The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

far more comfortable circumstances. But the poverty of her childhood was still carved in her bones, in the bowing of her legs, and in the trough in her chest.
    There was evidence of pain as well, a catastrophic event that had shattered her left leg and spine, leaving her with two fused vertebrae and a steel rod permanently embedded in her thighbone.
    “Judging by her extensive dental work, and by her probable socioeconomic status, this is a woman whose absence would be noted,” said Dr. Isles. “She’s been dead at least two months. Chances are, she’s in the NCIC database.”
    “Yeah, her and about a hundred thousand others,” said Korsak.
    The FBI’s National Crime Information Center maintained a missing persons file, which could be cross-checked against unidentified remains to produce a list of possible matches.
    “We have nothing local?” asked Pepe. “No open missing persons cases that might be a match?”
    Rizzoli shook her head. “Not in the state of Massachusetts.”

    Exhausted as she was that night, she could not sleep. She got out of bed once to recheck the locks on her door and the latch on the window leading to the fire escape. Then, an hour later, she heard a noise and imagined Warren Hoyt walking up the hallway toward her bedroom, a scalpel in his hand. She grabbed her weapon from the nightstand and dropped to a crouch in the darkness. Drenched in sweat, she waited, gun poised, for the shadow to materialize in her doorway.
    She saw nothing, heard nothing, except the drumming of her own heart and the throb of music from a car passing on the street below.
    At last she eased into the hallway and switched on the lights.
    No intruder.
    She moved into the living room, flipped on another light. In one quick glance she saw the door chain was in place, the fire escape window latched tight. She stood gazing at a room that was exactly as she’d left it and thought: I’m losing my mind.
    She sank onto the couch, put down her gun, and dropped her head in her hands, wishing she could squeeze all thoughts of Warren Hoyt from her brain. But he was always there, like a tumor that could not be excised, metastasizing into every waking moment of her life. In bed, she had not been thinking of Gail Yeager or the unnamed woman whose bones she had just examined. Nor had she been thinking of Airplane Man, whose file remained on her desk at work, staring at her in silent reproach for her neglect. So many names and reports demanded her attention, but when she lay down at night and stared into the darkness, only Warren Hoyt’s face came to mind.
    The phone rang. She snapped straight, her heart battering against her chest. It took her a few breaths to calm down enough to pick up the receiver.
    “Rizzoli?” said Thomas Moore. It was not a voice she’d expected to hear, and she was caught off guard by a sudden sense of longing. Only a year ago, she and Moore had worked together as partners during the Surgeon investigation. Though their relationship had never gone beyond that of two colleagues, they had trusted each other with their lives, and in some ways that was a level of intimacy as deep as any marriage could be. Hearing his voice now reminded her how much she missed him. And how much his marriage to Catherine still stung her.
    “Hey, Moore,” she said, her casual reply revealing none of these emotions. “What time is it over there?”
    “It’s nearly five. I’m sorry for calling you at this hour. I didn’t want Catherine to hear this.”
    “It’s okay. I’m still awake.”
    A pause. “You’re having trouble sleeping, too.” Not a question but a statement. He knew the same ghost was haunting them both.
    “Marquette called you?” she said.
    “Yes. I was hoping that by now—”
    “There’s nothing. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours, and there hasn’t been a single goddamn sighting.”
    “So the trail’s gone cold.”
    “The trail was never there to begin with. He kills three people in the O.R., turns into the invisible man, and walks out of the hospital. Fitchburg and State Police canvassed the whole neighborhood, set up roadblocks. His face is all over the evening news. Nothing.”
    “There’s one place he’ll be drawn to. One person . . .”
    “Your building’s already staked out. Hoyt goes anywhere near it, we’ve got him.”
    There was a long silence. Then Moore said, quietly: “I can’t bring her home. I’m keeping her right here, where I know she’s safe.”
    Rizzoli