Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

‘easy.’ ”
    “That’s all?”
    “He says, ‘See one, do one, teach one.’ ”
    “ ‘See one, do one, teach one’? That’s what he says?”
    “Yes.”
    “And the next words you hear?”
    “ ‘It’s my turn, Capra.’ ”
    Polochek paused. “Can you repeat that?”
    “ ‘It’s my turn, Capra.’ ”
    “
Andrew
says that?”
    “No. Not Andrew.”
    Moore froze, staring at the motionless woman in the chair.
    Polochek glanced sharply at the window, amazement in his face. He turned back to Catherine.
    “Who says those words?” asked Polochek. “Who says, ‘It’s my turn, Capra’?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know his voice.”
    Moore and Rizzoli stared at each other.
    There was someone else in the house.
     

fifteen
    H e’s with her now.
    Rizzoli’s knife moved clumsily on the cutting board, and pieces of chopped onion skittered off the counter onto the floor. In the next room, her dad and two brothers had the TV blaring. The TV was always blaring in this house, which meant that everyone was always yelling above it. If you didn’t yell in Frank Rizzoli’s house, you didn’t get heard, and just a normal family conversation sounded like an argument. She swept the chopped onion into a bowl and started on the garlic, her eyes burning, her mind still wrapped around the troubling image of Moore and Catherine Cordell.
    After the session with Dr. Polochek, Moore had been the one to take Cordell home. Rizzoli had watched them walk together to the elevator, had seen his arm go around Cordell’s shoulder, a gesture that struck her as more than just protective. She could see the way he looked at Cordell, the expression that came over his face, the spark in his eyes. He was no longer a cop guarding a citizen; he was a man falling in love.
    Rizzoli pulled the garlic cloves apart, smashed them one by one with the flat of her blade, and peeled off the skin. Her knife slammed hard against the cutting board, and her mother, standing at the stove, glanced at her but said nothing.
    He’s with her now. In her home. Maybe in her bed.
    She released some of her pent-up frustration by whacking the cloves,
bang-bang-bang
. She didn’t know why the thought of Moore and Cordell disturbed her so much. Maybe it was because there were so few saints in the world, so few people who played strictly by the rules, and she’d thought Moore was one of them. He had given her hope that not all of humanity was flawed, and now he’d disappointed her.
    Maybe it was because she saw this as a threat to the investigation. A man with intensely personal stakes cannot think or act logically.
    Or maybe it’s because you’re jealous of her.
Jealous of a woman who can turn a man’s head with just a glance. Men were such suckers for women in distress.
    In the next room, her father and brothers gave a noisy cheer at the TV. She longed to be back in her own quiet apartment and began formulating excuses to leave early. At the very least she’d have to sit through dinner. As her mom kept reminding her, Frank Jr. didn’t get home very often, and how could Janie
not
want to spend time with her brother? She’d have to endure an evening of Frankie’s boot camp stories. How pitiful the new recruits were this year, how the youth of America was going soft and he had to kick a lot more butt just to get those girly-men through the obstacle course. Mom and Dad hung on his every word. What ticked her off was that the family asked so little about
her
work. So far in his career, Frankie the macho Marine had only played at war. She saw battle every day, against real people, real killers.
    Frankie swaggered into the kitchen and got a beer from the refrigerator. “So when’s dinner?” he asked, popping off the tab. Acting as though she were just the maid.
    “Another hour,” said their mom.
    “Jesus, Ma. It’s already seven-thirty. I’m starved.”
    “Don’t curse, Frankie.”
    “You know,” said Rizzoli, “we’d be eating a lot sooner if we had a little help from the guys.”
    “I can wait,” said Frankie, and turned back to the TV room. In the doorway he stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. You got a message.”
    “What?”
    “Your cell phone rang. Some guy named Frosty.”
    “You mean Barry Frost?”
    “Yeah, that’s his name. He wants you to call him back.”
    “When was this?”
    “You were outside moving the cars.”
    “Goddamnit, Frankie! That was an hour ago!”
    “Janie,” said their mother.
    Rizzoli untied