“I’m just saying she’s missing.”

Rizzoli stared at Richard Yeager, whose muscle-bound body had proved no match for Death. “Tell me about these people. Their marriage.”

“Happy couple. That’s what everyone says.”

“That’s what they always say.”

“In this case, it does seem to be true. Only been married two years. Bought this house a year ago. She’s an O.R. nurse at his hospital, so they had the same circle of friends, same work schedule.”

“That’s a lot of togetherness.”

“Yeah, I know. It’d drive me bonkers if I had to hang around with my wife all day. But they seemed to get along fine. Last month, he took two whole weeks off, just to stay home with her after her mother died. How much you figure an orthopedic surgeon makes in two weeks, huh? Fifteen, twenty thousand bucks? That’s some expensive comfort he was giving her.”

“She must have needed it.”

Korsak shrugged. “Still.”

“So you found no reason why she’d walk out on him.”

“Much less whack him.”

Rizzoli glanced at the family room windows. Trees and shrubbery blocked any view of neighboring houses. “You said the time of death was between midnight and three.”

“Yeah.”

“Did the neighbors hear anything?”

“Folks to the left are in Paris. Ooh la la. Neighbors to the right slept soundly all night.”

“Forced entry?”

“Kitchen window. Screen pried off, used a glass cutter. Size eleven shoeprints in the flower bed. Same prints tracked blood in this room.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his moist forehead. Korsak was one of those unlucky individuals for whom no antiperspirant was powerful enough. Just in the few minutes they’d been conversing, the sweat stains in his shirt had spread.

“Okay, let’s slide him away from the wall,” one of the morgue attendants said. “Tip him onto the sheet.”

“Watch the head! It’s slipping!”