Body Double (8 page)

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

T
HE 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 crippled.”

“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—”

He gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “Let me walk you out. C’mon.”

“Can’t we go out for coffee or something?”

“I’ve got customers.”

“But there’s no one else in the showroom.”

“Mattie,
please.
Just let me do my job, okay?”

Dwayne’s office door suddenly opened. Mattie’s head swiveled around as a woman stepped out, a lanky blonde who quickly ducked across the hall, into another office.

“Who’s that?” said Mattie.

“What?”

“That woman who was just in your office.”

“Oh. Her?” He cleared his throat. “New hire. I thought it was about time we brought in a saleswoman. You know, diversify the team. She’s turned into a real asset. Moved out more cars last month than Bart did, and that’s saying something.”

Mattie stared at Dwayne’s closed door, thinking: That’s when it started. Last month. That’s when everything changed between us, when the stranger moved into Dwayne’s body.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Look, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

“I just want to know her name.” She turned and looked at her husband and, in that instant, she saw raw guilt in his eyes, as glaring as neon.

“Oh, Jesus.” He turned away. “I don’t need this.”

“Uh, Mrs. Purvis?” It was Bart, calling from the showroom doorway. “Did you know you have a flat tire? The mechanic just pointed it out to me.”

Dazed, she turned and stared at him. “No. I . . . I didn’t.”

“How can you
not
notice you have a flat tire?” Dwayne said.

“It might have—well, it seemed to handle a little sluggishly, but—”

”I don’t believe this.” Dwayne was already heading for the door. Walking away from me as always, she thought. And now he’s angry. How did everything suddenly become my fault?

She and Bart followed him to her car. Dwayne was crouched down by the right rear wheel, shaking his head.

“Can you believe she didn’t notice this?” he said to Bart. “Look at this tire! She shredded the fucking tire!”

“Hey, it happens,” said Bart. He gave Mattie a sympathetic glance. “Look, I’ll ask Ed to slip on a new one. No problem.”

“But look at the rim, it’s all screwed up. How many miles you think she drove on this thing? How can anyone be that dense?”

“C’mon, Dwayne,” said Bart. “It’s no big deal.”

“I didn’t know,” said Mattie. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you drive it like this all the way from the doctor’s office?” Dwayne glanced at her over his shoulder, and the anger she saw in his eyes scared her. “Were you daydreaming or what?”

“Dwayne,
I didn’t know.
”

Bart patted Dwayne on the shoulder. “Maybe you should lighten up a little, how ’bout it?”

“Stay the hell out of this!” snapped Dwayne.

Bart retreated, hands lifted in submission. “Okay, okay.” He shot a last glance at Mattie, a look of
good luck, honey,
and walked away.

“It’s only a tire,” said Mattie.

“You must’ve been throwing sparks all down the road. How many people you think saw you driving around like this?”

“Does it matter?”

“
Hello!
This is a
Beemer.
When you’re driving a machine like this, you’re upholding an image. People see this car, they expect the driver to be a little smarter, a little more hip. So you go clanking around on a bare rim, it
ruins
the image. It makes every other Beemer driver look bad. It makes
me
look bad.”

“It’s only a tire.”

“Stop saying that.”

“But it is.”

Dwayne gave a snort of disgust and rose to his feet. “I give up.”

She swallowed back tears. “It’s not about the tire. Is it, Dwayne?”

“What?”

“This fight is about us. Something’s wrong between
us.
”

His silence only made things worse. He didn’t look at her, but turned, instead, to watch the mechanic walking toward them.

“Hey,” the mechanic called out. “Bart said I should go ahead and change that tire.”

“Yeah, take care of it, will you?” Dwayne paused, his attention shifting to a Toyota that had just driven into the lot. A man climbed out and stood eyeing one of the BMWs. Bent close to read the dealer’s sticker on the window. Dwayne smoothed back his hair, gave his tie a tug, and started walking toward the new customer.

“Dwayne?” said Mattie.

“I got a client here.”

“But I’m your
wife.
”

He spun around, his gaze suddenly, shockingly, poisonous.
“Don’t. Push it. Mattie.”

“What do I have to do to get your attention?” she cried. “Buy a car from you? Is that what it takes? Because I don’t know any other way.” Her voice broke. “I don’t know any other way.”

“Then maybe you should just stop trying. Because I don’t see the point anymore.”

She watched him walk away. Saw him pause to square his shoulders, put on a smile. His voice suddenly boomed out, warm and friendly, as he greeted the new client on the lot.

“Mrs. Purvis? Ma’am?”

She blinked. Turned to look at the mechanic.

“I’ll need your car keys, if you don’t mind. So I can move her into the bay and get that tire on.” He held out a grease-stained hand.

Wordless, she gave him her key ring, then turned to look at Dwayne. But he did not even glance her way. As if she was invisible. As if she was nothing.

She scarcely remembered driving home.

She found herself sitting at the kitchen table, still holding the keys, the day’s mail stacked in front of her. On top was the credit card bill, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Dwayne Purvis. Mr. and Mrs. She remembered the first time someone had called her Mrs. Purvis, and the joy she’d felt at hearing the name. Mrs. Purvis, Mrs. Purvis.