The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

steadily through the ventilation system and water gurgling and the clang of metal instruments.
    Then she heard Yoshima call out, in a startled voice, “Dr. Isles?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve got the slide under the scope, and . . .”
    “Is there sperm?”
    “You really need to see this for yourself.”
    Her nausea fading, Rizzoli turned to watch as Isles peeled off her gloves and sat down at the microscope. Yoshima hovered over her as she gazed into the eyepiece.
    “Do you see them?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she murmured. She sat back, looking stunned.
    She turned to Rizzoli. “The body was found around two P.M. ?”
    “About then.”
    “And it’s now nine P.M. —”
    “Well, is there sperm or not?” cut in Korsak.
    “Yes, there’s sperm,” said Isles. “And it’s motile.”
    Korsak frowned. “Meaning what? Like it’s
moving
?”
    “Yes. It’s moving.”
    A silence dropped over the room. The significance of this finding had startled them all.
    “How long does sperm stay motile?” asked Rizzoli.
    “It depends on the environment.”
    “How long?”
    “After ejaculation, they can remain motile for one or two days. At least half of the sperm under that microscope are moving. This is fresh ejaculate. Probably no more than a day old.”
    “And how long has the victim been dead?” asked Dean.
    “Based on her vitreous potassium levels, which I drew about five hours ago, she’s been dead at least sixty hours.”
    Another silence passed. Rizzoli saw the same conclusion register on everyone’s faces. She looked at Gail Yeager, who now lay with torso split open, organs bared. Hand clapped to her mouth, Rizzoli spun toward the sink. For the first time in her career as a cop, Jane Rizzoli was sick.

    “He knew,” said Korsak. “That son of a bitch
knew
.”
    They stood together in the parking lot behind the M.E.’s building, the tip of Korsak’s cigarette glowing orange. After the chill air of the autopsy room, it almost felt good to be bathed in the steam of a summer night, to escape the harsh procedure lights and retreat into this cloak of darkness. She had been humiliated by her display of weakness, humiliated most of all that Agent Dean was there to see it. At least he’d been considerate enough to make no comment and had regarded her with neither sympathy nor ridicule, merely indifference.
    “Dean’s the one who asked for that test on the sperm,” said Korsak. “Whatever he called it—”
    “The wet prep.”
    “Yeah, the wet prep thing. Isles wasn’t even gonna look at it fresh. She was gonna let it dry out first. So here’s this fibbie guy telling the doc what to do. Like he knows exactly what he’s looking for, exactly what we’ll find. How did he know? And what the hell’s the FBI doing on this case, anyway?”
    “You did the background on the Yeagers. What’s there to attract the FBI?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “Were they into something they shouldn’t have been?”
    “You make it sound like the Yeagers got
themselves
killed.”
    “He was a doctor. Are we talking about drug deals here? A federal witness?”
    “He was clean. His wife was clean.”
    “That coup de grâce—like an execution. Maybe that’s the symbolism. A slice across the throat, to silence him.”
    “Jesus, Rizzoli. You’ve made a hundred-eighty-degree turn here. First we’re thinking sex perp who kills for the thrill of it. Now you’re into conspiracies.”
    “I’m trying to understand why Dean’s involved. The FBI never gives a shit about what we’re doing. They stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs, and that’s how everybody likes it. We didn’t ask for their help with the Surgeon. We handled it all in-house, used our own profiler. Their behavioral unit’s too busy kissing up to Hollywood to give us the time of day. So what’s different about this case? What makes the Yeagers special?”
    “We didn’t find a thing on them,” said Korsak. “No debts, no financial red flags. No pending court cases. No one who’d say boo about either one of them.”
    “Then why the FBI interest?”
    Korsak thought it over. “Maybe the Yeagers had friends in high places. Someone who’s now screaming for justice.”
    “Wouldn’t Dean just come out and tell us that?”
    “Fibbies never like to tell you anything,” said Korsak.
    She looked back at the building. It was nearly midnight, and they had not yet seen Maura Isles leave. When Rizzoli had walked out of the autopsy suite, Isles had been