The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

monster.
    “There’s your unsub,” said De Groot.
    “Have you called CODIS? Any chance we could talk them into moving a little faster on a data search?”
    CODIS was a national DNA data bank. It stored the genetic profiles of thousands of convicted offenders, as well as unidentified profiles from crime scenes across the country.
    “Actually, that’s the reason I paged you. I sent them the rug stain DNA last week.”
    She sighed. “Meaning we’ll hear back from them in a year.”
    “No, Agent Dean just called me. Your unsub’s DNA isn’t in CODIS.”
    She looked at him in surprise. “Agent Dean gave you the news?”
    “He must have cracked the whip at them or something. In all my time here, I’ve never seen a CODIS request expedited this fast.”
    “Did you confirm that directly with CODIS?”
    De Groot frowned. “Well, no. I assumed that Agent Dean would know—”
    “Please call them. I want it confirmed.”
    “Is there some, uh, question about Dean’s reliability?”
    “Let’s just play it safe, okay?” She looked, once again, at the light box. “If it’s true our boy’s not in CODIS . . .”
    “Then you’ve got yourself a new player, Detective. Or someone who’s managed to stay invisible to the system.”
    She stared in frustration at the chain of blots. We have his DNA, she thought. We have his genetic profile. But we still don’t know his name.

    Rizzoli slipped a disk into her CD player and sank onto the couch as she toweled off her wet hair. The rich strains of a solo cello poured from the speaker like melted chocolate. Though she was not a fan of classical music, she had bought a CD of Alex Ghent’s early recordings in the Symphony Hall gift shop. If she was to familiarize herself with every aspect of his death, so, too, should she know about his life. And much of his life was music.
    Ghent’s bow glided over the cello strings, the melody of Bach’s Suite no. 1 in G Major rising and falling like the swells of an ocean. It had been recorded when he was only eighteen. When he’d sat in a studio, his fingers warm flesh as they’d pressed the strings, steadied the bow. Those same fingers now lay white and chilled in the morgue refrigerator, their music silenced. She had watched his autopsy that morning and had noted the fine, long fingers, had imagined them flying up and down the cello’s neck. That human hands could unite with mere wood and strings to produce such rich sounds seemed a miracle.
    She picked up the CD cover and studied his photograph, taken when he was still only a boy. His eyes gazed downward, and his left arm was draped around the instrument, embracing its curves, as he would one day embrace his wife, Karenna. Though Rizzoli had searched for a CD featuring both of them, all their joint recordings were sold out in the gift shop. Only Alexander’s was in stock. The lonely cello, calling to its mate. And where was that mate now? Alive and in torment, facing the ultimate terror of death? Or was she beyond pain and already in the early stages of decomposition?
    The phone rang. She turned down the CD player and picked up the receiver.
    “You’re there,” said Korsak.
    “I came home to take a shower.”
    “I called just a few minutes ago. You didn’t answer.”
    “Then I guess I didn’t hear it. What’s up?”
    “That’s what I want to know.”
    “If anything turns up, you’ll be the first one I call.”
    “Yeah. Like you called me even
once
today? I had to hear about Joey Valentine’s DNA from the lab guy.”
    “I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I’ve been running around like crazy.”
    “Remember, I’m the one who first brought you in on this.”
    “I haven’t forgotten.”
    “You know,” said Korsak, “it’s going on fifty hours since he took her.”
    And Karenna Ghent has probably been dead for two days, she thought. But death wouldn’t deter her killer. It would whet his appetite. He’d look at her corpse and see only an object of desire. Someone he can control. She doesn’t resist him. She is cool, passive flesh, yielding to any and all indignities. She is the perfect lover.
    The CD was still playing softly, Alexander’s cello weaving its mournful spell. She knew where this was going, knew what Korsak wanted. And she didn’t know how to turn him down. She rose from the couch and turned off the CD. Even in the silence, the strains of the cello seemed to linger.
    “If it’s like the last time, he’ll dump her tonight,” said