The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

it’s your birthday on Saturday. Let me take you up in my plane.”
    “Can’t. I’m on call that day.”
    “You can switch with Ames. I’ll talk to him.”
    “Oh, Peter. You know I don’t like to fly.”
    “Don’t tell me you have phobias about flying?”
    “I’m just not good at relinquishing control.”
    He nodded gravely. “Classic surgical personality.”
    “That’s a nice way of saying I’m uptight.”
    “So it’s a no-go on the flying date? I can’t change your mind?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    He sighed. “Well, that’s it for my lines. I’ve gone through my entire repertoire.”
    “I know. You’re starting to recycle them.”
    “That’s what Helen says, too.”
    She shot him a look of surprise. “Helen’s giving you tips on how to ask me out?”
    “She said she couldn’t stand the pathetic spectacle of a man banging his head against an impregnable wall.”
    They both laughed as they stepped off the elevator and walked to their suite. It was the comfortable laugh of two colleagues who knew this game was all tongue-in-cheek. Keeping it on that level meant no feelings were hurt, no emotions were at stake. A safe little flirtation that kept them both insulated from real entanglements. Playfully he’d ask her out; just as playfully she’d turn him down, and the whole office was in on the joke.
    It was already five-thirty, and their staff was gone for the day. Peter retreated to his office and she went into hers to hang up her lab coat and get her purse. As she put the coat on the door hook, a thought suddenly occurred to her.
    She crossed the hallway and stuck her head in Peter’s office. He was reviewing charts, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Unlike her own neat office, Peter’s looked like chaos central. Paper airplanes filled the trash can. Books and surgery journals were piled on chairs. One wall was nearly smothered by an out-of-control philodendron. Buried in that jungle of leaves were Peter’s diplomas: an undergraduate degree in aeronautical engineering from MIT, an M.D. from Harvard Medical School.
    “Peter? This is a stupid question. . . .”
    He glanced up over his glasses. “Then you’ve come to the right man.”
    “Have you been in my office?”
    “Should I call my lawyer before I answer that?”
    “Come on. I’m serious.”
    He straightened, and his gaze sharpened on hers. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
    “Never mind. It’s not a big deal.” She turned to leave and heard the creak of his chair as he stood up. He followed her into her office.
    “What’s not a big deal?” he asked.
    “I’m being obsessive-compulsive, that’s all. I get irritated when things aren’t where they should be.”
    “Like what?”
    “My lab coat. I always hang it on the door, and somehow it ends up on the filing cabinet, or over a chair. I know it’s not Helen or the other secretaries. I asked them.”
    “The cleaning lady probably moved it.”
    “And then it drives me crazy that I can’t find my stethoscope.”
    “It’s still missing?”
    “I had to borrow the nursing supervisor’s.”
    Frowning, he glanced around the room. “Well, there it is. On the bookshelf.” He crossed to the shelf, where her stethoscope lay coiled beside a bookend.
    Silently she took it from him, staring at it as though it were something alien. A black serpent, draped over her hand.
    “Hey, what’s the matter?”
    She took a deep breath. “I think I’m just tired.” She put the stethoscope in the left pocket of her lab coat—the same place she always left it.
    “Are you sure that’s all? Is there something else going on?”
    “I need to get home.” She walked out of her office, and he followed her into the hall.
    “Is it something to do with those police officers? Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble—if I can help out—”
    “I don’t
need
any help, thank you.” Her answer came out cooler than she’d intended, and she was instantly sorry for it. Peter didn’t deserve that.
    “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you did ask me for favors every so often,” he said quietly. “It’s part of working together. Being partners. Don’t you think?”
    She didn’t answer.
    He turned back to his office. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “Peter?”
    “Yes?”
    “About those two police officers. And the reason they came to see me—”
    “You don’t have to tell me.”
    “No, I should. You’ll just wonder about it if I don’t. They came to ask me about