The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

emotions.
    And so she walked the site, as she would have any other crime scene. The site had already been photographed and picked over by the State Police the evening before and the scene was officially released, but this morning Rizzoli and her team felt compelled to examine it as well. She tramped with Frost into the woods, tape measure whicking in and out of the canister as they measured the distance from the road to the small clearing where the State Police had discovered Warren Hoyt’s knapsack. Despite the personal significance of this circle of trees, she viewed the clearing with detachment. Recorded in her notebook was a catalog of what had been found inside the knapsack: scalpels and clamps, retractor and gloves. She’d studied the photos of Hoyt’s footwear impressions, now cast in plaster, and had stared at evidence bags holding knotted cords, without stopping to think about whose wrists those cords were intended for. She glanced up to check the changing weather, without acknowledging to herself that this same view of treetops and sky would have been her last. Jane Rizzoli the victim was not here today. Although her colleagues might watch her, waiting for a glimpse, they would not see her. No one would.
    She closed her notebook and glanced up to see Gabriel Dean walking toward her through the trees. Although her heart lifted at the sight of him, she greeted him with merely a nod, a look that said, Let’s keep it business.
    He understood, and they faced each other as two professionals, careful not to betray any hint of the intimacies they had shared only two days before.
    “The driver was hired six months ago by VIP Limousines,” she said. “The Yeagers, the Ghents, the Waites—he drove them all. And he had access to VIP’s pickup schedule. He must have seen my name on it. Canceled my scheduled pickup so that he could take the place of the driver who should have been there.”
    “And VIP checked out his job references?”
    “His references were a few years old, but they were excellent.” She paused. “There was no mention of any military service on his résumé.”
    “That’s because John Stark wasn’t his real name.”
    She frowned at him. “Identity theft?”
    Dean gestured toward the trees. They moved out of the clearing and started walking through the woods, where they could speak in private.
    “The real John Stark died September 1999 in Kosovo,” said Dean. “U.N. relief worker, killed when his Jeep hit a land mine. He’s buried in Corpus Christi, Texas.”
    “Then we don’t even know our man’s real name.”
    Dean shook his head. “Fingerprints, dental X rays, and tissue samples will be sent to both the Pentagon and Central Intelligence.”
    “We won’t get any answers from them. Will we?”
    “Not if the Dominator was one of theirs. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve taken care of their problem.
    Nothing more needs to be said or done.”
    “I may have resolved their problem,” she said bitterly. “But mine is still alive.”
    “Hoyt? He’ll never be a concern to you.”
    “God, I should have squeezed off one more shot—”
    “He’s probably quadriplegic, Jane. I can’t imagine any worse punishment.”
    They emerged from the woods, onto the dirt road. The limousine had been towed away last night, but the evidence of what had transpired here still remained. She looked down at the dried blood where the man known as John Stark had died. A few yards away was the smaller stain where Hoyt had fallen, his limbs senseless, his spinal cord turned to pulp.
    I could have finished it, but I let him live. And I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do.
    “How are you, Jane?”
    She heard the note of intimacy in his question, an unspoken acknowledgment that they were more than merely colleagues. She looked at him and was suddenly self-conscious about her battered face and the lump of bandage on her scalp. This was not the way she’d wanted him to see her, but now that she stood facing him there was no point hiding her bruises, nothing to do but stand straight and meet his gaze.
    “I’m fine,” she said. “A few stitches on my scalp, a few sore muscles. And a really bad case of the uglies.” She waved vaguely at her bruised face and laughed. “But you should see the other guy.”
    “I don’t think it’s good for you to be here,” he said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s too soon.”
    “I’m the one person who should be here.”
    “You never cut