The Apprentice

She hit REWIND, and the tape whined backward. Once again Pardee was in the hallway, approaching the master bedroom. Once again, the view swept toward the right, slowly pa

She hit PAUSE. “It’s not there.”

“What isn’t?” said Gorman.

“The folded nightclothes.” She turned to him. “You didn’t find any?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“It’s part of the Dominator’s signature. He folds the woman’s nightclothes. Displays them in the bedroom as a symbol of his control.”

“If it’s him, he didn’t do it here.”

“Everything else about this matches him. The duct tape, the teacup on the lap. The position of the male victim.”

“What you see is what we found.”

“You’re sure nothing was moved before the video was filmed?”

It was not a tactful question, and Gorman stiffened. “Well, I guess it’s always possible the first officer on the scene walked in here and decided to move stuff around, just to make things interesting for us.”

Frost, ever the diplomat, stepped in to smooth the chop that Rizzoli so often trailed in her wake. “It’s not like this perp keeps a checklist. Looks like this time, he varied it a little.”

“If it’s the same guy,” Gorman said.

Rizzoli turned from the TV and looked, once again, at the wall where Ke

But here, in this house, the Dominator left out a step. He did not fold the nightclothes. Because he and Hoyt were not yet a team.

She remembered the afternoon in the Yeagers’ house, her gaze frozen on Gail Yeager’s nightgown, and she remembered the bone-chilling sense of familiarity.

Only with the Yeagers did the Surgeon and the Dominator begin their alliance. That was the day they lured me into the game, with a folded nightgown. Even from prison, Warren Hoyt managed to send me his calling card.

She looked at Gorman, who had settled onto one of the sheet-draped chairs and was once again wiping the sweat from his face. Already this meeting had drained him, and he was fading before their eyes.

“You never identified any suspects?” she asked.

“No one we could hang a hat on. That’s after four, five hundred interviews.”

“And the Waites, as far as you know, weren’t acquainted with either the Yeagers or the Ghents?”

“Those names never came up. Look, you’ll get copies of all our files in a day or two. You can cross-check everything we have.” Gorman folded up his handkerchief and slipped it back in his jacket pocket. “You might want to check the FBI as well,” he added. “See if they have anything to add.”

Rizzoli paused. “The FBI?”

“We sent a VICAP report way back. An agent from their behavioral unit came up. Spent a few weeks monitoring our investigation, then went back to Washington. Haven’t heard a word from him since.”

Rizzoli and Frost looked at each other. She saw her own astonishment reflected in his eyes.

Gorman slowly rose from the chair and took out the keys, a hint that he would like to end this meeting. Only as he was walking toward the door did Rizzoli finally summon the voice to ask the obvious question. Even though she did not want to hear the answer.

“The FBI agent who came up here,” she said. “Do you remember his name?”

Gorman paused in the doorway, clothes drooping on his gaunt frame. “Yes. His name was Gabriel Dean.”

TWENTY-ONE

She drove straight through the afternoon and into the night, her eyes on the dark highway, her mind on Gabriel Dean. Frost had dozed off beside her, and she was alone with her own thoughts, her rage. What else had Dean withheld from her? she wondered. What other information had he hoarded while watching her scramble for answers? From the very begi

But what Dean had not anticipated was that the Dominator would take a partner. That’s when Dean showed up at my apartment. That’s the first time he took an interest in me. Because I had something he wanted, something he needed. I was his guide into the mind of Warren Hoyt.

Beside her Frost gave a noisy snort in his sleep. She glanced at him and saw that his jaw hung slack, the picture of unguarded i

It was nearly nine when she finally walked into her apartment. As always, she took the time to secure the locks on her door, but this time it was not fear that possessed her as she fastened the chain and turned the dead bolts, but anger. She drove the last bolt home with a hard snap, then walked straight to the bedroom without pausing to perform her usual rituals of checking the closets and glancing into every room. Dean’s betrayal had temporarily driven out all thoughts of Warren Hoyt. She unbuckled her holster, slid the weapon into her night-stand drawer, and slammed the drawer shut. Then she turned and looked at herself in the dresser mirror, disgusted by what she saw. The medusa’s cap of unruly hair. The wounded gaze. The face of a woman who has let a man’s attractions blind her to the obvious.

The ringing phone startled her. She stared down at the Caller ID display: Washington D.C.

The phone rang twice, three times, as she marshaled control over her emotions. When at last she answered it, she greeted the caller with a cool: “Rizzoli.”

“I understand you’ve been trying to reach me,” said Dean.

She closed her eyes. “You’re in Washington,” she said, and though she tried to keep the hostility out of her voice, the words came out like an accusation.

“I was called back last night. I’m sorry we didn’t get the chance to talk before I left.”

“And what would you have told me? The truth, for a change?”

“You have to understand, this is a highly sensitive case.”

“And that’s why you never told me about Maria Jean Waite?”

“It wasn’t immediately vital to your part of the investigation.”

“Who the hell are you to decide? Oh, wait a minute! I forgot. You’re the fucking FBI.”

“Jane,” he said quietly. “I want you to come to Washngton.”

She paused, startled by the abrupt turn in conversanon. “Why?”

“Because we can’t talk about this over the phone.”

“You expect me to jump on a plane without knowing why?”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think it was necessary. It’s already been cleared with Lieutenant Marquette, through OPC. Someone will be calling you with the arrangements.”

“Wait. I don’t understand-”

“You will. When you get here.” The line went dead.

Slowly she set down the receiver. Stood staring at the phone, not believing what she’d just heard. When it rang again, she picked it up at once.

“Detective Jane Rizzoli?” a woman’s voice said.

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling to make arrangements for your trip to Washington tomorrow. I could book you on US Airways, flight six-five-two-one, leaving Boston twelve noon, arriving in Washington, one-thirty-six P.M. Is that all right?”

“Just a second.” Rizzoli grabbed a pen and notepad began to write the flight information. “That sounds fine.”