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

lifted the cell phone to his ear. “You got that, Rizzoli?” A pause, then: “We’ll meet you there.”
     
    Detective Rizzoli was waiting for them right outside Catherine’s medical suite. A small group had already gathered in the hallway—a building security guard, two police officers, and several men in plainclothes. Detectives, Catherine assumed.
    “We’ve searched the office,” said Rizzoli. “He’s long gone.”
    “Then he was definitely here?” said Moore.
    “Both computers are turned on. The name SavvyDoc is still on the America Online sign-on screen.”
    “How did he gain entry?”
    “The door doesn’t appear to be forced. There’s a housekeeping service under contract to clean these offices, so there are a number of passkeys floating around. Plus there are the employees who work in this suite.”
    “We have a billing clerk, a receptionist, and two clinic assistants,” said Catherine.
    “And there’s you and Dr. Falco.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that makes six more keys that could’ve been lost or borrowed,” was Rizzoli’s brusque reaction. Catherine did not care for this woman, and she wondered if the feeling was mutual.
    Rizzoli gestured toward the suite. “Okay, let’s take you through the rooms, Dr. Cordell, and see if anything’s missing. Just don’t touch anything, okay? Not the door, not the computers. We’ll be dusting them for prints.”
    Catherine looked at Moore, who placed a reassuring arm around her shoulder. They stepped into her suite.
    She spared only a brief glance around the patient waiting room, then went into the receptionist’s area, where the office staff worked. The billing computer was on. The A drive was empty; the intruder had not left any floppy disks behind.
    With a pen, Moore tapped the computer mouse to inactivate the screen saver, and the AOL sign-on window appeared. “SavvyDoc” was still in the “selected name” box.
    “Does anything in this room look different to you?” asked Rizzoli.
    Catherine shook her head.
    “Okay. Let’s go in your office.”
    Her heart was pounding faster as she walked up the hallway, past the two exam rooms. She stepped into her office. Instantly her gaze shot to the ceiling. With a gasp, she jerked backward, almost colliding with Moore. He caught her in his arms and held her steady.
    “That’s where we found it,” said Rizzoli, pointing to the stethoscope dangling from the overhead light. “Just hanging there. I take it that’s not where you left it.”
    Catherine shook her head. She said, her voice muted by shock: “He’s been in here before.”
    Rizzoli’s gaze sharpened on hers. “When?”
    “The last few days. I’ve been finding things missing. Or moved around.”
    “What things?”
    “The stethoscope. My lab coat.”
    “Look around the room,” said Moore, gently coaxing her forward. “Has anything else changed?”
    She scanned the bookshelves, the desk, the filing cabinet. This was her private space, and she’d organized every inch of it. She knew where things should be and where they should not be.
    “The computer’s on,” she said. “I always turn it off when I leave for the day.”
    Rizzoli tapped on the mouse, and the AOL screen appeared, with Catherine’s screen name, “CCord,” in the sign-on box.
    “This is how he got your e-mail address,” said Rizzoli. “All he had to do was turn on your computer.”
    She stared at the keyboard.
You typed on these keys. You sat in my chair.
    Moore’s voice gave her a start.
    “Is anything missing?” he asked. “It’s likely to be something small, something very personal.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “It’s his pattern.”
    So it had happened to the other women, she thought. The other victims.
    “It might be something you’d wear,” said Moore. “Something you alone would use. A piece of jewelry. A comb, a key chain.”
    “Oh god.” Immediately she reached down to yank open the top desk drawer.
    “Hey!” said Rizzoli. “I said not to touch anything.”
    But Catherine was already thrusting her hand into the drawer, frantically searching among the pens and pencils. “It’s not here.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “I keep a spare key ring in my desk.”
    “Which keys are on it?”
    “An extra key to my car. To my hospital locker . . .” She paused, and her throat was suddenly dry. “If he’s been in my locker during the day, then he’s had access to my purse.” She looked up at Moore. “To my house