The Apprentice

“Looks nice and clear,” said Isles, sounding pleased. She placed the syringe in an ice-filled cooler, then rose to her feet and surveyed the site with a regal gaze. “Liver temp is only two degrees cooler than ambient temp,” she said. “And there’s no insect or animal damage. She hasn’t been lying here very long.”

“It’s just a dump?” asked Sleeper.

“Lividity indicates she died while lying faceup. See how it’s darker on the back, where the blood’s pooled? But she was found lying here facedown.”

“She was moved here.”

“Less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Looks like she’s been dead a lot longer than that,” said Crowe.

“Yes. She’s flaccid, and there’s significant bloating. Skin’s already slipping off.”

“Is that a nosebleed?” asked Korsak.

“Decomposed blood. She’s starting to purge. Fluids are being forced out by the internal buildup of gases.”

“Time of death?” asked Rizzoli.

Isles paused, her gaze fixed for a moment on the grotesquely swollen remains of a woman they all believed was Gail Yeager. Flies buzzed, filling the silence with their greedy hum. Except for the long blond hair, there was little about the corpse that resembled the woman in the photographs, a woman who once had surely turned men’s heads with just a smile. It was a disturbing reminder that both the beautiful and the homely are reduced by bacteria and insects to the grim equality of moldering flesh.

“I can’t answer that,” said Isles. “Not yet.”

“More than a day?” pressed Rizzoli.

“Yes.”

“The abduction was Sunday night. Could she have been dead since then?”

“Four days? It depends on the ambient temperature. The absence of insect damage makes me think the body was kept indoors until just recently. Protected from the environment. An air-conditioned room would slow down decomposition.”

Rizzoli and Korsak exchanged glances, both of them wondering the same thing. Why would the unsub wait so long to dispose of a decomposing body?

Detective Sleeper’s walkie-talkie crackled, and they heard Doud’s voice: “Detective Frost just arrived. And the CSU van’s here. You ready for ‘em?”

“Stand by,” said Sleeper. Already he looked exhausted, drained from the heat. He was the oldest detective in the unit, no more than five years from retirement, and he had no need to prove himself. He looked at Rizzoli. “We’re coming in on the tail end of this case. You been working with Newton P.D. on it?”

She nodded. “Since Monday.”

“So you go

“Right,” said Rizzoli.

“Hey,” protested Crowe. “We were first on the scene.”

“Abduction was in Newton,” said Korsak.

“But the body’s now in Boston,” retorted Crowe.

“Jesus,” said Sleeper. “Why the hell are we fighting over this?”

“It’s mine,” said Rizzoli. “I’m lead.” She stared at Crowe, daring him to challenge her. Expecting their usual rivalry to flare up, as it always did. She saw one side of his mouth turn up in the begi

Then Sleeper said, into his walkie-talkie, “Detective Rizzoli is now lead investigator.” He looked at her again. “You ready for CSU to come in?”

She glanced up at the sky. It was already five P.M., and the sun had dipped below the trees. “Let’s get them in here while they can still see what they’re doing.”

An outdoor death scene, in fading daylight, was not a scenario she welcomed. In wooded areas, wild animals were always poised to descend, scattering remains and dragging off evidence. Rainstorms wash away blood and semen, and the winds scatter fibers. There were no doors, to lock out trespassers, and perimeters were easily breached by the curious. So she felt a sense of urgency as the crime scene unit began its grid search. They brought with them metal detectors and sharp eyes and evidence sacks waiting to be filled with grotesque treasures.

By the time Rizzoli tramped back out of the woods and onto the golf course, she was sweating and filthy and tired of swatting at mosquitoes. She paused to brush twigs from hair and pluck burrs from her slacks. Straightening, she suddenly focused on a sandy-haired man in a suit and tie, who stood beside the M.E.‘s van, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

She went to Patrolman Doud, who was still ma

Doud glanced in the man’s direction. “Him? Says he’s FBI.”

“What?”

“Flashed his badge and tried to talk his way past me. I told him he’d have to clear it with you first. Didn’t seem too happy about that.”

“What’s a fibbie doing here?”

“You got me.”

She stood watching the man for a moment, disturbed by the arrival of a federal agent. As lead investigator, she wanted no blurring of the lines of authority, and this man, with his military bearing and businessman’s suit, already looked as though he owned the scene. She walked toward him, but he did not acknowledge her presence until she was standing right beside him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I understand you’re FBI?”

He snapped his cell phone shut and turned to face her.

She saw strong, clean-cut features and a coolly impervious gaze.

“I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, the lead on this case,” she said. “May I see your I.D.?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the badge. As she studied it, she could feel him watching her, sizing her up. She resented his silent appraisal, resented the way he put her on guard, as though he was the one in control.

“Agent Gabriel Dean,” she said, handing back the badge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“May I ask what the FBI’s doing here?”

“I wasn’t aware we were on opposing teams.”

“Did I say we were?”

“You’re giving me the distinct feeling I shouldn’t be here.”

“The FBI doesn’t usually turn up at our crime scenes. I’m just curious what brings you to this one.”

“We received an advisory from Newton P.D. about the Yeager homicide.” It was an incomplete answer; he was leaving out too much, forcing her to fish. Withholding information was a form of power, and she understood the game he was playing.

“I imagine you guys get a lot of routine advisories,” she said.

“Yes, we do.”

“Every homicide, isn’t that right?”

“We’re notified.”

“Is there something about this one that’s special?”

He simply gazed at her with that impenetrable expression. “I think the victims would say so.”

Her anger was working its way like a splinter to the surface. “This body was found only a few hours ago,” she said. “Are these advisories now instantaneous?”

There was a faint twitch of a smile on his lips. “We’re not entirely out of the loop, Detective. We’d appreciate it if you kept us apprised of your progress. Autopsy reports. Trace evidence. Copies of all witness statements-”

“That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“I realize that.”

“And you want it all?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“A murder and abduction shouldn’t interest us? We’d like to follow this case.”

As imposing as he was, she didn’t hesitate to challenge him by stepping closer. “When do you plan to start calling the shots?”

“It remains your case. I’m only here to assist.”

“Even if I don’t see the need for it?”

His gaze shifted to the two attendants who’d emerged from the woods and were now loading the stretcher with the remains into the M.E.‘s van. “Does it really matter who works the case?” he asked quietly. “As long as this unsub is caught?”

They watched the van drive away, carrying the already desecrated corpse to further indignities beneath the bright lights of the autopsy suite. Gabriel Dean’s response had reminded her, with punishing clarity, just how unimportant were matters of jurisdiction. Gail Yeager did not care who took credit for the capture of her killer. All she demanded was justice, whoever might deliver it. Justice was what Rizzoli owed her.