The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

Korsak.
    “We’ll be ready for him.”
    “So am I part of the team or what?”
    “We’ve already got our stakeout crew.”
    “You don’t have me. You could use another warm body.”
    “We’ve already assigned the positions. Look, I’ll call you as soon as anything—”
    “Fuck this ‘calling me’ shit, okay? I’m not gonna sit by the phone like some goddamn wallflower. I’ve known this perp longer than you, longer than anyone. How would you feel, someone cuts in on your dance? Leaves you outta the takedown? You think about that.”
    She did. And she understood the anger that was now raging through him. Understood it better than anyone, because it had once happened to her. The shunting aside, the bitter view from the sidelines while others moved in to claim her victory.
    She looked at her watch. “I’m leaving right now. If you want to join me, you’ll have to meet me there.”
    “What’s your stakeout position?”
    “The parking area across the road from Smith Playground. We can meet at the golf course.”
    “I’ll be there.”

twelve
    A t two A.M. in Stony Brook Reservation, the air was muggy and thick as soup. Rizzoli and Korsak sat in her parked car, closely abutting dense shrubbery. From their position, they could observe all cars entering Stony Brook from the east. Additional surveillance vehicles were stationed along Enneking Parkway, the main thoroughfare winding through the reservation. Any vehicle that pulled off onto one of the dirt parking areas could swiftly be hemmed in on all sides by converging vehicles. It was a purse-string trap, from which no car could escape.
    Rizzoli was sweating in her vest. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Forest smells.
    “Hey, you’re letting in mosquitoes,” complained Korsak.
    “I need the fresh air. It smells like cigarettes in here.”
    “I only lit up one. I don’t smell it.”
    “Smokers never do.”
    He looked at her. “Jeez, you been snapping at me all night. You got a problem with me, maybe we should talk about it.”
    She stared out the window, toward the road, which remained dark and untraveled. “It’s not about you,” she said.
    “Who, then?”
    When she didn’t answer, he gave a grunt of comprehension. “Oh. Dean again. So what’d he do now?”
    “Few days ago, he complained about me to Marquette.”
    “What’d he tell him?”
    “That I’m not the right man for the job. That maybe I need counseling for
unresolved issues.
”
    “He talking about the Surgeon?”
    “What do you think?”
    “What an asshole.”
    “And today, I find out we got instant feedback from CODIS. It’s never happened before. All Dean has to do is snap his fingers, and everyone jumps. I just wish I knew what he was doing here.”
    “Well, that’s the thing about fibbies. They say information is power, right? So they keep it from us, ’cause it’s a macho game to them. You and me, we’re just pawns to Mr. James Fucking Bond.”
    “You’re getting confused with the CIA.”
    “CIA, FBI.” He shrugged. “All those alphabet agencies, they’re all about secrets.”
    The radio crackled. “Watcher Three. We got a vehicle, late-model sedan, moving south on Enneking Parkway.”
    Rizzoli tensed, waiting for the next team to report in.
    Now Frost’s voice, in the next vehicle. “Watcher Two. We see him. Still moving south. Doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”
    Seconds later, a third unit reported: “Watcher Five. He’s just passed the intersection of Bald Knob Road. Heading out of the park.”
    Not our boy.
Even at this early-morning hour, Enneking Parkway was well traveled. They had lost count of how many vehicles they’d tracked through the reservation. Too many false alarms punctuating long intervals of boredom had burned up all her adrenaline, and she was fast sliding into sleep-deprived torpor.
    She leaned back with a disappointed sigh. Beyond the windshield she saw the blackness of woods, lit only by the occasional spark of a firefly. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she murmured. “Come to Mama. . . .”
    “You want some coffee?” asked Korsak.
    “Thanks.”
    He poured a cup from his thermos and handed it to her. The coffee was black and bitter and utterly disgusting, but she drank it anyway.
    “Made it extra strong tonight,” he said. “Two scoops of Folgers instead of one. Puts hair on your chest.”
    “Maybe that’s what I need.”
    “I figure, I drink