The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

of gases.”
    “Time of death?” asked Rizzoli.
    Isles paused, her gaze fixed for a moment on the grotesquely swollen remains of a woman they all believed was Gail Yeager. Flies buzzed, filling the silence with their greedy hum. Except for the long blond hair, there was little about the corpse that resembled the woman in the photographs, a woman who once had surely turned men’s heads with just a smile. It was a disturbing reminder that both the beautiful and the homely are reduced by bacteria and insects to the grim equality of moldering flesh.
    “I can’t answer that,” said Isles. “Not yet.”
    “More than a day?” pressed Rizzoli.
    “Yes.”
    “The abduction was Sunday night. Could she have been dead since then?”
    “Four days? It depends on the ambient temperature. The absence of insect damage makes me think the body was kept indoors until just recently. Protected from the environment. An air-conditioned room would slow down decomposition.”
    Rizzoli and Korsak exchanged glances, both of them wondering the same thing. Why would the unsub wait so long to dispose of a decomposing body?
    Detective Sleeper’s walkie-talkie crackled, and they heard Doud’s voice: “Detective Frost just arrived. And the CSU van’s here. You ready for ’em?”
    “Stand by,” said Sleeper. Already he looked exhausted, drained from the heat. He was the oldest detective in the unit, no more than five years from retirement, and he had no need to prove himself. He looked at Rizzoli. “We’re coming in on the tail end of this case. You been working with Newton P.D. on it?”
    She nodded. “Since Monday.”
    “So you gonna be lead?”
    “Right,” said Rizzoli.
    “Hey,” protested Crowe. “We were first on the scene.”
    “Abduction was in Newton,” said Korsak.
    “But the body’s now in Boston,” retorted Crowe.
    “Jesus,” said Sleeper. “Why the hell are we fighting over this?”
    “It’s mine,” said Rizzoli. “I’m lead.” She stared at Crowe, daring him to challenge her. Expecting their usual rivalry to flare up, as it always did. She saw one side of his mouth turn up in the beginning of an ugly sneer.
    Then Sleeper said, into his walkie-talkie, “Detective Rizzoli is now lead investigator.” He looked at her again. “You ready for CSU to come in?”
    She glanced up at the sky. It was already five P.M. , and the sun had dipped below the trees. “Let’s get them in here while they can still see what they’re doing.”
    An outdoor death scene, in fading daylight, was not a scenario she welcomed. In wooded areas, wild animals were always poised to descend, scattering remains and dragging off evidence. Rainstorms wash away blood and semen, and the winds scatter fibers. There were no doors to lock out trespassers, and perimeters were easily breached by the curious. So she felt a sense of urgency as the crime scene unit began its grid search. They brought with them metal detectors and sharp eyes and evidence sacks waiting to be filled with grotesque treasures.
    By the time Rizzoli tramped back out of the woods and onto the golf course, she was sweating and filthy and tired of swatting at mosquitoes. She paused to brush twigs from hair and pluck burrs from her slacks. Straightening, she suddenly focused on a sandy-haired man in a suit and tie, who stood beside the M.E.’s van, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
    She went to Patrolman Doud, who was still manning the perimeter. “Who’s the suit over there?” she asked.
    Doud glanced in the man’s direction. “Him? Says he’s FBI.”
    “What?”
    “Flashed his badge and tried to talk his way past me. I told him he’d have to clear it with you first. Didn’t seem too happy about that.”
    “What’s a fibbie doing here?”
    “You got me.”
    She stood watching the man for a moment, disturbed by the arrival of a federal agent. As lead investigator, she wanted no blurring of the lines of authority, and this man, with his military bearing and businessman’s suit, already looked as though he owned the scene. She walked toward him, but he did not acknowledge her presence until she was standing right beside him.
    “Excuse me,” she said. “I understand you’re FBI?”
    He snapped his cell phone shut and turned to face her. She saw strong, clean-cut features and a coolly impervious gaze.
    “I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, the lead on this case,” she said. “May I see your I.D.?”
    He reached into his jacket and pulled out the badge. As