The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

her. Did the cleaning. Took her shopping, since Marla Jean didn’t like to drive. Kind of a lonely place up here, but the housekeeper thought Marla Jean actually seemed happier when Kenny wasn’t around.” Gorman paused. “I have to admit, after we found Kenny, the possibility kind of crossed my mind that . . .”
    “That Marla Jean did it,” said Rizzoli.
    “It’s always the first consideration.” He reached into his jacket for a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Does it seem hot in here to you?”
    “It’s warm.”
    “I’m not too good with the heat these days. Body’s still out of whack. That’s what I get for eating clams in Mexico.”

    They crossed the living room, past the spectral forms of sheet-draped furniture, past a massive stone fireplace with a neat bundle of split logs stacked beside the hearth. Fuel to feed the flames on a chilly Maine night. Gorman led them to an area of the room where there was only bare floor and the wall was a blank white, undecorated. Rizzoli stared at the fresh coat of paint, and the hairs on the back of her neck stirred and bristled. She looked down at the floor and saw that the oak was paler here, sanded and revarnished. But blood is not so easily obliterated, and were they to darken the room and spray with luminol, the floor would still cry with blood, its chemical traces embedded too deeply into the cracks and grain of the wood to ever be completely erased.
    “Kenny was propped up here,” said Gorman, pointing to the newly painted wall. “Legs out in front of him, arms behind him. Wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. Single slash to the neck, Rambo-type knife.”
    “There were no other wounds?” asked Rizzoli.
    “Just the neck. Like an execution.”
    “Stun gun marks?”
    Gorman paused. “You know, he was here about two days when the housekeeper found him. Two warm days. By then, the skin wasn’t looking too good. Not to mention smelling too good. Could’ve easily missed a stun gun mark.”
    “Did you ever examine this floor under an alternate light source?”
    “It was pretty much a bloody mess in here. I’m not sure what we would have seen under a Luma-lite. But it’s all on the crime scene video.” He glanced around the room and spotted the TV and VCR. “Why don’t we take a look at it? It should answer most of your questions.”
    Rizzoli crossed to the TV, pressed the ON buttons, and inserted the tape into the slot. The Home Shopping Network blared from the TV, featuring a zirconium pendant necklace for only $99.95, its facets sparkling on the throat of a swan-necked model.
    “These things drive me crazy,” Rizzoli said, fiddling with two different remotes. “I never did learn how to program mine.” She glanced at Frost.
    “Hey, don’t ask me.”
    Gorman sighed and took the remote. The zirconium-bedecked model suddenly vanished, replaced by a view of the Waites’ driveway. Wind hissed in the microphone, distorting the cameraman’s voice as he stated his name, Detective Pardee, the time, date, and location. It was five P.M. on June 2, a blustery day, the trees swaying. Pardee turned the camera toward the house and began walking up the steps, the camera’s image jittering on the TV. Rizzoli saw geraniums blooming in pots, the same geraniums that were now dead from neglect. A voice was heard, calling to Pardee, and the screen went blank for a few seconds.
    “The front door was found unlocked,” said Gorman. “Housekeeper said that wasn’t unusual. People around here often leave their doors unlocked. She assumed someone was home, since Marla Jean never goes anywhere. She knocked first, but there was no answer.”
    A fresh image suddenly sprang into view on-screen, the camera aimed through the open doorway, straight into the living room. This was what the housekeeper must have registered as she opened the door. As the stench, and the horror, washed over her.
    “She took maybe one step into the house,” said Gorman. “Saw Kenny up against the far wall. And all that blood. Doesn’t remember seeing much of anything else. Just wanted to get the hell out of the house. Jumped in her car and hit the gas pedal so hard her tires dug tracks in the gravel.”
    The camera moved into the room, panning across furniture, closing in on the main event: Kenneth Waite III, dressed only in boxer shorts, his head lolling to his chest. Early decomposition had bloated his features. The gas-filled abdomen ballooned out, and the face was swollen