The Apprentice: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Yes?”

  “They know nothing about Agent Gabriel Dean.”

  Marquette sat back in his chair and regarded her for a moment, saying nothing.

  “He came here straight from Washington,” she said. “The Boston office had nothing to do with it. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work. If we ask them for a criminal profile, it always goes through their area field division coordinator. This didn’t go through their field division. It came straight from Washington. Why is the FBI mucking around in my investigation in the first place? And what does Washington have to do with it?”

  Still, Marquette said nothing.

  She pressed on, her frustration building, her control starting to crack. “You told me the order to cooperate came through the police commissioner.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Who in the FBI approached OPC? Which part of the Bureau are we dealing with?”

  Marquette shook his head. “It wasn’t the Bureau.”

  “What?”

  “The request didn’t come from the FBI. I spoke to OPC last week, the day Dean showed up. I asked them that same question.”

  “And?”

  “I promised them I’d keep this confidential. I expect the same from you.” Only after she’d given a nod of assent did he continue. “The request came from Senator Conway’s office.”

  She stared at him in bewilderment. “What does our senator have to do with all this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “OPC wouldn’t tell you?”

  “They may not know, either. But it’s not a request they’d brush off, not when it comes direct from Conway. And he’s not asking for the moon. Just interagency cooperation. We do it all the time.”

  She leaned forward and said, quietly: “Something’s wrong, Lieutenant. You know it. Dean hasn’t been straight with us.”

  “I didn’t call you in here to talk about Dean. We’re talking about you.”

  “But it’s his word you’re relying on. Does the FBI now dictate orders to Boston P.D.?”

  This seemed to take Marquette aback. Abruptly straightening, he eyed her across the desk. She had hit just the right nerve. The Bureau versus Us. Are you really in charge?

  “Okay,” he said. “We talked. You listened. That’s good enough for me.”

  “For me, too.” She stood up.

  “But I’ll be watching, Rizzoli.”

  She gave him a nod. “Aren’t you always?”

  “I’ve found some interesting fibers,” Erin Volchko said. “They were lifted with sticky tape from the skin of Gail Yeager.”

  “More navy-blue carpet?” asked Rizzoli.

  “No. To be honest, I’m not sure what these are.”

  Erin did not often admit that she was baffled. That alone piqued Rizzoli’s interest in the slide now under the microscope. Through the lens, she saw a single dark strand.

  “We’re looking at a synthetic fiber, whose color I’d characterize as drab green. Based on its refractive indices, this is our old friend Dupont nylon, type six, six.”

  “Just like the navy-blue carpet fibers.”

  “Yes. Nylon six, six is a very popular fiber due to its strength and resilience. You’ll find it in a large variety of fabrics.”

  “You said this was lifted off Gail Yeager’s skin?”

  “These fibers were found clinging to her hips, her breasts, and a shoulder.”

  Rizzoli frowned. “A sheet? Something he used to wrap her body?”

  “Yes, but not a sheet. Nylon wouldn’t be appropriate for that use, due to its low moisture absorbency. Also, these particular threads are made up of extremely fine thirty-denier filaments, ten filaments to a thread. And the thread’s finer than a human hair. This kind of fiber would produce a finished product that’s very tight. Maybe weatherproof.”

  “A tent? A tarp?”

  “Possible. That’s the kind of fabric one might use to wrap a body.”

  Rizzoli had a bizarre vision of packaged tarps hanging in Wal-Mart, the manufacturer’s suggested uses printed on the label: PERFECT FOR CAMPING, WEATHERPROOFING, AND WRAPPING DEAD BODIES.

  “If it’s just a tarp, we’re dealing with a pretty generic piece of fabric,” said Rizzoli.

  “C’mon, Detective. Would I drag you over here to look at a perfectly generic fiber?”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s actually quite interesting.”

  “What’s interesting about a nylon tarp?”

  Erin reached for a folder on the lab countertop and pulled out a computer-generated graph, on which a line traced a silhouette of jagged peaks. “I ran an ATR analysis on these fibers. This is what popped out.”

  “ATR?”

  “Attenuated Total Reflection. It uses infrared microspectroscopy to examine single fibers. Infrared radiation is beamed at the fiber, and we read the spectra of light that bounces back. This graph shows the IR characteristics of the fiber itself. It simply confirms that it’s nylon six, six, as I told you earlier.”

  “No surprise.”

  “Not yet,” said Erin, a sly smile playing at her lips. She took a second graph from the folder, laid it beside the first. “Here we see the IR tracing of exactly the same fiber. Notice anything?”

  Rizzoli gazed back and forth. “They’re different.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “But if these are from the same fiber, the graphs should be identical.”

  “For this second graph, I altered the image plane. This ATR is the reflection from the surface of the fiber. Not the core.”

  “So the surface and the core are different.”

  “Right.”

  “Two different fibers twisted together?”

  “No. It’s a single fiber. But the fabric has had a surface treatment. That’s what the second ATR is picking up—the surface chemicals. I ran it through the chromatograph, and it seems to be silicone-based. After the fibers were woven and dyed, a silicone rub was applied to the finished fabric.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Waterproofing? Tear resistance? It must be an expensive process. I think this fabric has some very specific purpose. I just don’t know what it is.”

  Rizzoli leaned back on the lab stool. “Find this fabric,” she said, “and we’ll find our perp.”

  “Yes. Unlike generic blue carpet, this fabric is unique.”

  The monogrammed towels were draped over the coffee table for all the party guests to see, the letters AR, for Angela Rizzoli, entwined in baroque curlicues. Jane had chosen them in peach, her mother’s favorite color, and had paid extra for the deluxe birthday gift wrapping with apricot ribbons and a cluster of silk flowers. They’d been delivered specifically by Federal Express, because her mother associated those red, white, and blue trucks with surprise packages and happy events.

  And Angela Rizzoli’s fifty-ninth birthday party should have qualified as a happy event. Birthdays were a very big deal in the Rizzoli family. Every December, when Angela bought a fresh calendar for the new year, the first thing she did was flip through the months, marking the family’s various birthdays. To forget a loved one’s special day was a serious transgression. To forget your mother’s birthday was an unforgivable sin, and Jane knew better than to ever let the day slip by uncelebrated. She’d been the one to buy ice cream and string up the decorations, the one who’d sent out invitations to the dozen neighbors who were now gathered in the Rizzoli living room. She was the one now slicing the cake and passing the paper plates to guests. She’d done her duty as always, but this year the party had fallen flat. And all because of Frankie.

  “Something’s wrong,” Angela said. She sat flanked on the couch by her husband and younger son, Michael, and she stared without joy at the gifts displayed on her coffee table—enough bath oil beads and talcum powder to keep her smelling sweet into the next decade. “Maybe he’s sick. Maybe there’s been an accident and nobody’s called me yet.”

  “Ma, Frankie’s fine,” said Jane.


  “Yeah,” Michael chimed in. “Maybe they sent him out on—what do you call it? When they play war games?”

  “Maneuvers,” said Jane.

  “Yeah, some kinda maneuvers. Or even out of the country. Some place he’s not supposed to tell anyone about, where he can’t get to a phone.”

  “He’s a drill sergeant, Mike. Not Rambo.”

  “Even Rambo sends his mother a birthday card,” snapped Frank Senior.

  In the sudden hush, all the guests ducked for cover and took simultaneous bites of cake. They spent the next few seconds chewing with fierce concentration.

  It was Gracie Kaminsky, the Rizzolis’ next-door neighbor, who bravely broke the silence. “This cake is so good, Angela! Who baked it?”

  “Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”

  Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”

  Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”

  “I didn’t have the time to bake one.”

  It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.

  “Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.

  Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”

  “Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.

  “Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about—”

  “Since you’re so busy, I guess I should get down on my knees and thank you for even making it to your only mother’s birthday.”

  Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her face stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.

  The phone rang. Everyone froze.

  At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.

  Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long? With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.

  “What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”

  Jane winced. Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the blame on me.

  In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.

  “Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”

  Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the kitchen when her mother called out:

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Who, me?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.

  Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.

  “I asked you for one fucking favor,” he said.

  “Are you talking about the gift?”

  “I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”

  “You could’ve expected that.”

  “I bet you’re thinking this is so cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”

  “You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”

  “And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”

  “Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”

  “My gift was already delivered.”

  “And I guess it was too much trouble just to pick up a little something for me?”

  “Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”

  “Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you. ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’ ”

  “Besides, you didn’t pay me for the last gift.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.” And it still pisses me off that Ma refers to it as “that nice lamp Frankie gave me.”

  “So it’s all about the money, is that it?” he said.

  Her beeper went off, rattling against her belt. She looked at the number. “I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the way you keep getting away with things. You don’t even try, but somehow you always get full credit.”

  “Is this the ‘poor shitty me’ act again?”

  “I’m hanging up, Frankie.”

  “Give me back to Ma.”

  “First I got to answer my page. You call back in a minute.”

  “What the hell? I’m not racking up another long-distance—”

  She disconnected. Paused for a moment to let her temper cool down, then punched in the number from her beeper readout.

  Darren Crowe answered.

  She was in no mood to deal with yet another disagreeable man, and she snapped back: “Rizzoli. You paged me.”

  “Jeez, try a little Midol, why don’t you?”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, we got a ten fifty-four. Beacon Hill. Sleeper and I got here ’bout half an hour ago.”

  She heard laughter in her mother’s living room and glanced toward the closed door. Thought of the scene that was sure to come if she made an exit during Angela’s birthday party.

  “You’ll want to see this one,” said Crowe.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll be obvious when you get here.”

  ten

  Standing on the front stoop, Rizzoli caught the scent of death through the open doorway and paused, reluctant to take that first step into the house. To view what she already knew waited inside. She would have preferred to delay an extra moment or two, to prepare herself for the ordeal, but Darren Crowe, who’d opened the door to admit her, now stood watching her, and she had no choice but to pull on gloves and shoe covers and get on with what needed to be done.

  “Is Frost here yet?” she asked as she snapped on gloves.

  “Got here about twenty minutes ago. He’s inside.”

  “I would’ve been here sooner, but I had to drive in from Revere.”

  “What’s in Revere?”

  “Mom’s birthday party.”

  He laughed. “Sounded like you were having a real good time there.”

  “Don’t ask.” She pulled on the last shoe cover and straightened, her face all business now. Men like Crowe respected only strength, and strength was all she allowed him to see. As they stepped inside, she knew his gaze was on her, that he would be watching for her reaction to whatever she was about to confront. Testing, always testing, waiting for the moment when she would come up short. Knowing that, sooner or later, it would happen.

  He closed the front door and suddenly she felt claustrophic, cut off from fresh air. The stench of death was stronger, her lungs filling with its poison. She let none of these emotions show as she took in the foyer, noting the twelve-foot ceilings, the antique grandfather clock—not ticking. She’d always considered the Beacon Hill section of Boston as her dream neighborhood, the place she’d move to if she ever won the lottery or, even more far-fetched, ever married Mr. Right. And this would have qualified as her dream home. Already she was unnerved by the similarity to the Yeager crime scene. A fine home in a fine neighborhood. The scent of slaughter in the air.

  “Security system was off,” said Crowe.

  “Disabled?”

  “No. The vics just didn’t turn it on. Maybe they didn’t know how to work it, since it’s not their house.”

  “Whose house is it?”

  Crowe flip
ped open his notebook and read, “Owner is Christopher Harm, age sixty-two. Retired stock trader. Serves on the board of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Spending the summer in France. He offered the use of his home to the Ghents while they’re on tour in Boston.”

  “What do you mean, on tour?”

  “They’re both musicians. Flew in a week ago from Chicago. Karenna Ghent is a pianist. Her husband Alexander was a cellist. Tonight was supposed to be their final performance at Symphony Hall.”

  It did not escape her notice that Crowe had referred to the man in the past tense but not the woman.

  Their paper shoe covers whished across the wood floor as they walked up the hall, drawn toward the sound of voices. Stepping into the living room, Rizzoli did not see the body at first, because it was blocked from her view by Sleeper and Frost, who stood with their backs turned to her. What she did see was the by-now familiar horror story written on the walls: multiple arcs of arterial splatter. She must have drawn in a sharp breath, because both Frost and Sleeper simultaneously turned to look at her. They stepped aside, to reveal Dr. Isles, crouched beside the victim.

  Alexander Ghent sat propped up against the wall like a sad marionette, his head tilted backward, revealing the gaping wound that had been his throat. So young, was her first shocked reaction as she stared at the disconcertingly unworried face, the open blue eye. He is so very young.

  “An official from the Symphony Hall—name’s Evelyn Petrakas—came to pick them up around six o’clock for their evening performance,” said Crowe. “They didn’t answer the door. She found it was unlocked, so she walked in to check on them.”

  “He’s wearing a pajama bottom,” said Rizzoli.

  “He’s in rigor mortis,” said Dr. Isles as she rose to her feet. “And there’s been significant cooling. I’ll be more specific when I get the vitreous potassium results. But right now, I’d estimate time of death between sixteen and twenty hours ago. Which would make it . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Sometime between one and five A.M.”

  “The bed’s unmade,” said Sleeper. “The last time anyone saw the couple was yesterday night. They left Symphony Hall around eleven, and Ms. Petrakas dropped them off here.”

  The victims were asleep, thought Rizzoli, staring at Alexander Ghent’s pajama bottom. Asleep and unaware that someone was in their house. Walking toward their bedroom.