The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

cut-downs.
    “This was Mrs. Ober’s favorite music,” he said as he worked, glancing occasionally at the three snapshots clipped to the easel, which he’d set up beside the prep table. Rizzoli assumed they were images of Mrs. Ober, although the living woman who appeared in those photos bore little resemblance to the gray and wasted corpse on which Joey was now laboring.
    “Son says she’s an Elvis freak,” said Joey. “Went to Graceland three times. He brought over that cassette, so I could play it while I do her makeup. I always try to play their favorite song or tune, you know. Helps me get a feeling for them. You learn a lot about someone just by what music they listen to.”
    “What’s an Elvis fan supposed to look like?” asked Korsak.
    “You know. Brighter lipstick. Bigger hair. Nothing like someone who listens to, say, Shostakovich.”
    “So what music did Mrs. Hallowell listen to?”
    “I don’t really remember.”
    “You worked on her only a month ago.”
    “Yes, but I don’t always remember the details.” Joey had finished his wax job on the hands. Now he moved to the head of the table, where he stood nodding to the beat of “You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Dressed in black jeans and Doc Martens, he looked like a hip young artist contemplating a blank canvas. But his canvas was cold flesh, and his medium was the makeup brush and the rouge pot. “Touch of Bronze Blush Light, I think,” he said, and reached for the appropriate jar of rouge. With a mixing spatula, he began blending colors on a stainless-steel palette. “Yeah, this looks about right for an old Elvis girl.” He began smoothing it onto the corpse’s cheeks, blending it all the way up to the hairline, where silver roots peeked beneath the black dye job.
    “Maybe you remember talking to Mrs. Hallowell’s daughter,” said Rizzoli. She pulled out a photo of Gail Yeager and showed it to Joey.
    “You should ask Mr. Whitney. He handles most of the arrangements here. I’m just his assistant—”
    “But you and Mrs. Yeager must have discussed her mother’s makeup for the funeral. Since you prepared the remains.”
    Joey’s gaze lingered on Gail Yeager’s photograph. “I remember she was a really nice lady,” he said softly.
    Rizzoli gave him a questioning look. “Was?”
    “Look, I’ve been following the news. You don’t really think Mrs. Yeager’s still alive, do you?” Joey turned and frowned at Korsak, who was wandering around the prep room, peeking into cabinets. “Uh . . . Detective? Are you looking for something in particular?”
    “Naw. Just wondered what kind of stuff you keep in a mortuary.” He reached into one of the cabinets. “Hey, is this thing a curling iron?”
    “Yes. We do shampoos and waves. Manicures. Everything to make our clients look their best.”
    “I hear you’re pretty good at it.”
    “They’ve all been satisfied with my work.”
    Korsak laughed. “They can tell you that themselves, huh?”
    “I mean, their families. Their families are satisfied.”
    Korsak put down the curling iron. “You’ve been working for Mr. Whitney, what, seven years now?”
    “About that.”
    “Must’ve been right out of high school.”
    “I started off washing his hearses. Cleaning the prep room. Answering the night calls for pickup. Then Mr. Whitney had me help him with the embalming. Now that he’s getting on in years, I do almost everything here.”
    “So I guess you got an embalmer’s license, huh?”
    A pause. “Uh, no. I never got around to applying. I just help Mr. Whitney.”
    “Why don’t you apply? Seems like it’d be a step up.”
    “I’m happy with my job the way it is.” Joey turned his attention back to Mrs. Ober, whose face had now taken on a rosy glow. He reached for an eyebrow comb and began to stroke brown coloring onto her gray eyebrows, his hands working with almost loving delicacy. At an age when most young men are eager to tackle life, Joey Valentine had chosen instead to spend his days with the dead. He had shepherded corpses from hospitals and nursing homes to this clean, bright room. He had washed and dried them, shampooed their hair, brushed on creams and powders to grant them the illusion of life. As he stroked color on Mrs. Ober’s cheeks, he murmured: “Nice. Oh yes, that’s really nice. You’re going to look fabulous. . . .”
    “So, Joey,” said Korsak. “You been working here seven years, right?”
    “Didn’t I just tell you