The Apprentice

“What do you mean, on tour?”

“They’re both musicians. Flew in a week ago from Chicago. Kare

It did not escape her notice that Crowe had referred to the man in the past tense but not the woman.

Their paper shoe covers whished across the wood floor as they walked up the hall, drawn toward the sound of voices. Stepping into the living room, Rizzoli did not see the body at first, because it was blocked from her view by Sleeper and Frost, who stood with their backs turned to her. What she did see was the by-now familiar horror story written on the walls: multiple arcs of arterial splatter. She must have drawn in a sharp breath, because both Frost and Sleeper simultaneously turned to look at her. They stepped aside, to reveal Dr. Isles, crouched beside the victim.

Alexander Ghent sat propped up against the wall like a sad marionette, his head tilted backward, revealing the gaping wound that had been his throat. So young, was her first shocked reaction as she stared at the disconcertingly unworried face, the open blue eye. He is so very young.

“An official from the Symphony Hall-name’s Evelyn Petrakas-came to pick them up around six o’clock for their evening performance,” said Crowe. “They didn’t answer the door. She found it was unlocked, so she walked in to check on them.”

“He’s wearing a pajama bottom,” said Rizzoli.

“He’s in rigor mortis,” said Dr. Isles as she rose to her feet. “And there’s been significant cooling. I’ll be more specific when I get the vitreous potassium results. But right now, I’d estimate time of death between sixteen and twenty hours ago. Which would make it…” She glanced at her watch. “Sometime between one and five A.M.”

“The bed’s unmade,” said Sleeper. “The last time anyone saw the couple was yesterday night. They left Symphony Hall around eleven, and Ms. Petrakas dropped them off here.”

The victims were asleep, thought Rizzoli, staring at Alexander Ghent’s pajama bottom. Asleep and unaware that someone was in their house. Walking toward their bedroom.

“There’s an open kitchen window that leads to a little courtyard in back,” said Sleeper. “We found several footprints in the flower bed, but they’re not all the same size. Some of them may belong to a gardener. Or even the victims.”

Rizzoli stared down at the duct tape binding Alex Ghent’s ankles. “And Mrs. Ghent?” she asked. Already knowing the answer.

“Missing,” said Sleeper.

Her gaze moved in an ever larger circle around the corpse, but she saw no broken teacup, no fragments of chinaware. Something is wrong, she thought.

“Detective Rizzoli?”

She turned and saw a crime scene tech standing in the hallway.

“Patrolman says there’s some guy outside, claims to know you. He’s raising a holy stink, demanding access. You want to check him out?”

“I know who it is,” she said. “I’ll go walk him in.”

Korsak was smoking a cigarette as he paced the sidewalk, so furious about the indignity of being reduced to the status of civilian bystander that smoke seemed to be rising from his ears as well. He saw her and immediately threw down the butt and squashed it as though it were a disgusting bug.

“You shutting me out or what?” he said.

“Look, I’m sorry. The patrolman didn’t get the word.”

“Goddamn rookie. Didn’t show any respect.”

“He didn’t know, okay? It was my fault.” She lifted the crime scene tape and he ducked under it. “I want you to see this.”

At the front door, she waited while he pulled on shoe covers and latex gloves. He stumbled as he tried to balance on one foot. Catching him, she was shocked to smell alcohol on his breath. She had called him from her car, had reached him at home on a night when he was off duty. Now she regretted having alerted him at all. He was already angry and belligerent, but she could not refuse him entry without precipitating a noisy and very public scene. She only hoped he was sober enough not to embarrass them both.

“Okay,” he huffed. “Show me what we got.”

In the living room he stared without comment at the corpse of Alexander Ghent, slumped in a pool of blood. Korsak’s shirt had come untucked, and he breathed with his usual adenoidal snuffle. She saw Crowe and Sleeper glance their way, saw Crowe roll his eyes, and suddenly she was furious at Korsak for showing up in this condition. She had called him because he’d been the first detective to walk the Yeager death scene, and she’d wanted his impression on this one as well. What she got instead was a drunk cop whose very presence was starting to humiliate her.

“It could be our boy,” said Korsak.

Crowe snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Korsak turned his bloodshot gaze on Crowe. “You’re one of those boy geniuses, huh? Know it all.”

“Not like it takes a genius to see what we’ve got.”

“What do you think we’ve got?”

“A replay. Nocturnal home invasion. Couple surprised in bed. Wife abducted, husband gets the coup de grâce. It’s all here.”

“So where’s the teacup?” Impaired though he was, Korsak had managed to zero in on precisely the detail that had bothered Rizzoli.

“There isn’t one,” said Crowe.

Korsak stared at the victim’s empty lap. “He’s got the vic posed. Got him sitting up against the wall to watch the show, like the last time. But he left out the warning system. The teacup. If he assaults the wife, how does he keep track of the husband?”

“Ghent’s a ski

“It’s a change; that’s all I’m saying.”

Crowe shrugged and turned away. “So he rewrote the script.”

“Pretty boy just knows it all, doesn’t he?”

The room fell silent. Even Dr. Isles, who was often ready with an ironic comment, said nothing, but just watched with a vaguely amused expression.

Crowe turned, his gaze like laser beams on Korsak. But his words were addressed to Rizzoli: “Detective, is there a reason this man is trespassing on our crime scene?”

Rizzoli grasped Korsak’s arm. It was doughy and moist, and she could smell his sour sweat. “We haven’t seen the bedroom yet. Come on.”

“Yeah,” Crowe laughed. “Don’t wa

Korsak yanked away from her and took an unsteady step toward Crowe. “I been working this perp way before you, asshole.”

“Come on, Korsak,” said Rizzoli.

“… chasing down every fucking lead there is. I’m the one shoulda been called here first, ‘cause I know him now. I can smell him.”

“Oh. Is that what I’m smelling?” said Crowe.

“Come on,” said Rizzoli, about to lose it. Afraid of all rage that might come roaring out if she did. Rage against both Korsak and Crowe for their stupid head butting.

It was Barry Frost who gracefully stepped in to defuse the tension. Rizzoli’s instinct was usually to leap into any argument with both feet first, but Frost’s was to play peacemaker. It’s the curse of growing up the middle child, he’d once told her, the kid who knows his face will otherwise catch the fists of all parties involved. He did not even try to calm down Korsak but instead said to Rizzoli, “You’ve got to see what we found in the bedroom. It ties these two cases together.” He walked across the living room and headed into another hallway, his matter-of-fact stride a

After a moment, Korsak did.

In the bedroom, Frost, Korsak, and Rizzoli gazed at the rumpled sheets, the thrown-back covers. And at the twin swaths carved in the carpet.

“Dragged from their beds,” Frost said. “Like the Yeagers.”

But Alexander Ghent had been smaller and far less muscular than Dr. Yeager, and the unsub would have had an easier time moving him into the hallway and posing him against the wall. An easier time grasping his hair and baring his throat.