The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

guests ducked for cover and took simultaneous bites of cake. They spent the next few seconds chewing with fierce concentration.
    It was Gracie Kaminsky, the Rizzolis’ next-door neighbor, who bravely broke the silence. “This cake is
so
good, Angela! Who baked it?”
    “Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”
    Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”
    Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”
    “I didn’t have the time to bake one.”
    It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.
    “Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.
    Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”
    “Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.
    “Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about—”
    “Since you’re so
busy,
I guess I should get down on my knees and
thank you
for even making it to your only mother’s
birthday
.”
    Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her face stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.
    The phone rang. Everyone froze.
    At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.
    Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long?
With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.
    “What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”
    Jane winced.
Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the blame on me.
    In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.
    “Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”
    Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the kitchen when her mother called out:
    “He wants to talk to you.”
    “Who, me?”
    “That’s what he says.”
    Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.
    Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You know what I’m talking about.”
    At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.
    “I asked you for
one
fucking favor,” he said.
    “Are you talking about the gift?”
    “I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”
    “You could’ve expected that.”
    “I bet you’re thinking this is
so
cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”
    “You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”
    “And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”
    “Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”
    “
My
gift was already delivered.”
    “And I guess it was too much
trouble
just to pick up a little something for me?”
    “Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”
    “Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you. ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’”
    “Besides, you didn’t pay me for the last gift.”
    “Sure I did.”
    “No, you didn’t.”
And it still pisses me off that Ma refers to it as “that nice lamp Frankie gave me.”
    “So it’s all about the money, is that it?” he said.
    Her beeper went off, rattling against her belt. She looked at the number. “I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the way you keep getting away with things. You don’t even try, but somehow you always get full credit.”
    “Is this the
‘poor shitty me’
act again?”
    “I’m hanging up, Frankie.”
    “Give me back to Ma.”
    “First I got to answer my page. You call back in a minute.”
    “What the hell? I’m not racking up another long-distance—”
    She disconnected. Paused for a moment to let her temper cool down, then punched in the number from her beeper readout.
    Darren Crowe answered.
    She was in no mood to deal with yet another disagreeable man, and she snapped back: “Rizzoli. You paged me.”
    “Jeez, try a little Midol, why