The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

all was right in their world. Thinking of that note now, with its cheery optimism, Rizzoli knew she could not trouble him about this case; she could not bring the shadow of Warren Hoyt back into their lives.
    She sat listening to the sounds of traffic on the street below, which only seemed to emphasize the utter stillness inside her apartment. She looked around, at the starkly furnished living room, at the blank walls where she had yet to hang a single picture. The only decoration, if it could be called that, was a city map, tacked to the wall above her dining table. A year ago, the map had been studded with colored pushpins marking the Surgeon’s kills. She’d been so hungry for recognition, for her colleagues to acknowledge that, yes, she was their equal, that she had lived and breathed the hunt. Even at home, she had eaten her meals in grim view of murder’s footprints.
    Now the Surgeon pushpins were gone, but the map remained, waiting for a fresh set of pins to mark another killer’s movements. She wondered what it said about her, what pitiful interpretation one could draw, that even after two years in this apartment, the only adornment hanging on her walls was this map of Boston. My beat, she thought.
    My universe.

    The lights were off inside the Yeager residence when Rizzoli pulled into the driveway at nine-ten P.M. She was the first to arrive, and since she did not have access to the house, she sat in her car with the windows open to let in fresh air as she waited for the others to arrive. The house stood on a quiet cul-de-sac, and both neighbors’ homes were dark. This would work to their advantage tonight, as there would be less ambient light to obscure their search. But at that moment, sitting alone and contemplating that house of horrors, she craved bright lights and human company. The windows of the Yeager home stared at her like the glassy eyes of a corpse. The shadows around her took on myriad forms, none of them benign. She took out her weapon, unlatched the safety, and set it on her lap. Only then did she feel calmer.
    Headlights beamed in her rearview mirror. Turning, she was relieved to see the crime scene unit van pull up behind her. She slipped her weapon back in her purse.
    A young man with massive shoulders stepped out of the van and walked toward her car. As he bent down to peer in her window, she saw the glint of his gold earring.
    “Hey, Rizzoli,” he said.
    “Hey, Mick. Thanks for coming out.”
    “Nice neighborhood.”
    “Wait till you see the house.”
    A new set of headlights flickered into the cul-de-sac. Korsak had arrived.
    “Gang’s all here,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
    Korsak and Mick did not know each other. As Rizzoli introduced them by the glow of the van’s dome light, she saw that Korsak was staring at the CST’s earring and noticed his hesitation before he shook Mick’s hand. She could almost see the wheels turning in Korsak’s head.
Earring. Weight lifter. Gotta be gay.
    Mick began unloading his equipment. “I brought the new Mini Crimescope 400,” he said. “Four-hundred-watt arc lamp. Three times brighter than the old GE three-fifty watt. Most intense light source we ever worked with. This thing’s even brighter than five-hundred-watt Xenon.” He glanced at Korsak. “You mind carrying in the camera stuff?”
    Before Korsak could respond, Mick thrust an aluminum case into the detective’s arms, then turned back to the van for more equipment. Korsak just stood there for a moment holding the camera case, wearing a look of disbelief. Then he stalked off toward the house.
    By the time Rizzoli and Mick got to the front door with their various cases containing the Crimescope, power cords, and protective goggles, Korsak had turned on the lights inside the house and the door was ajar. They pulled on shoe covers and walked in.
    As Rizzoli had done earlier that day, Mick paused in the entryway, staring up in awe at the soaring stairwell.
    “There’s stained glass at the top,” said Rizzoli. “You should see it with the sun shining through.”
    An irritated Korsak called out from the family room, “We getting down to business here, or what?”
    Mick flashed Rizzoli a
what an asshole
look, and she shrugged. They headed down the hall.
    “This is the room,” said Korsak. He was wearing a different shirt from the one he’d worn earlier that afternoon, but this shirt, too, was already blotted with sweat. He stood with his jaw jutting out, his feet