The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

tenderly they played. I think that’s the word I’d use to describe them. They were such tender people.”
    Rizzoli looked at the stage and imagined Alexander and Karenna on the night of their final performance. Her black hair lustrous under the stage lights, his cello gleaming. And their music, like the voices of two lovers singing to each other.
    “The night they performed,” said Frost. “You said it was a disappointing turnout.”
    “Yes.”
    “How big was the audience?”
    “I believe we sold around four hundred fifty tickets.”
    Four hundred fifty pairs of eyes, thought Rizzoli, all of them focused on the stage, where a couple in love were wreathed in light. What emotions did the Ghents inspire in their audience? The pleasure of music, well played? The joy of watching two young people in love? Or had other, darker emotions stirred in the heart of someone seated in this very hall? Hunger. Envy. The bitterness of wanting what another man possesses.
    She looked down again, at the photo of the Ghents.
    Was it her beauty that caught your eye? Or was it the fact they were in love?

    She drank black coffee and stared at the dead piling up on her desk. Richard and Gail Yeager. Rickets Lady. Alexander Ghent. And Airplane Man, who, although no longer considered a homicide victim, still weighed on her mind. The dead always did. A never-ending supply of corpses, each one demanding her attention, each one with his or her own tale of horror to tell, if Rizzoli would just dig deep enough to lay bare the bones of their stories. She’d been digging so long that all the dead she’d ever known were beginning to blend together like skeletons tangled in a mass grave.
    When the DNA lab paged her at noon, she was relieved to escape, at least for the moment, that accusing stack of files. She left her desk and headed down the hall to the south wing.
    The DNA lab was in S253, and the criminalist who’d paged her was Walter De Groot, a blond Dutchman with a pale man-in-the-moon face. Usually he winced when he saw her, since her visits were almost always for the purpose of prodding or cajoling him, anything to hurry along a DNA profile. Today, though, he gave her a broad grin.
    “I’ve developed the autorad,” he said. “It’s hanging there now.”
    An autorad, or autoradiogram, was an X-ray film that captured the pattern of DNA fragments. De Groot took down the film from the drying line and clipped it onto a light box. Parallel rows of dark blots tracked from top to bottom.
    “What you see here is the VNTR profile,” he said. “That’s short for ‘variable numbers of tandem repeats.’ I’ve extracted the DNA from the different sources you’ve provided, and isolated the fragments with the particular loci we’re comparing. These aren’t really genes, but sections of the DNA strand that repeat with no clear purpose. They make good identification markers.”
    “So what are these various tracks? What do they correspond to?”
    “The first two lanes, starting at the left, are the controls. Number one is a standard DNA ladder, to help us estimate the relative positions for the various samples. Lane two is a standard cell line, again used as a control. Lanes three, four, and five are evidentiary lines, taken from known origins.”
    “Which origins?”
    “Lane three is suspect Joey Valentine’s. Lane four is Dr. Yeager’s. Lane five is Mrs. Yeager’s.”
    Rizzoli’s gaze lingered on lane five. She tried to wrap her mind around the concept that this was part of the blueprint that had created Gail Yeager. That a unique human being, from the precise shade of her blond hair to the sound of her laughter, could be distilled down to this chain of dark blots. She saw no humanity in this autorad, nothing of the woman who had loved a husband and mourned a mother.
Is this all we are? A necklace of chemicals? Where, in the double helix, does the soul lie?
    Her gaze shifted to the final two lanes. “And what are these last ones?” she asked.
    “These are the unidentifieds. Lane six is from that semen stain on the Yeagers’ rug. Lane seven is the fresh semen collected from Gail Yeager’s vaginal vault.”
    “These last two look like a match.”
    “That’s correct. Both unidentified DNA samples are from the same man. And, you’ll notice, it’s not Dr. Yeager or Mr. Valentine. This effectively eliminates Mr. Valentine as the semen source.”
    She stared at the two unidentified lanes. The genetic fingerprint of a