“That’s all we’ve got,” said Larry. “She comes out of the building, gets in her car, drives away. Whatever happened to her, it didn’t happen in our lot.” He reached for the remote.
“Wait,” said Rizzoli.
“What?”
“Go back.”
“How far?”
“About thirty seconds.”
Larry pressed REWIND and digital pixels briefly scrambled on the monitor, then re-formed into an image of parked cars. There was Mattie, ducking into her car. Rizzoli rose from her chair, crossed to the monitor, and stared as Mattie drove away. As a flash of white appeared, gliding across one corner of the frame, in the same direction as Mattie’s BMW.
“Stop,” said Rizzoli. The image froze, and Rizzoli touched the screen. “There. That white van.”
Frost said, “It’s moving parallel to the vic’s car.” The victim. Already assuming the worst about Mattie’s fate.
“So what?” said Larry.
Rizzoli looked at Fishman. “Do you recognize that vehicle?”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s not as if I pay attention to cars at all. I’m clueless about makes and models.”
“But have you seen this white van before?”
“I don’t know. To me it looks like every other white van.”
“Why are you interested in that van?” said Larry. “I mean, you can see her get safely into her car and drive away.”
“Rewind it,” said Rizzoli.
“You want to play this part again?”
“No. I want to go back further.” She looked at Fishman. “You said her appointment was for one thirty?”
“Yes.”
“Go back to one o’clock.”
Larry pressed the remote. On the monitor, pixels scrambled, then rearranged themselves. The time at the bottom said 1:02.
“Close enough,” said Rizzoli. “Let’s play it.”
As the seconds ticked forward, they watched cars roll in and out of view. Saw a woman pull two toddlers from their car seats and walk across the lot, little hands grasped firmly in hers.
At 1:08, the white van appeared. It cruised slowly down the row of cars, then vanished out of camera range.
At 1:25, Mattie Purvis’s blue BMW drove into the lot. She was partially hidden by the row of cars between her and the camera, and they saw only the top of her head as she emerged from her car, as she walked down the row toward the building.
“Is that enough?” said Larry.
“Keep running.”
“What are we looking for?”
Rizzoli felt her pulse quicken. “That,” she said softly.
The white van was back on the screen. It cruised slowly up the row of cars. Stopped between the camera and the blue BMW.
“Shit,” said Rizzoli. “It’s blocking our view! We can’t see what the driver’s doing.”
Seconds later, the van moved on. They had not caught even a glimpse of the driver’s face; nor had they seen the license plate.
“What was that all about?” said Dr. Fishman.
Rizzoli turned and looked at Frost. She didn’t have to say a word; they both understood what had happened in that parking lot. The flat tire. Theresa and Nikki Wells had a flat tire as well.
This is how he finds them, she thought. A clinic parking lot. Pregnant women walking in to visit their doctors. A quick slash of the tire, and then it’s just a waiting game. Follow your prey as she drives out of the lot. When she pulls over, there you are, right behind her.
Ready to offer your assistance.
As Frost drove, Rizzoli sat thinking about the life nestled inside her. About how thin was the wall of skin and muscle that cradled her baby. A blade would not have to cut very deep. A quick incision, straight down the abdomen, from breast bone to pubis, without concern about scars, because there would be no healing, no worries about the mother’s health. She is just a disposable husk, peeled open for the treasure she contains. She pressed her hands to her belly and felt suddenly sickened by the thought of what Mattie Purvis might, at that moment, be enduring. Surely Mattie had not entertained such grotesque images while she’d stared at her own reflection. Perhaps she’d looked at the stretch marks spidering across her abdomen and felt a sense of bereavement about losing her attractiveness. A sense of grief that when her husband looked at her, it was now with disinterest, not lust. Not love.
Did you know Dwayne was having an affair?
She looked at Frost. “He’ll need a broker.”
“What?”
“When he gets his hands on a new baby, what does he do with it? He must bring it to a go-between. Someone who seals the adoption, draws up the papers. And pays him the cash.”
“Van Gates.”
“We know he did it for her at least once before.”
“That was forty years ago.”
“How many other adoptions has he arranged since then? How many other babies has he placed with paying families? There’s got to be money in it.” Money to keep the trophy wife in pink spandex.
“Van Gates is not going to cooperate.”
“Not a chance in hell. But we know what to watch for, now.”
“The white van.”
Frost drove for a moment in silence. “You know,” he said, “if that van does show up at his house, it probably means…” His voice trailed off.
That Mattie Purvis is already dead, thought Rizzoli.
TWENTY-SIX
MATTIE BRACED HER BACK against one wall, placed her feet against the other wall, and pushed. Counted the seconds until her legs were quivering and sweat beaded her face. Come on, five more seconds. Ten. She went limp, panting, her calves and thighs tingling with a pleasant burn. She had scarcely used them in this box, had spent too many hours curled up and wallowing in self-pity as her muscles degenerated to mush. She remembered the time she’d caught the flu, a bad flu that had laid her flat on her back, feverish and shaking. A few days later she had climbed out of bed and felt so weak she had to crawl to the bathroom. That’s what lying around too long did to you: It robbed you of your strength. Soon she’d need those muscles; she had to be ready when he came back.
Because he would come back.
That’s enough rest. Feet against the wall again. Push!
She grunted, sweat blooming on her forehead. She thought of the movie GI Jane, and how sleek and toned Demi Moore had looked as she’d lifted weights. Mattie held that image in her head as she pushed against her prison walls. Visualize muscles. And fighting back. And beating the bastard.
With a gasp, she once again relaxed against the wall and rested there, breathing deep as the ache in her legs subsided. She was about to repeat the exercise when she felt the tightening in her belly.
Another contraction.
She waited, holding her breath, hoping it would pass quickly. Already it was easing off. Just the womb trying out its muscles, as she was trying out hers. It wasn’t painful, but it was a sign that her time was coming.
Wait, baby. You have to wait a little longer.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ONCE AGAIN, MAURA WAS SHEDDING all the proof of her own identity. She placed her purse in the locker, added to it her watch, her belt, and her car keys. But even with my credit card and driver’s license and Social Security number, she thought, I still don’t know who I really am. The only person who knows that answer is waiting for me on the other side of the barrier.
She entered the visitor trap, took off her shoes and placed them on the counter for inspection, then passed through the metal detector.
A female guard was waiting for her. “Dr. Isles?”
“Yes.”
“You requested an interview room?”
“I need to speak to the prisoner alone.”
“You’ll still be monitored visually. You understand that?”
“As long as our conversation is private.”
“It’s the same room where prisoners meet with their attorneys. So you’ll have privacy.” The guard led Maura through the public day room and down a corridor. There she unlocked a door and waved her through. “We’ll bring her to the room. Have a seat.”