said Rizzoli.

  Ballard gave a startled shake of his head. “For a moment I thought . . .”

  “We all did, when we first saw the victim.”

  In the next room, Maura slid the films back into the envelope. She walked out of the lab, never realizing she’d been observed. How easy it is, to stalk another person, thought Rizzoli. There is no such thing as a sixth sense that tells us when others are staring at us. We don’t feel the stalker’s gaze on our backs; only at the instant when he makes his move do we realize he’s there.

  Rizzoli turned to Ballard. “Okay, you’ve seen Anna Jessop. You’ve confirmed you knew her. Now tell us who she really was.”

  FIVE

  THE ULTIMATE DRIVING MACHINE. That’s what all the ads called it, what Dwayne called it, and Mattie Purvis was steering that powerful machine down West Central Street, blinking back tears and thinking: You have to be there. Please, Dwayne, be there. But she didn’t know if he would be. There was so much about her husband that she didn’t understand these days, as if some stranger had stepped into his place, a stranger who scarcely paid attention to her. Scarcely even looked at her. I want my husband back. But I don’t even know how I lost him.

  The giant sign with PURVIS BMW beckoned ahead; she turned into the lot, passing rows of other gleaming ultimate machines, and spotted Dwayne’s car, parked near the showroom door.

  She pulled into the stall next to his and turned off her engine. Sat for a moment, breathing deep. Cleansing breaths, just like they’d taught her in Lamaze class. The class Dwayne had stopped coming to a month ago, because he thought it was a waste of his time. You’re the one having the baby, not me. Why do I need to be there?

  Uh-oh, too many deep breaths. Suddenly light-headed, she reeled forward against the steering wheel. Accidentally bumped the horn and flinched as it gave a loud blare. She glanced out the window and saw one of the mechanics looking at her. At Dwayne’s idiot wife, honking her horn for nothing. Flushing, she pushed open the door, eased her big belly out from behind the steering wheel, and walked into the BMW showroom.

  Inside it smelled like leather and car wax. An aphrodisiac for guys, Dwayne called it, this banquet of scents that now made Mattie faintly nauseated. She paused among the sexy sirens of the showroom: this year’s new models, all sensuous curves and chrome, gleaming under spotlights. A man could lose his soul in this room. Run his hand over a metallic blue flank, stare too long at his reflection in a windshield, and he’d begin to see his dreams. He’d see the man he could be if only he owned one of these machines.

  “Mrs. Purvis?”

  Mattie turned and saw Bart Thayer, one of her husband’s salesmen, waving at her. “Oh. Hi,” she said.

  “You looking for Dwayne?”

  “Yes. Where is he?”

  “I think, uh . . .” Bart glanced toward the back offices. “Let me check.”

  “That’s okay, I can find him.”

  “No! I mean, uh, let me get him, okay? You should sit down, take a load off. In your condition, you shouldn’t be standing around too much.” Funny thing for Bart to say; he had a belly bigger than hers.

  She managed a smile. “I’m only pregnant, Bart. Not cr
ippled.”

  “So when’s the big day?”

  “Two weeks. That’s when we think it’s due, anyway. You never know.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. My first son, he didn’t want to come out. Born three weeks late and he’s been late for everything ever since.” He winked. “Let me get Dwayne for you.”

  She watched him walk toward the back offices. Trailed after him, just far enough to watch him knock on Dwayne’s door. There was no response, so he knocked again. At last the door opened and Dwayne stuck his head out. He gave a start when he spotted Mattie waving at him from the showroom.

  “Can I talk to you?” she called out to him.

  Dwayne stepped right out of his office, closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  Bart looked back and forth at the couple. Slowly he began to sidle away toward the exit. “Uh, Dwayne, I think I’ll just take a little coffee break now.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Dwayne. “I don’t care.”

  Bart fled the showroom. Husband and wife looked at each other.

  “I waited for you,” Mattie said.

  “What?”

  “My OB appointment, Dwayne. You said you were coming. Dr. Fishman waited twenty minutes, and then we couldn’t wait any longer. You missed seeing the sonogram.”

  “Oh. Oh, Jesus. I forgot.” Dwayne ran his hand over his head, smoothing back his dark hair. Always fussing over his hair, his shirt, his tie. When you’re dealing with a high-end product, Dwayne liked to say, you have to look the part. “I’m sorry.”

  She reached in her purse and pulled out a Polaroid. “Do you even want to take a look at the picture?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s our daughter. That’s a picture of the sonogram.”

  He glanced at the photo and shrugged. “Can’t see much of anything.”

  “You can see her arm here, and her leg. If you look real hard, you can almost see her face.”

  “Yeah, cool.” He handed it back. “I’ll be home a little late tonight, okay? There’s a guy coming by at six for a test drive. I’ll catch dinner on my own.”

  She put the Polaroid back in her purse and sighed. “Dwayne—”