The Apprentice

“We have five vehicles on stakeout-”

“The cemetery is not our priority.”

“Watcher One,” said Dispatch. “All units are on calls right now. Any chance you could release one?”

“Negative. I want my team to hold position. Copy, Watcher Five?”

“Ten-four. We are holding. Dispatch, we can’t respond to that premises-check call.”

Rizzoli huffed out a sigh. There might be complaints about this come morning, but she was not going to release a single vehicle from her surveillance team, not for a trivial call.

“It’s not like we’re swamped with action,” said Korsak.

“When it happens, it’ll be fast. I’m not going to let anything foul this up.”

“You know that thing we were talking about earlier? About you being obsessed?”

“Don’t start in now.”

“No, I’m not go

“Where you going?”

“Take a leak. I need permission?”

“Just asking.”

“That coffee’s going right through me.”

“No wonder. Your coffee’d burn a hole through cast iron.”

He stepped out of the car and walked into the woods, his hands already fumbling at his fly. He didn’t bother to step behind any tree but just stood there, urinating into the bushes. This she didn’t need to see, and she averted her gaze. Every class has its gross-out kid, and Korsak was it, the boy who openly picked his nose and belched with gusto and wore his lunch on the front of his shirt. The kid whose moist and pudgy hands you avoided touching at all costs, because you were sure to catch his cooties. She felt both repelled by him and sorry for him. She looked down at the coffee he’d poured for her, and she tossed what was left out the window.

Fresh chatter erupted over the radio, startling her.

“We got a vehicle moving east on Dedham Parkway. Looks like a Yellow Cab.”

Rizzoli responded, “A taxicab at three A.M.?”

“That’s what we got.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Just turned north onto E

“Watcher Two?” said Rizzoli, calling the next unit on the route.

“Watcher Two,” said Frost. “Yeah, we see him. Just went past us…” A silence. Then, with sudden tension: “He’s slowing down…”

“Doing what?”

“Braking. Looks like he’s about to pull over-”

“Location?” snapped Rizzoli.

“The dirt parking area. He’s just pulled into the parking area!”

It’s him.

“Korsak, we’re hot!” she hissed out the window. As she slipped on her personal comm unit and adjusted the earpiece, every nerve was singing with excitement.

Korsak zipped up his fly and scrambled back into the car. “What? What?”

“Vehicle just pulled off E

“Just sitting there. Lights are off.”

She hunched forward, pressing the headset to her ear in concentration. The seconds ticked by, transmissions silent, everyone waiting for the suspect’s next move.

He’s checking out the area. Confirming that it’s safe to proceed.

“It’s your call, Rizzoli,” said Frost. “We move on him?”

She hesitated, weighing their options. Afraid to spring the trap too soon.

“Wait,” said Frost. “He just turned his headlights back on. Ah, shit, he’s backing out. He’s changed his mind.”

“Did he spot you? Frost, did he spot you?”

“I don’t know! He’s pulled back onto E

“We’ve spooked him!” In that split second, the only possible decision was crystal clear to her. She barked into her comm unit: “All units, go, go, go! Box him in now!”

She started the car, jammed the gear into drive. Her tires spun, digging a trough through soft dirt and fallen leaves, branches whipping at the windshield. She heard her team’s rapid-fire transmissions and the far-off blare of multiple sirens.

“Watcher Three. We now have E

“Watcher Two. In pursuit-”

“Vehicle is approaching! He’s braking-”

“Box him in! Box him in!”

“Do not confront without backup!” Rizzoli ordered. “Wait for backup!”

“Roger that. Vehicle has halted. We are holding position.”

By the time Rizzoli screeched to a halt, E

Frost yanked open the suspect’s door, and half a dozen weapons were pointed at the driver’s head. The cabbie sat blinking and disoriented, blue lights pulsing on his face.

“Step out of the vehicle,” Frost ordered.

“What-what’d I do?”

“Step out of the vehicle.” On this adrenaline-drenched night, even Barry Frost had transformed into someone frightening.

The cabbie slowly emerged, hands held high. The instant both his feet touched the ground, he was spun around and shoved facedown against the hood of the cab.

“What’d I do!” he cried as Frost patted him down.

“State your name!” said Rizzoli.

“I don’t know what this is all about-”

“Your name!”

“Wilensky.” He gave a sob. “Vernon Wilensky-”

“Check,” said Frost, reading the cabbie’s I.D. “Vernon Wilensky, white male, born 1955.”

“Matches the carriage permit,” said Korsak, who’d leaned into the cab to check the I.D. clipped to the visor.

Rizzoli glanced up, eyes narrowing against the glare of oncoming headlights. Even at three A.M., there was traffic moving along the parkway, and with the road now blocked by police vehicles, they’d soon have cars backing up in both directions.

She focused again on the cabbie. Grabbing his shirt, she turned him around to face her and aimed her flashlight in his eyes. She saw a middle-aged man, blond hair gone thin and scraggly, skin sallow in the harsh beam of ight. This was not the face she’d envisioned as their unsub. She had looked into the eyes of evil more times than she cared to count and carried, in her memory, all the faces belonging to the monsters she had encountered in her career. This scared man did not belong in that gallery.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Wilensky?” she said.

“I was just-just picking up a fare.”

“What fare?”

“A guy, called for a cab. Said he ran outta gas on E

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know! I stopped where he said he’d be waiting, and he wasn’t there. Please, it’s all a mistake. Call my dispatcher! She’ll back me up!”

Rizzoli said to Frost: “Pop open the trunk.”

Even as she walked to the rear of the cab, a sick feeling was building in her stomach. She lifted the trunk hood and aimed her Maglite. For a solid five seconds she stared into that empty trunk, the sick feeling now worsening to full-blown nausea. She pulled on gloves. Felt her face flushing hot and bright, her chest going hollow with despair, as she peeled back the gray carpet lining the trunk. She saw a spare tire, a jack, and a few tools. She began yanking on the carpet, peeling it back farther, all her rage focused on ripping away every square inch of it, exposing every dark nook it might conceal. She was like a madwoman, clawing desperately for the scraps of her own redemption. When she could tear away no more and the trunk was exposed down to bare metal, she just stared at the empty space, refusing to accept what was plain to see. The irrefutable evidence that she had screwed up.

A setup. This was just a setup, meant to distract us. But from what?

The answer came to her with dizzying speed. A call erupted from their radios.

“Ten fifty-four, ten fifty-four, Fairview Cemetery. All units, ten fifty-four, Fairview Cemetery.”

Frost’s gaze met hers, both of them struck in that instant by the same terrible realization. Ten fifty-four. Homicide.

“Stay with the cab!” she ordered Frost, and she sprinted to her car. In the tangle of vehicles, hers was the easiest to extract, the quickest to turn around. Even as she scrambled in behind the wheel and twisted the key, she was cursing her own stupidity.