TWENTY-FIVE

“You ask me,” said Natick Detective Sarmiento, “this is just another Laci Peterson case. Marriage off the rails, husband’s got a mistress in the wings.”

“He admits he’s got a girlfriend?” asked Rizzoli.

“Not yet, but I can smell it, you know?” Sarmiento tapped his nose and laughed. “Scent of the other woman.”

Yeah, he probably could smell it, thought Rizzoli as Sarmiento led her and Frost past desks with glowing computer screens. He looked like a man familiar with the scent of the ladies. He had the walk, the confident strut of the cool guy, right arm swinging out from years of wearing a gun on his hip, that telltale arc that shouted cop. Barry Frost had never picked up that swagger. Next to the strapping, dark-haired Sarmiento, Frost looked like a pale clerk with his trusty pen and notebook.

“Missing woman’s name is Matilda Purvis,” said Sarmiento, pausing at his desk to pick up a folder, which he handed to Rizzoli. “Thirty-one years old, Caucasian. Married seven months to Dwayne Purvis. He owns the BMW dealership here in town. Saw his wife last Friday, when she dropped in to see him at work. Apparently they had an argument, because witnesses said the wife left crying.”

“So when did he report her missing?” asked Frost.

“On Sunday.”

“It took him two days to get around to it?”

“After the fight, he said he wanted to let things cool down between them, so he stayed in a hotel. Didn’t return home till Sunday. Found the wife’s car in the garage, Saturday’s mail still in the box. Figured something was wrong. We took his report Sunday night. Then this morning, we saw that alert you sent out, about pregnant women going missing. I’m not sure this one fits your pattern. Looks more to me like your classic domestic blowup.”

“You checked out that hotel he stayed in?” asked Rizzoli.

Sarmiento responded with a smirk. “Last time I spoke to him, he was having trouble remembering which one it was.”

Rizzoli opened the folder and saw a photo of Matilda Purvis and her husband, taken on their wedding day. If they’d been married only seven months, then she was already two months pregnant when this photo had been taken. The bride was sweet-faced, with brown hair, brown eyes, and girlishly round cheeks. Her smile reflected pure happiness. It was the look of a woman who had just fulfilled her lifelong dream. Standing beside her, Dwayne Purvis looked weary, almost bored. The photo could have been captioned: Trouble ahead.

Sarmiento led the way down a corridor, and into a darkened room. Through a one-way window, they could see into the adjoining interview room, unoccupied at the moment. It had stark white walls, a table and three chairs, a video camera mounted high in one corner. A room designed to sweat out the truth.

Through the window they saw the door swing open, and two men entered. One of them was a cop, barrel-chested and balding, a face with no expression, just a blank. The kind of face that made you anxious for a glimpse of emotion.

“Detective Ligett’s going to handle it this time,” murmured Sarmiento. “See if we get anything new out of him.”

“Have a seat,” they heard Ligett say. Dwayne sat down, facing the window. From his point of view it was just a mirror. Did he realize there were eyes watching him through the glass? His gaze seemed to focus, for an instant, directly on Rizzoli. She suppressed the urge to step back, to recede deeper into the darkness. Not that Dwayne Purvis looked particularly threatening. He was in his early thirties, dressed casually in a button-down white shirt, no tie, and tan chinos. On his wrist was a Breitling watch—a bad move on his part, to walk in for police questioning flashing a piece of jewelry that a cop couldn’t afford. Dwayne had the bland good looks and cocky self-assurance that some women might find attractive—if they liked men who flaunted pricey watches.

“Must sell a lot of BMWs,” she said.

“Mortgaged up to his ears,” said Sarmiento. “Bank owns the house.”

“Policy on the wife?”

“Two hundred fifty thousand.”

“Not enough to make it worth killing her.”

“Still, it’s two hundred fifty G’s. But without a body, he’ll have a hard time collecting. So far, we don’t have one.”

In the next room, Detective Ligett said: “Okay, Dwayne, I just want to go back over a few details.” Ligett’s voice was as flat as his expression.

“I’ve already talked to that other policeman,” said Dwayne. “I forgot his name. The guy who looks like that actor. You know, Benjamin Bratt.”

“Detective Sarmiento?”

“Yeah.”

Rizzoli heard Sarmiento, standing beside her, give a pleased little grunt. Always nice to hear you look like Benjamin Bratt.

“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time here,” said Dwayne. “You should be out there, looking for my wife.”

“We are, Dwayne.”

“How is this helping?”

“You never know. You never know what little detail you might remember that will make a difference in the search.” Ligett paused. “For instance.”

“What?”

“That hotel you checked into. You remember the name of it yet?”

“It was just some hotel.”

“How’d you pay for it?”

“This is irrelevant!”

“You use a credit card?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

Dwayne huffed out a sound of exasperation. “Yeah, okay. It was my credit card.”

“So the name of the hotel should be on your statement. All we have to do is check.”

A silence. “Okay, I remember, now. It was the Crowne Plaza.”

“The one in Natick?”

“No. It was out in Wellesley.”

Sarmiento, standing beside Rizzoli, suddenly reached for the telephone on the wall. He murmured into it: “This is Detective Sarmiento. I need the Crowne Plaza Hotel, in Wellesley …”

In the interrogation room, Ligett said, “Wellesley’s kind of far from home, isn’t it?”

Dwayne sighed. “I needed some breathing room, that’s all. A little time to myself. You know, Mattie’s been so clingy lately. Then I have to go to work, and everyone there wants a piece of me, too.”

“Rough life, huh?” Ligett said it straight, without a hint of the sarcasm he had to be feeling.

“Everyone wants a deal. I’ve gotta smile through my teeth at customers who’re asking me for the moon. I can’t give them the moon. A fine machine like a BMW, they have to expect to pay for it. And they all have the money, that’s what kills me. They have the money, and they still want to suck every last cent out of my hide.”

His wife is missing, possibly dead, thought Rizzoli. And he’s pissed off about Beemer bargain hunters?

“That’s why I lost my temper. That’s what the argument was all about.”

“With your wife?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t about us. It’s the business. Money’s been tight, you know? That’s all it was. Things are just tight.”

“The employees who saw that argument—”

“Which employees? Who did you talk to?”

“There was a salesman and a mechanic. They both said your wife looked pretty upset when she left.”

“Well, she’s pregnant. She gets upset at the craziest things. All those hormones, it sends ’em out of control. Pregnant women, you just can’t reason with them.”

Rizzoli felt her cheeks flush. Wondered if Frost thought the same thing about her.

“Plus, she’s tired all the time,” Dwayne said. “Cries at the drop of a hat. Her back hurts, her feet hurt. Has to run to the bathroom every ten minutes.” He shrugged. “I think I deal with it pretty well. Considering.”

“Sympathetic guy,” said Frost.

Sarmiento suddenly hung up the phone and stepped out. Then, through the window, they saw him stick his head into the interrogation room and motion to Ligett. Both detectives left the room. Dwayne, now left alone at the table, looked at his watch, shifted in his chair. Gazed at the mirror and frowned. He pulled out a pocket comb and fussed with his hair until every strand was perfect. The grieving husband, getting camera-ready for the five o’clock news.

Sarmiento slipped back into the room with Rizzoli and Frost, and gave them a knowing wink. “Gotcha,” he whispered.

“What do you have?”

“Watch.”

Through the window, they saw Ligett reenter the interrogation room. He closed the door and just stood gazing at Dwayne. Dwayne went very still, but the pulse in his neck was visibly bounding above his shirt collar.

“So,” said Ligett. “You wanna tell me the truth now?”

“About what?”

“Those two nights in the Crowne Plaza Hotel?”

Dwayne gave a laugh—an inappropriate response, under the circumstances. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Detective Sarmiento just spoke to the Crowne Plaza. They confirm you were a guest those two nights.”

“Well, you see? I told you—”

“Who was the woman who checked in with you, Dwayne? Blond, pretty. Had breakfast with you both mornings in the dining room?”

Dwayne fell silent. He swallowed.

“Your wife know about the blonde? Is that what you and Mattie were arguing about?”

“No—”

“So she didn’t know about her?”

“No! I mean, that’s not why we argued.”

“Sure it is.”

“You’re trying to put the worst possible spin on this!”

“What, the girlfriend doesn’t exist?” Ligett moved closer, getting right up in Dwayne’s face. “She’s not going to be hard to find. She’ll probably call us. She’ll see your face on the news and realize she’s better off stepping right up to the plate with the truth.”

“This has got nothing to do with—I mean, I know it looks bad, but—”

“Sure does.”

“Okay.” Dwayne sighed. “Okay, I kind of strayed, all right? Lot of guys do, in my position. It’s hard when your wife’s so huge you can’t do it with her anymore. There’s that big belly sticking out. And she’s just not interested.”

Rizzoli stared rigidly ahead, wondering if Frost and Sarmiento were glancing her way. Yeah, here I am. Another one with a big belly. And a husband who’s out of town. She stared at Dwayne and imagined Gabriel sitting in that chair, saying those words. Jesus, don’t do this to yourself, she thought, don’t screw around with your own head. It’s not Gabriel, but a loser named Dwayne Purvis who got caught with a girlfriend and couldn’t deal with the consequences. Your wife finds out about the chickie on the side, and you’re thinking: bye bye to Breitling watches and half the house and eighteen years of child support. This asshole is definitely guilty.

She looked at Frost. He shook his head. Both of them could see this was just a replay of an old tragedy they’d seen a dozen times before.

“So did she threaten divorce?” asked Ligett.

“No. Mattie didn’t know anything about her.”

“She just shows up at work and picks a fight?”

“It was stupid. I told Sarmiento all about it.”

“Why did you get mad, Dwayne?”

“Because she drives around with a goddamn flat tire and doesn’t even notice it! I mean, how dense can you be not to notice that you’re scraping your rim? The other salesman saw it. Brand-new tire, and it’s shredded, just ripped to hell. I see that and I guess I yelled at her. And she gets all teary-eyed, and that just irritates me more, because it makes me feel like a jerk.”

You are a jerk, thought Rizzoli. She looked at Sarmiento. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

“What’d I tell you?”

“You’ll let us know if anything new develops?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sarmiento’s gaze was back on Dwayne. “It’s easy when they’re this dumb.”

Rizzoli and Frost turned to leave.

“Who knows how many miles she was driving around with it like that?” Dwayne was saying. “Hell, it might already have been flat when she got to the doctor’s office.”

Rizzoli suddenly halted. Turning back to the window, she frowned at Dwayne. Felt her pulse suddenly pounding in her temple. Jesus. I almost missed it.

“Which doctor is he talking about?” she asked Sarmiento.

“A Dr. Fishman. I spoke to her yesterday.”

“Why did Mrs. Purvis see her?”

“Just a routine OB appointment, nothing unusual about it.”

Rizzoli looked at Sarmiento. “Dr. Fishman is an obstetrician?”

He nodded. “She has an office in the Women’s Clinic. Over on Bacon Street.”

Dr. Susan Fishman had been up most of the night at the hospital, and her face was a map of exhaustion. Her unwashed brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the white lab coat she wore over the rumpled scrub suit had pockets so loaded down with various examination tools that the fabric seemed to be dragging her shoulders toward the floor.

“Larry from security brought over the surveillance tapes,” she said as she escorted Rizzoli and Frost from the clinic reception desk into a rear hallway. Her tennis shoes squeaked across the linoleum. “He’s getting the video equipment set up in the back room. Thank god no one expects me to do it. I don’t even have a VCR at home.”

“Your clinic still has the recordings from a week ago?” asked Frost.

“We have a contract with Minute Man Security. They keep the tapes for at least a week. We asked them to, given all the threats.”

“What threats?”

“This is a pro-choice clinic, you know. We don’t perform any abortions on site, but just the fact we call ourselves a women’s clinic seems to tick off the right-wing crowd. We like to keep an eye on who comes into the building.”

“So you’ve had problems before?”

“What you’d expect. Threatening letters. Envelopes with fake anthrax. Assholes hanging around, taking photos of our patients. That’s why we keep that video camera in the parking lot. We want to keep an eye on everyone who comes near our front door.” She led them down another hallway, decorated with the same cheerfully generic posters that seemed to adorn every obstetrician’s office. Diagrams on breast-feeding, on maternal nutrition, on the “five danger signs that you have an abusive partner.” An anatomical illustration of a pregnant woman, the contents of her abdomen revealed in cross section. It made Rizzoli uncomfortable walking beside Frost, with that poster looming on the wall, as though her own anatomy was up there on display. Bowel, bladder, uterus. Fetus curled up in a tangle of limbs. Only last week, Matilda Purvis had walked past this very poster.

“We’re all heartsick about Mattie,” said Dr. Fishman. “She’s just the sweetest person. And she’s so thrilled about the baby.”

“At her last appointment, everything was fine?” asked Rizzoli.

“Oh, yes. Strong fetal heart tones, good position. Everything looked great.” Fishman glanced back at Rizzoli. Asked, grimly: “You think it’s the husband?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, isn’t it usually the husband? He only came in with her once, way at the beginning. Acted bored the whole visit. After that, Mattie would show up alone for her appointments. That’s the tip-off for me. If you make a baby together, you damn well ought to show up together. But that’s just my opinion.” She opened a door. “This is our conference room.”

Larry from Minute Man Security Systems was waiting in the room for them. “I’ve got that video ready to show you,” he said. “I narrowed it down to the time frame you’re interested in. Dr. Fishman, you’ll need to watch the footage. Tell us when you spot your patient on the video.”

Fishman sighed and settled into a chair in front of the monitor. “I’ve never had to look at one of these before.”

“Lucky you,” said Larry. “Most of the time they’re pretty boring.”

Rizzoli and Frost sat down on either side of Fishman. “Okay,” said Rizzoli. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Larry hit PLAY.

On the monitor, a long view of the clinic’s main entrance appeared. A bright day, sunlight glinting off a row of cars parked in front of the building.

“This camera’s mounted on top of a lamppost in the parking lot,” said Larry. “You can see the time there, at the bottom. Two oh five P.M.”

A Saab swung into view and pulled into a stall. The driver’s door opened and a tall brunette climbed out. She strolled toward the clinic and vanished inside.

“Mattie’s appointment was at one thirty,” said Dr. Fishman. “Maybe you should back up the film a little.”

“Just keep watching,” said Larry. “There. Two thirty P.M. Is that her?”

A woman had just stepped out of the building. She paused for a moment in the sunshine, and ran her hand across her eyes, as though she was dazzled by the light.

“That’s her,” said Fishman. “That’s Mattie.”

Mattie started walking away from the building now, moving in that duck waddle so characteristic of heavily pregnant women. She took her time, digging through her purse for her car keys as she walked, distracted, not paying attention. Suddenly she stopped and glanced around with a bewildered look, as though she’d forgotten where she left her car. Yes, this was a woman who might not notice that her tire was flat, thought Rizzoli. Now Mattie turned and walked in a completely different direction, vanishing from the camera’s view.

“Is that all you have?” asked Rizzoli.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” said Larry. “Confirmation of the time she left the building?”

“But where’s her car? We don’t see her getting into her car.”

“Is there some question that she didn’t?”

“I just want to see her leave the parking lot.”

Larry rose and went to the video system. “There’s one other angle I can show you, from a camera that’s way on the other side of the lot,” he said, changing the tape. “But I don’t think it helps much, because it’s so far away.” He picked up the remote and again pressed PLAY.

Another view appeared. This time only one corner of the clinic building was visible; most of the screen was filled with parked cars.

“This parking lot’s shared with the medical-surgery clinic across the way,” said Larry. “That’s why you see so many cars here. Okay, look. Isn’t that her?”

In the distance, Mattie’s head was visible as she moved along a row of cars. Now she ducked out of sight. A moment later, a blue car backed out of its stall and rolled out of the frame.

“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.