The Apprentice

“What am I supposed to let them see? That I’m missing that precious Y chromosome? My badge is the only thing I want them to see.”

He leaned forward, his face close enough to invade personal space. “This is about your vulnerability as a target. It’s about a perp who already knows how to turn the screws on you. A man who’s managed to get within striking distance. And you never even knew he was there.”

“Next time I will know.”

“Will you?”

They stared at each other, their faces as close as two lovers. The dart of sexual desire that shot through her was so sudden and unexpected it felt like both pain and pleasure at once. Abruptly she pulled back, her face hot, and even though her gaze met his from a safer distance, she still felt exposed. She was not good at hiding her emotions, and she’d always felt hopelessly inadequate when it came to flirting or engaging in all the other small dishonesties that play out between men and women. She strove to keep her expression unchanged but found she could not keep looking at him without feeling transparent to his gaze.

“You do understand there’ll be a next time,” he said. “It’s not just Hoyt now. There are two of them. If that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, it should.”

She looked down at the envelope containing the videotape, which Hoyt had meant her to see. The game was just begi

In silence she gathered up her papers.

“Jane?”

“I heard everything you said.”

“It doesn’t make a difference to you. Does it?”

She looked at him. “You know what? A bus could hit me when I cross the street outside. Or I could keel over at my desk from a stroke. But I don’t think about those things. I can’t let them take over. I almost did, you know. The nightmares-they just about wore me down. But now I’ve got my second wind. Or maybe I’ve just gone numb and I can’t feel anything anymore. So the best I can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep on marching. That’s how to get through this, just keep on marching. That’s all any of us can do.”

She was almost relieved when her beeper went off. It gave her a reason to break eye contact, to look down at the digital readout on her pager. She felt him watching her as she crossed to the conference room phone and dialed.

“Hair and Fiber. Volchko,” a voice answered.

“Rizzoli. You paged.”

“It’s about those green nylon fibers. The ones lifted from Gail Yeager’s skin. We found identical fibers on Kare

“So he’s using the same fabric to wrap all his victims. No surprises there.”

“Oh, but I do have one little surprise for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I know which fabric he used.”

Erin pointed to the microscope. “The slides are all ready for you. Take a look.”

Rizzoli and Dean sat down facing each other, eyes pressed to the microscope’s double teaching head. Through the lenses, they saw the same view: two strands, laid side by side for comparison.

“The fiber on the left was lifted from Gail Yeager. The one on the right from Kare

“They look identical,” said Rizzoli.

“They are. They’re both DuPont nylon type six, six, drab green. The filaments are thirty-denier, extremely fine.” Erin reached into a folder and took out two graphs, which she laid on the countertop. “And here’s the ATR spectra again. Number one is from Yeager, number two from Ghent.” She glanced at Dean. “You’re familiar with Attenuated Total Reflection techniques, Agent Dean?”

“It’s an infrared mode, isn’t it?”

“Right. We use it to distinguish surface treatments from the fiber itself. To detect any chemicals that have been applied to the fabric after weaving.”

“And were there any?”

“Yes, a silicone rub. Last week, Detective Rizzoli and I went over the possible reasons for such a surface treatment. We didn’t know what this fabric was designed for. What we did know was that these fibers are heat- and light-resistant. And that the threads are so fine that, if woven together, they’d be watertight.”

“We thought it might be a tent or a tarp,” said Rizzoli.

“And what would the silicone add?” asked Dean.

“Antistatic properties,” said Erin. “Some tear and water resistance. Plus, it turns out, it reduces the porosity of this fabric to almost zero. In other words, even air can’t pass through it.” Erin looked at Rizzoli. “Any guesses what it is?”

“You said you already know the answer.”

“Well, I had a little help. From the Co

Rizzoli’s gaze flew back and forth between the graphs. “The spectra match. The fibers are identical.”

“Right. Only the color’s different. The fibers from our two cases are drab green. The fibers from the Co

“You’re kidding.”

“Sounds pretty gaudy, right? But aside from the color, the Co

“Tell us about the Co

“A skydiving accident. The victim’s chute failed to open properly. Only when these orange and lime-green fibers turned up on the suspect’s clothing did it turn into a homicide investigation.”

Rizzoli stared at the ATR spectra. “It’s a parachute.”

“Exactly. The suspect in the Co

Rizzoli looked up at her. “A parachute,” she said. “It makes the perfect shroud.”

NINETEEN

Papers were everywhere, file folders lying open on the conference table, crime scene photos layered like glossy shingles. Pens scratched on yellow legal pads. Although this was the age of computers-and there were a few laptops powered up, screens glowing- when information is spilling fast and furious, cops still reach for the comfort of paper. Rizzoli had left her own laptop back at her desk, preferring to jot down notes in her dark, assertive scrawl. The page was a tangle of words and looping arrows and little boxes emphasizing significant details. But there was order to the mess, and security in the permanence of ink. She flipped to a fresh page, trying to focus her attention on Dr. Zucker’s whispery voice. Trying not to be distracted by the presence of Gabriel Dean, who sat right next to her, taking his own notes, but in far neater script. Her gaze wandered to his hand, thick veins standing out on his skin as he gripped the pen, the cuff of his shirt peeking out white and crisp from the sleeve of his gray jacket. He’d walked into the meeting after she had and had chosen to sit beside her. Did that mean anything? No, Rizzoli. It only means there was an empty chair next to you. It was a waste of time, a diversion, to be caught up in such thoughts. She felt scattered, her attention fracturing in different directions, even her notes starting to wander in a skewed line across the page. There were five other men in the room, but it was only Dean who held her attention. She knew his scent now and could pick it out, cool and clean, from the room’s olfactory symphony of aftershave scents. Rizzoli, who never wore perfume, was surrounded by men who did. She looked down at what she’d just written: