The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

don’t you?”
    “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
    “Yeah, we got a ten fifty-four. Beacon Hill. Sleeper and I got here ’bout half an hour ago.”
    She heard laughter in her mother’s living room and glanced toward the closed door. Thought of the scene that was sure to come if she made an exit during Angela’s birthday party.
    “You’ll want to see this one,” said Crowe.
    “Why?”
    “It’ll be obvious when you get here.”

ten
    S tanding on the front stoop, Rizzoli caught the scent of death through the open doorway and paused, reluctant to take that first step into the house. To view what she already knew waited inside. She would have preferred to delay an extra moment or two, to prepare herself for the ordeal, but Darren Crowe, who’d opened the door to admit her, now stood watching her, and she had no choice but to pull on gloves and shoe covers and get on with what needed to be done.
    “Is Frost here yet?” she asked as she snapped on gloves.
    “Got here about twenty minutes ago. He’s inside.”
    “I would’ve been here sooner, but I had to drive in from Revere.”
    “What’s in Revere?”
    “Mom’s birthday party.”
    He laughed. “Sounded like you were having a
real
good time there.”
    “Don’t ask.” She pulled on the last shoe cover and straightened, her face all business now. Men like Crowe respected only strength, and strength was all she allowed him to see. As they stepped inside, she knew his gaze was on her, that he would be watching for her reaction to whatever she was about to confront. Testing, always testing, waiting for the moment when she would come up short. Knowing that, sooner or later, it would happen.
    He closed the front door and suddenly she felt claustrophic, cut off from fresh air. The stench of death was stronger, her lungs filling with its poison. She let none of these emotions show as she took in the foyer, noting the twelve-foot ceilings, the antique grandfather clock—not ticking. She’d always considered the Beacon Hill section of Boston as her dream neighborhood, the place she’d move to if she ever won the lottery or, even more farfetched, ever married Mr. Right. And this would have qualified as her dream home. Already she was unnerved by the similarity to the Yeager crime scene. A fine home in a fine neighborhood. The scent of slaughter in the air.
    “Security system was off,” said Crowe.
    “Disabled?”
    “No. The vics just didn’t turn it on. Maybe they didn’t know how to work it, since it’s not their house.”
    “Whose house is it?”
    Crowe flipped open his notebook and read, “Owner is Christopher Harm, age sixty-two. Retired stock trader. Serves on the board of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Spending the summer in France. He offered the use of his home to the Ghents while they’re on tour in Boston.”
    “What do you mean, on tour?”
    “They’re both musicians. Flew in a week ago from Chicago. Karenna Ghent is a pianist. Her husband Alexander was a cellist. Tonight was supposed to be their final performance at Symphony Hall.”
    It did not escape her notice that Crowe had referred to the man in the past tense but not the woman.
    Their paper shoe covers whished across the wood floor as they walked up the hall, drawn toward the sound of voices. Stepping into the living room, Rizzoli did not see the body at first, because it was blocked from her view by Sleeper and Frost, who stood with their backs turned to her. What she did see was the by-now familiar horror story written on the walls: multiple arcs of arterial splatter. She must have drawn in a sharp breath, because both Frost and Sleeper simultaneously turned to look at her. They stepped aside, to reveal Dr. Isles, crouched beside the victim.
    Alexander Ghent sat propped up against the wall like a sad marionette, his head tilted backward, revealing the gaping wound that had been his throat.
So young,
was her first shocked reaction as she stared at the disconcertingly unworried face, the open blue eye.
He is so very young.
    “An official from the Symphony Hall—name’s Evelyn Petrakas—came to pick them up around six o’clock for their evening performance,” said Crowe. “They didn’t answer the door. She found it was unlocked, so she walked in to check on them.”
    “He’s wearing a pajama bottom,” said Rizzoli.
    “He’s in rigor mortis,” said Dr. Isles as she rose to her feet. “And there’s been significant cooling. I’ll be more specific