The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

these.” He looked at Rizzoli, his pale-blue eyes challenging hers. “But no one heard or saw such a vehicle. Did they?”
    “Unfortunately, no,” she admitted.
    Frost finally managed a comment. “You know, I don’t think those are tire tracks on his shirt.”
    Rizzoli focused on the black streaks across the front of the victim’s shirt. With a gloved hand, she touched one of the smears, and looked at her finger. A smudge of black had transferred to her latex glove. She stared at it for a moment, processing this new information.
    “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not a tire track. It’s grease.”
    She straightened and looked at the road. She saw no bloody tire marks, no auto debris. No pieces of glass or plastic that would have shattered on impact with a human body.
    For a moment, no one spoke. They just looked at one another, as the only possible explanation suddenly clicked into place. As if to confirm the theory, a jet roared overhead. Rizzoli squinted upward, to see a 747 glide past, on its landing approach to Logan International Airport, five miles to the northeast.
    “Oh, Jesus,” said Frost, shading his eyes against the sun. “What a way to go. Please tell me he was already dead when he fell.”
    “There’s a good chance of it,” said Tierney. “I would guess his body slipped out as the wheels came down, on landing approach. That’s assuming it was an inbound flight.”
    “Well, yeah,” said Rizzoli. “How many stowaways are trying to get
out
of the country?” She looked at the dead man’s olive complexion. “So he’s coming in on a plane, say, from South America—”
    “It would’ve been flying at an altitude of at least thirty thousand feet,” said Tierney. “Wheel wells aren’t pressurized. A stowaway would be dealing with rapid decompression. Frostbite. Even in high summer, the temperatures at those altitudes are freezing. A few hours under those conditions, he’d be hypothermic and unconscious from lack of oxygen. Or already crushed when the landing gear retracted on takeoff. A prolonged ride in the wheel well would probably finish him off.”
    Rizzoli’s pager cut into the lecture. And a lecture it would surely turn into; Dr. Tierney was just beginning to hit his professorial stride. She glanced at the number on her beeper but did not recognize it. A Newton prefix. She reached for her cell phone and dialed.
    “Detective Korsak,” a man answered.
    “This is Rizzoli. Did you page me?”
    “You on a cell phone, Detective?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you get to a landline?”
    “Not at the moment, no.” She did not know who Detective Korsak was, and she was anxious to cut this call short. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
    A pause. She heard voices in the background and the crackle of a cop’s walkie-talkie. “I’m at a scene out here in Newton,” he said. “I think you should come out and see this.”
    “Are you requesting Boston P.D. assistance? Because I can refer you to someone else in our unit.”
    “I tried reaching Detective Moore, but they said he’s on leave. That’s why I’m calling you.” Again he paused. And added, with quiet significance: “It’s about that case you and Moore headed up last summer. You know the one.”
    She fell silent. She knew exactly what he was referring to. The memories of that investigation still haunted her, still surfaced in her nightmares.
    “Go on,” she said softly.
    “You want the address?” he asked.
    She took out her notepad.
    A moment later, she hung up and turned her attention back to Dr. Tierney.
    “I’ve seen similar injuries in sky divers whose parachutes fail to open,” he said. “From that height, a falling body would reach terminal velocity. That’s nearly two hundred feet per second. It’s enough to cause the disintegration we see here.”
    “It’s a hell of a price to pay to get to this country,” said Frost.
    Another jet roared overhead, its shadow swooping past like an eagle’s.
    Rizzoli gazed up at the sky. Imagined a body falling, tumbling a thousand feet. Thought of the cold air whistling past. And then warmer air, as the ground spins ever closer.
    She looked at the sheet-draped remains of a man who had dared to dream of a new world, a brighter future.
    Welcome to America.

    The Newton patrolman posted in front of the house was just a rookie, and he did not recognize Rizzoli. He stopped her at the perimeter of the police tape and addressed her with a brusque tone that