“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.