Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

remembered.” She walked out the door.
    Rizzoli felt Marquette’s gaze, watching for her reaction. Waiting to see if she’d lose it, right there and then. She was relieved when he too walked out of the room, leaving her alone to pack up the overhead projector. She gathered up the transparencies, unplugged the machine, and wound up the cord into tight coils, all her anger directed at that cord as she wrapped it around her hand. She wheeled the projector out into the hallway and almost collided with Frost, who was just snapping his cell phone shut.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    “Where?”
    “Natick. They’ve got a missing woman.”
    Rizzoli frowned at him. “Is she . . .”
    He nodded. “She’s nine months pregnant.”

TWENTY-FIVE
    “Y OU 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