Tess Gerritsen - Body Double

“So you’ve got yourself a Black Talon vic,” said Dunleavy.

“Last night, out in Brookline,” she said. “First Talon since your case. That was what, two years ago?”

“Yeah, about.”

“Closed?”

Dunleavy gave a laugh. “Nailed tight as a coffin.”

“Who was the shooter?”

“Guy named Antonin Leonov. Ukrainian immigrant, two-bit player, trying to go big league. Russian mob would’ve taken him out eventually, if we hadn’t arrested him first.”

“What a moron,” snorted Vann. “He had no idea we were watching him.”

“Why were you?” she asked.

“We got a tip he was expecting a delivery from Tajikistan,” said Dunleavy. “Heroin. Big one. We were on his tail for almost a week, and he never spotted us. So we follow him to his partner’s house. Vassily Titov. Titov must’ve pissed off Leonov or something. We watch as Leonov goes into Titov’s house. Then we hear gunshots, and Leonov comes back out.”

“And we’re waiting for him,” said Vann. “Like I said, a moron.”

Dunleavy raised his Guinness in a toast. “Open and shut. Perp’s caught with the weapon. We’re there to witness it. Don’t know why he even bothered to plead innocent. Took the jury less than an hour to come back with the verdict.”

“Did he ever tell you how he got hold of those Black Talons?” she asked.

“You kidding?” said Vann. “He wouldn’t tell us anything. Hardly spoke any English, but he sure as hell knew the word Miranda. ”

“We brought a team in to search his house and business,” said Dunleavy. “Found, like, eight boxes of Black Talons stored in his warehouse, can you believe it? Don’t know how he got his hands on so many, but he had quite a stash.” Dunleavy shrugged. “So that’s the scoop on Leonov. I don’t see how he connects with your shooting.”

“There’ve been only two Black Talon shootings here in five years,” she said. “Your case and mine.”

“Yeah, well, there’s probably a few bullets still floating around out there on the black market. Hell, check eBay. All I know is, we nailed Leonov, and good.” Dunleavy downed his pint. “You’ve got yourself a different shooter.”

Something she had already concluded. A feud between small-time Russian mobsters two years ago did not seem relevant to the murder of Anna Jessop. That Black Talon bullet was a dead link.

“You’ll lend me that file on Leonov?” she asked. “I still want to look it over.”

“On your desk tomorrow.”

“Thanks, guys.” She slid out of the booth and hauled herself to her feet.

“So when’re you popping?” asked Vann, nodding at her belly.

“Not soon enough.”

“The guys, they have a bet going, you know. On the baby’s sex.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I think we’re up to seventy bucks it’s a girl, forty bucks it’s a boy.”

Vann giggled. “And twenty bucks,” he said, “is on other. ”

Rizzoli felt the baby give a kick as she let herself into her apartment. Settle down in there, Junior, she thought. It’s bad enough you treated me like a punching bag all day; now you’re going to keep it up all night as well? She didn’t know if she was carrying a boy, girl, or other; all she knew was that this kid was eager to be born.

Just stop trying to kung-fu your way out, okay?

She threw her purse and keys on the kitchen counter, kicked off her shoes by the door, and tossed her blazer over a dining room chair. Two days ago her husband, Gabriel, had left for Montana as part of an FBI team investigating a paramilitary weapons cache. Now the apartment was sliding back into the same comfortable anarchy that had reigned here before their marriage. Before Gabriel had moved in and instilled some semblance of discipline. Leave it to an ex-Marine to rearrange your pots and pans in order of size.

In the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She scarcely recognized herself, apple-cheeked and sway-backed, her belly bulging beneath maternity stretch pants. When did I disappear? she thought. Am I still there, hidden somewhere in that distorted body? She confronted that stranger’s reflection, remembering how flat her belly had once been. She did not like the way her face had plumped up, the way her cheeks had turned as rosy as a child’s. The glow of pregnancy, Gabriel had called it, trying to reassure his wife that she did not, in fact, look like a shiny-nosed whale. That woman there is not really me, she thought. That’s not the cop who can kick down doors and blow away perps.

She flopped on her back onto the bed and spread both arms across the mattress like a bird taking flight. She could smell Gabriel’s scent in the sheets. I miss you tonight, she thought. This was not the way marriage was supposed to be. Two careers, two work-obsessed people. Gabriel on the road, her alone in this apartment. But she’d known, going into it, that it would not be easy. That there’d be too many nights like this one, when his job, or hers, would keep them apart. She thought of calling him again, but they had already talked twice that morning, and Verizon was stealing enough of her paycheck as it was.

Oh, what the hell.

She rolled sideways, pushed herself off the bed, and was about to reach for the phone on the nightstand when it suddenly rang. Startled, she looked at the caller ID readout. An unfamiliar number-not Gabriel’s.

She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Detective Rizzoli?” a man asked.

“Yes it is.”

“I apologize for the late hour. I just got back into town this evening, and-”

”Who’s calling, please?”

“Detective Ballard, Newton PD. I understand you’re lead investigator on that shooting last night, out in Brookline. A victim named Anna Jessop.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Last year, I caught a case here. It involved a woman named Anna Jessop. I don’t know if it’s the same person, but-”

“You said you’re with Newton PD?”

“Yes.”

“Could you identify Ms. Jessop? If you viewed the remains?”

A pause. “I think I need to. I need to be sure it’s her.”

“And if it is?”

“Then I know who killed her.”

Even before Detective Rick Ballard pulled out his ID, Rizzoli could have guessed the man was a cop. As she walked into the reception area of the M.E.’s building, he immediately rose to his feet, as though at attention. His eyes were a direct and crystalline blue, his brown hair clipped in a conservative cut, and his shirt was pressed with military neatness. He had the same quiet air of command that Gabriel possessed, the same rock-solid gaze that seemed to say, In a pinch, you can count on me. He made her wish, just for an instant, that she was slim-waisted again, and attractive. As they shook hands, as she looked at his ID, she felt him studying her face.

Definitely a cop, she thought.

“You ready to do this?” she asked. When he nodded, she glanced at the receptionist. “Is Dr. Bristol downstairs?”

“He’s finishing up an autopsy right now. He said you can meet him down there.”

They took the elevator to the basement level and walked into the morgue anteroom, where cabinets held supplies of shoe covers and masks and paper caps. Through the large viewing window they could see into the autopsy lab, where Dr. Bristol and Yoshima were at work on a gaunt, gray-haired man. Bristol spotted them through the glass and he waved in greeting.

“Ten minutes more!” he said.

Rizzoli nodded. “We’ll wait.”

Bristol had just made the scalp incision. Now he peeled the scalp forward over the cranium, collapsing the face.

“I always hate this part,” said Rizzoli. “When they start messing with the face. The rest, I can handle.”