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

glance. “I’m not done yet.”
    “Okay, what else?”
    “Let’s just slide lower down the image. Check out the woman’s right wrist. It’s got duct tape obscuring it. But see that dark little blotch there? What do you suppose that is?” He pointed and clicked, and the detail got larger.
    “Still doesn’t look like anything,” said Crowe.
    “Okay, we’ll zoom in again.” He clicked once more. The dark lump took on a recognizable shape.
    “Jesus,” said Rizzoli. “It looks like a tiny horse. That’s Elena Ortiz’s charm bracelet!”
    Brody glanced back at her with a grin. “Am I good or what?”
    “It’s him,” said Rizzoli. “It’s the Surgeon.”
    Moore said, “Go back to the nightstand.”
    Brody clicked back to the full frame and moved the arrow to the lower left corner. “What do you want to look at?”
    “We’ve got the clock telling us it’s two-twenty. And then there’s those two books under the clock. Look at their spines. See how that top book jacket reflects light?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That has a clear plastic cover protecting it.”
    “Okay . . .” said Brody, clearly not understanding where this was headed.
    “Zoom in on the top spine,” said Moore. “See if we can read that book title.”
    Brody pointed and clicked.
    “Looks like two words,” said Rizzoli. “I see the word
the
.”
    Brody clicked again, zooming in closer.
    “The second word begins with an S,” said Moore. “And look at this.” He tapped on the screen. “See this little white square here, at the base of the spine?”
    “I know what you’re getting at!” Rizzoli said, her voice suddenly excited. “The title. Come on; we need the goddamn title!”
    Brody pointed and clicked one last time.
    Moore stared at the screen, at the second word on the book’s spine. Abruptly he turned and reached for the telephone.
    “What am I missing?” asked Crowe.
    “The title of the book is
The Sparrow
,” said Moore, punching in “O.” “And that little square on the spine—I’m betting that’s a call number.”
    “It’s a library book,” said Rizzoli.
    A voice came on the line. “Operator.”
    “This is Detective Thomas Moore, Boston PD. I need an emergency contact number for the Boston Public Library.”
    *     *     *
    “Jesuits in space,” said Frost, sitting in the backseat. “That’s what the book’s about.”
    They were speeding down Centre Street, Moore at the wheel, emergency lights flashing. Two cruisers were leading the way.
    “My wife belongs to this reading group, see,” said Frost. “I remember her talking about
The Sparrow
.”
    “So it’s science fiction?” asked Rizzoli.
    “Naw, it’s more like deep religious stuff. What’s the nature of God? That kind of thing.”
    “Then I don’t need to read it,” said Rizzoli. “I know all the answers. I’m Catholic.”
    Moore glanced at the cross street and said, “We’re close.”
    The address they sought was in Jamaica Plain, a west Boston neighborhood tucked between Franklin Park and the bordering town of Brookline. The woman’s name was Nina Peyton. A week ago, she had borrowed a copy of
The Sparrow
from the library’s Jamaica Plain branch. Of all the patrons in the greater Boston area who had checked out copies of the book, Nina Peyton was the only one who, at 2:00 A.M. , was not answering her telephone.
    “This is it,” said Moore, as the cruiser just ahead of them turned right onto Eliot Street. He followed suit and, a block later, pulled up behind it.
    The cruiser’s dome light shot surreal flashes of blue into the night as Moore, Rizzoli, and Frost stepped through the front gate and approached the house. Inside, one faint light glowed.
    Moore shot a look at Frost, who nodded and circled toward the rear of the building.
    Rizzoli knocked on the front door and called out: “Police!”
    They waited a few seconds.
    Again Rizzoli knocked, harder. “Ms. Peyton, this is the police! Open the door!”
    There was a three-beat pause. Suddenly Frost’s voice crackled over their com units: “There’s a screen pried off the back window!”
    Moore and Rizzoli exchanged glances, and without a word the decision was made.
    With the butt of his flashlight, Moore smashed the glass panel next to the front door, reached inside, and slid open the bolt.
    Rizzoli was first into the house, moving in a semicrouch, her weapon sweeping an arc. Moore was right behind her, adrenaline pulsing as he registered a quick succession