Free Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen

ricochet. Massive intracranial bleed.”
    “That was the only wound?”
    “Correct. Very quick, very efficient.”
    Ballard’s gaze had drifted to the torso. To the breasts. It was not a surprising male response, when confronted with a nude young woman, but Rizzoli was nonetheless disturbed by it. Alive or dead, Anna Jessop had a right to her dignity. Rizzoli was relieved when Dr. Bristol matter-of-factly zipped the bag shut, granting the corpse its privacy.
    They walked out of the cold room and Bristol swung the heavy refrigerator door shut. “Do you know the names of next of kin?” he asked. “Anyone we need to notify?”
    “There are none,” said Ballard.
    “You’re sure of that.”
    “She has no living . . .” His voice abruptly faded. He had gone stock-still, and was staring through the window, into the autopsy lab.
    Rizzoli turned to see what he was looking at, and knew immediately what had caught his attention. Maura Isles had just walked into the lab, carrying an envelope of X-rays. She crossed to the viewing box, clipped up films, and turned on the light. As she stood gazing at images of shattered limb bones, she did not realize that she was being watched. That three pairs of eyes were staring at her through the window.
    “Who is that?” Ballard murmured.
    “That’s one of our M.E.’s,” said Bristol. “Dr. Maura Isles.”
    “The resemblance is scary, isn’t it?” said Rizzoli.
    Ballard gave a startled shake of his head. “For a moment I thought . . .”
    “We all did, when we first saw the victim.”
    In the next room, Maura slid the films back into the envelope. She walked out of the lab, never realizing she’d been observed. How easy it is, to stalk another person, thought Rizzoli. There is no such thing as a sixth sense that tells us when others are staring at us. We don’t feel the stalker’s gaze on our backs; only at the instant when he makes his move do we realize he’s there.
    Rizzoli turned to Ballard. “Okay, you’ve seen Anna Jessop. You’ve confirmed you knew her. Now tell us who she really was.”

FIVE
    T HE ULTIMATE DRIVING MACHINE. That’s what all the ads called it, what Dwayne called it, and Mattie Purvis was steering that powerful machine down West Central Street, blinking back tears and thinking: You have to be there. Please, Dwayne, be there. But she didn’t know if he would be. There was so much about her husband that she didn’t understand these days, as if some stranger had stepped into his place, a stranger who scarcely paid attention to her. Scarcely even looked at her.
I want my husband back. But I don’t even know how I lost him.
    The giant sign with PURVIS BMW beckoned ahead; she turned into the lot, passing rows of other gleaming ultimate machines, and spotted Dwayne’s car, parked near the showroom door.
    She pulled into the stall next to his and turned off her engine. Sat for a moment, breathing deep. Cleansing breaths, just like they’d taught her in Lamaze class. The class Dwayne had stopped coming to a month ago, because he thought it was a waste of his time.
You’re the one having the baby, not me. Why do I need to be there?
    Uh-oh, too many deep breaths. Suddenly light-headed, she reeled forward against the steering wheel. Accidentally bumped the horn and flinched as it gave a loud blare. She glanced out the window and saw one of the mechanics looking at her. At Dwayne’s idiot wife, honking her horn for nothing. Flushing, she pushed open the door, eased her big belly out from behind the steering wheel, and walked into the BMW showroom.
    Inside it smelled like leather and car wax. An aphrodisiac for guys, Dwayne called it, this banquet of scents that now made Mattie faintly nauseated. She paused among the sexy sirens of the showroom: this year’s new models, all sensuous curves and chrome, gleaming under spotlights. A man could lose his soul in this room. Run his hand over a metallic blue flank, stare too long at his reflection in a