Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

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
    M ATTIE 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
    O NCE AGAIN , M AURA 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