The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

looking at a lot of unidentified prints.”
    Zucker gazed down at the photo of Dr. Yeager, slumped against the blood-splattered wall. “This homicide was in Newton.”
    “Yes.”
    “Not an investigation you’d normally take part in. Why are you involved?” He looked up again, his gaze holding hers with discomforting intensity.
    “I was asked by Detective Korsak—”
    “Who is nominally in charge. Right?”
    “Right. But—”
    “Aren’t there enough homicides in Boston to keep you busy, Detective? Why do you feel the need to take this on?”
    She stared back, feeling as though he had somehow crawled inside her brain, that he was poking around, searching for just the tender spot to torment. “I told you,” she said. “The woman may still be alive.”
    “And you want to save her.”
    “Don’t you?” she shot back.
    “I’m curious, Detective,” said Zucker, unruffled by her anger. “Have you talked to anyone about the Hoyt case? I mean, about its impact on you, personally?”
    “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
    “Have you received any counseling?”
    “Are you asking if I’ve seen a shrink?”
    “It must have been a pretty awful experience, what happened to you in that basement. Warren Hoyt did things to you that would haunt any cop. He left scars, both emotional and physical. Most people would have lingering trauma. Flashbacks, nightmares. Depression.”
    “The memories aren’t any fun. But I can deal with them.”
    “That’s always been your way, hasn’t it? To tough it out. Never complain.”
    “I bitch about things like everyone else.”
    “But never about anything that would make you look weak. Or vulnerable.”
    “I can’t stand whiners. I refuse to be one myself.”
    “I’m not talking about whining. I’m talking about being honest enough to acknowledge you’re having problems.”
    “What problems?”
    “You tell me, Detective.”

    “No, you tell me. Since you seem to think I’m all fucked up.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “But you think that.”
    “You’re the one who used the term
fucked up.
Is that how you feel?”
    “Look, I came about
that.”
She pointed to the Yeager crime scene photos. “Why are we talking about me?”
    “Because when you look at these photos, all you see is Warren Hoyt. I’m just wondering why.”
    “That case is closed. I’ve moved on.”
    “Have you? Really?”
    The question, asked so softly, made her fall silent. She resented his probing. Resented, most of all, that he’d recognized a truth she could not admit. Warren Hoyt
had
left scars. All she had to do was look down at her hands to be reminded of the damage he’d inflicted. But the worst damage was not physical. What she had lost, in that dark basement last summer, was her sense of invincibility. Her sense of confidence. Warren Hoyt had taught her how vulnerable she really was.
    “I’m not here to talk about Warren Hoyt,” she said.
    “Yet he’s the reason you’re here.”
    “No. I’m here because I see parallels between these two killers. I’m not the only one who does. Detective Korsak sees it, too. So let’s stick to the subject, okay?”
    He regarded her with a bland smile. “Okay.”
    “So what about this unsub?” She tapped on the photos. “What can you tell me about him?”
    Once again, Zucker focused on the image of Dr. Yeager. “Your unknown subject is obviously organized. But you already know that. He came to the scene fully prepared. The glass cutter, the stun gun, the duct tape. He managed to subdue this couple so quickly, it makes you wonder . . .” He glanced at her. “No chance there’s a second perp? A partner?”
    “Only one set of footprints.”
    “Then your boy is very efficient. And meticulous.”
    “But he left his semen on the rug. He’s handed us the key to his identity. That’s one hell of a mistake.”
    “Yes, it is. And he certainly knows it.”
    “So why assault her right there, in the house? Why not do it later, in a safe place? If he’s organized enough to pull off a home invasion and control the husband—”
    “Maybe that’s the real payoff.”
    “What?”
    “Think about it. Dr. Yeager sits there, bound and helpless. Forced to watch while another man takes possession of his property.”
    “Property,” she repeated.
    “In this unsub’s mind, that’s what the woman is. Another man’s property. Most sexual predators wouldn’t risk attacking a couple. They’d choose the lone woman, the easy target.