The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

alarm.”
    “What would get their attention?”
    “I don’t know.” She looked at the front door, through which Dean had vanished. “And it’s pretty clear he’s not going to tell us.”

eleven
    J ane Rizzoli was not a symphony kind of gal. The extent of her exposure to music was her collection of easy-listening CDs and the two years she’d played trumpet in the middle school band, one of only two girls who’d chosen that instrument. She’d been drawn to it because it produced the loudest, brassiest sound of all, not like those tooty clarinets or the chirpy flutes the other girls played. No, Rizzoli wanted to be heard, and so she sat shoulder to shoulder with the boys in the trumpet section. She loved it when the notes came blasting out.
    Unfortunately, they were too often the wrong notes.
    After her father banished her to the backyard for her practice sessions and then the neighborhood dogs began to howl in protest, she finally put the trumpet away for good. Even she could recognize that raw enthusiasm and strong lungs were not enough to make up for a discouraging lack of talent.
    Since then, music had meant little more to her than white noise aboard elevators and thudding bass notes in passing cars. She had been inside the Symphony Hall on the corner of Huntington and Mass Ave only twice in her life, both times as a high school student attending field trips to hear BSO rehearsals. In 1990, the Cohen Wing had been added, a part of Symphony Hall that Rizzoli had never before visited. When she and Frost entered the new wing, she was surprised by how modern it looked—not the dark and creaky building that she remembered.
    They showed their badges to the elderly security guard, who snapped his kyphotic spine a little straighter when he saw the two visitors were from Homicide.
    “Is this about the Ghents?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir,” said Rizzoli.
    “Terrible. Just terrible. I saw them last week, right after they got into town. They dropped by to check out the hall.” He shook his head. “Seemed like such a nice young couple.”
    “Were you on duty the night they performed?”
    “No, ma’am. I just work here during the day. Have to leave at five to pick up my wife from day care. She needs twenty-four-hour supervision, you know. Forgets to turn off the stove . . .” He stopped, suddenly reddening. “But I guess you folks aren’t here to pass the time. You come to see Evelyn?”
    “Yes. Which way to her office?”
    “She’s not there. I saw her go into the concert hall a few minutes ago.”
    “Is there a rehearsal going on or something?”
    “No, ma’am. It’s our quiet season. Orchestra stays out in Tanglewood during the summer. This time of year, we just get a few visiting performers.”
    “So we can walk right into the hall?”
    “Ma’am, you got the badge. Far as I’m concerned, you can go anywhere.”

    They did not immediately spot Evelyn Petrakas. As Rizzoli stepped into the dim auditorium, all she saw at first was a vast sea of empty seats, sweeping down toward a spotlighted stage. Drawn toward the light, they started down the aisle, wood floor creaking like the timbers of an old ship. They had already reached the stage when a voice called out, faintly:
    “Can I help you?”
    Squinting against the glare, Rizzoli turned to face the darkened rear of the auditorium. “Ms. Petrakas?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Detective Rizzoli. This is Detective Frost. Can we speak to you?”
    “I’m here. In the back row.”
    They walked up the aisle to join her. Evelyn did not rise from her seat but remained huddled where she was, as though hiding from the light. She gave the detectives a dull nod as they took the two seats beside her.
    “I’ve already spoken to a policeman. Last night,” Evelyn said.
    “Detective Sleeper?”
    “Yes. I think that was his name. An older man, quite nice. I know I was supposed to wait and talk to some other detectives, but I had to leave. I just couldn’t stay at that house any longer . . .” She looked toward the stage, as though mesmerized by a performance only she could see. Even in the gloom, Rizzoli could see it was a handsome face, perhaps forty, with premature streaks of silver in her dark hair. “I had responsibilities here,” Evelyn said. “All the ticket refunds. And then the press started showing up. I had to come back and deal with it.” She gave a tired laugh. “Always putting out fires. That’s my job.”
    “What is your job here exactly,