Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

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