The Apprentice

“Ma, Frankie’s fine,” said Jane.

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in. “Maybe they sent him out on-what do you call it? When they play war cames?”

“Maneuvers,” said Jane.

“Yeah, some kinda maneuvers. Or even out of the country. Some place he’s not supposed to tell anyone about, where he can’t get to a phone.”

“He’s a drill sergeant, Mike. Not Rambo.”

“Even Rambo sends his mother a birthday card,” snapped Frank Senior.

In the sudden hush, all the guests ducked for cover and took simultaneous bites of cake. They spent the next few seconds chewing with fierce concentration.

It was Gracie Kaminsky, the Rizzolis’ next-door neighbor, who bravely broke the silence. “This cake is so good, Angela! Who baked it?”

“Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”

Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”

Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”

“I didn’t have the time to bake one.”

It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.

“Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.

Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”

“Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.

“Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about-”

“Since you’re so busy, I guess I should get down on my knees and thank you for even making it to your only mother’s birthday.”

Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her face stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.

The phone rang. Everyone froze.

At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.

Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long? With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.

“What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”

Jane winced. Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the blame on me.

In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.

“Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”

Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the kitchen when her mother called out:

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Who, me?”

“That’s what he says.”

Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.

Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.

“I asked you for one fucking favor,” he said.

“Are you talking about the gift?”

“I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”

“You could’ve expected that.”

“I bet you’re thinking this is so cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”

“You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”

“And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”

“I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”

“Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”

“My gift was already delivered.”

“And I guess it was too much trouble just to pick up a little something for me?”

“Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”

“Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you, ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’ ”

“Besides, you didn’t pay me for the last gift.”

“Sure I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” And it still pisses me off that Ma refers to it as “that nice lamp Frankie gave me.”

“So it’s all about the money, is that it?” he said.

Her beeper went off, rattling against her belt. She looked at the number. “I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the way you keep getting away with things. You don’t even try, but somehow you always get full credit.”

“Is this the ‘poor shitty me’ act again?”

“I’m hanging up, Frankie.”

“Give me back to Ma.”

“First I got to answer my page. You call back in a minute.”

“What the hell? I’m not racking up another long distance-”

She disco

Darren Crowe answered.

She was in no mood to deal with yet another disagreeable man, and she snapped back: “Rizzoli. You paged me.”

“Jeez, try a little Midol, why don’t you?”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yeah, we got a ten fifty-four. Beacon Hill. Sleeper and I got here ‘bout half an hour ago.”

She heard laughter in her mother’s living room and danced toward the closed door. Thought of the scene that was sure to come if she made an exit during Angela’s birthday party.

“You’ll want to see this one,” said Crowe.

“Why?”

“It’ll be obvious when you get here.”

TEN

Standing on the front stoop, Rizzoli caught the scent of death through the open doorway and paused, reluctant to take that first step into the house. To view what she already knew waited inside. She would have preferred to delay an extra moment or two, to prepare herself for the ordeal, but Darren Crowe, who’d opened the door to admit her, now stood watching her, and she had no choice but to pull on gloves and shoe covers and get on with what needed to be done.

“Is Frost here yet?” she asked as she snapped on gloves.

“Got here about twenty minutes ago. He’s inside.”

“I would’ve been here sooner, but I had to drive in from Revere.”

“What’s in Revere?”

“Mom’s birthday party.”

He laughed. “Sounded like you were having a real good time there.”

“Don’t ask.” She pulled on the last shoe cover and straightened, her face all business now. Men like Crowe respected only strength, and strength was all she allowed him to see. As they stepped inside, she knew his gaze was on her, that he would be watching for her reaction to whatever she was about to confront. Testing, always testing, waiting for the moment when she would come up short. Knowing that, sooner or later, it would happen.

He closed the front door and suddenly she felt claustrophic, cut off from fresh air. The stench of death was stronger, her lungs filling with its poison. She let none of these emotions show as she took in the foyer, noting the twelve-foot ceilings, the antique grandfather clock-not ticking. She’d always considered the Beacon Hill section of Boston as her dream neighborhood, the place she’d move to if she ever won the lottery or, even more farfetched, ever married Mr. Right. And this would have qualified as her dream home. Already she was u

“Security system was off,” said Growe.

“Disabled?”

“No. The vics just didn’t turn it on. Maybe they didn’t know how to work it, since it’s not their house.”

“Whose house is it?”

Crowe flipped open his notebook and read, “Owner is Christopher Harm, age sixty-two. Retired stock trader. Serves on the board of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Spending the summer in France. He offered the use of his home to the Ghents while they’re on tour in Boston.”