The Apprentice (9 page)

“I can’t answer that,” said Isles. “Not yet.”

“More than a day?” pressed Rizzoli.

“Yes.”

“The abduction was Sunday night. Could she have been dead since then?”

“Four days? It depends on the ambient temperature. The absence of insect damage makes me think the body was kept indoors until just recently. Protected from the environment. An air-conditioned room would slow down decomposition.”

Rizzoli and Korsak exchanged glances, both of them wondering the same thing. Why would the unsub wait so long to dispose of a decomposing body?

Detective Sleeper’s walkie-talkie crackled, and they heard Doud’s voice: “Detective Frost just arrived. And the CSU van’s here. You ready for ‘em?”

“Stand by,” said Sleeper. Already he looked exhausted, drained from the heat. He was the oldest detective in the unit, no more than five years from retirement, and he had no need to prove himself. He looked at Rizzoli. “We’re coming in on the tail end of this case. You been working with Newton P.D. on it?”

She nodded. “Since Monday.”

“So you gonna be lead?”

“Right,” said Rizzoli.

“Hey,” protested Crowe. “We were first on the scene.”

“Abduction was in Newton,” said Korsak.

“But the body’s now in Boston,” retorted Crowe.

“Jesus,” said Sleeper. “Why the hell are we fighting over this?”

“It’s mine,” said Rizzoli. “I’m lead.” She stared at Crowe, daring him to challenge her. Expecting their usual rivalry to flare up, as it always did. She saw one side of his mouth turn up in the beginning of an ugly sneer.

Then Sleeper said, into his walkie-talkie, “Detective Rizzoli is now lead investigator.” He looked at her again. “You ready for CSU to come in?”

She glanced up at the sky. It was already five P.M., and the sun had dipped below the trees. “Let’s get them in here while they can still see what they’re doing.”

An outdoor death scene, in fading daylight, was not a scenario she welcomed. In wooded areas, wild animals were always poised to descend, scattering remains and dragging off evidence. Rainstorms wash away blood and semen, and the winds scatter fibers. There were no doors, to lock out trespassers, and perimeters were easily breached by the curious. So she felt a sense of urgency as the crime scene unit began its grid search. They brought with them metal detectors and sharp eyes and evidence sacks waiting to be filled with grotesque treasures.

By the time Rizzoli tramped back out of the woods and onto the golf course, she was sweating and filthy and tired of swatting at mosquitoes. She paused to brush twigs from hair and pluck burrs from her slacks. Straightening, she suddenly focused on a sandy-haired man in a suit and tie, who stood beside the M.E.‘s van, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

She went to Patrolman Doud, who was still manning the perimeter. “Who’s the suit over there?” she asked.

Doud glanced in the man’s direction. “Him? Says he’s FBI.”

“What?”

“Flashed his badge and tried to talk his way past me. I told him he’d have to clear it with you first. Didn’t seem too happy about that.”

“What’s a fibbie doing here?”

“You got me.”

She stood watching the man for a moment, disturbed by the arrival of a federal agent. As lead investigator, she wanted no blurring of the lines of authority, and this man, with his military bearing and businessman’s suit, already looked as though he owned the scene. She walked toward him, but he did not acknowledge her presence until she was standing right beside him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I understand you’re FBI?”

He snapped his cell phone shut and turned to face her.

She saw strong, clean-cut features and a coolly impervious gaze.

“I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, the lead on this case,” she said. “May I see your I.D.?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the badge. As she studied it, she could feel him watching her, sizing her up. She resented his silent appraisal, resented the way he put her on guard, as though he was the one in control.

“Agent Gabriel Dean,” she said, handing back the badge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“May I ask what the FBI’s doing here?”

“I wasn’t aware we were on opposing teams.”

“Did I say we were?”

“You’re giving me the distinct feeling I shouldn’t be here.”

“The FBI doesn’t usually turn up at our crime scenes. I’m just curious what brings you to this one.”

“We received an advisory from Newton P.D. about the Yeager homicide.” It was an incomplete answer; he was leaving out too much, forcing her to fish. Withholding information was a form of power, and she understood the game he was playing.

“I imagine you guys get a lot of routine advisories,” she said.

“Yes, we do.”

“Every homicide, isn’t that right?”

“We’re notified.”

“Is there something about this one that’s special?”

He simply gazed at her with that impenetrable expression. “I think the victims would say so.”

Her anger was working its way like a splinter to the surface. “This body was found only a few hours ago,” she said. “Are these advisories now instantaneous?”

There was a faint twitch of a smile on his lips. “We’re not entirely out of the loop, Detective. We’d appreciate it if you kept us apprised of your progress. Autopsy reports. Trace evidence. Copies of all witness statements—”

“That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“I realize that.”

“And you want it all?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“A murder and abduction shouldn’t interest us? We’d like to follow this case.”

As imposing as he was, she didn’t hesitate to challenge him by stepping closer. “When do you plan to start calling the shots?”

“It remains your case. I’m only here to assist.”

“Even if I don’t see the need for it?”

His gaze shifted to the two attendants who’d emerged from the woods and were now loading the stretcher with the remains into the M.E.‘s van. “Does it really matter who works the case?” he asked quietly. “As long as this unsub is caught?”

They watched the van drive away, carrying the already desecrated corpse to further indignities beneath the bright lights of the autopsy suite. Gabriel Dean’s response had reminded her, with punishing clarity, just how unimportant were matters of jurisdiction. Gail Yeager did not care who took credit for the capture of her killer. All she demanded was justice, whoever might deliver it. Justice was what Rizzoli owed her.

But she’d known the frustration of watching her own hard work claimed by her colleagues. More than once, she had seen men step forward and arrogantly assume command of cases she herself had painstakingly built from scratch. She would not allow it to happen here.

She said, “I appreciate the Bureau’s offer of help. But at the moment, I think we’ve got all bases covered. I’ll let you know if we need you.” With that, she turned and walked away.

“I’m not sure you understand the situation,” he said. “We’re part of the same team now.”

“I don’t recall asking for FBI assistance.”

“It’s been cleared through your unit commander: Lieutenant Marquette. Would you like to confirm it with him?” He held out his cell phone.

“I have my own cell phone, thank you.”

“Then I urge you to call him. So we don’t waste time on turf battles.”

She was stunned by how easily he had stepped aboard. And by how accurately she had sized him up. This was a man who’d not stand quietly on the sidelines.

She took out her own phone and began punching in numbers. But before Marquette answered, she heard Patrolman Doud call out her name.

“Detective Sleeper’s on comm for you,” said Doud, and handed her his walkie-talkie.

She pressed the transmit button. “Rizzoli.”

Through a burst of static, she heard Sleeper say: “You might want to get back here.”

“What have you got?”

“Uh… you’d better see for yourself. We’re about fifty yards north of where the other one was found.”

The other one?

She thrust the walkie-talkie back at Doud and charged into the woods. She was in such a hurry, she did not immediately notice that Gabriel Dean was following her.

Only when she heard the snap of a twig did she turn and see that he was right behind her, his face grim and implacable. She didn’t have the patience to argue with him, so she ignored him and plunged on.

She spotted the men standing in a grim circle beneath the trees, like silent mourners with heads bowed. Sleeper turned and met her gaze.

“They’d just finished their first sweep with the metal detector,” he said. “Crime scene tech was heading back to the golf course when the alarm went off.”

She moved into the circle of men and crouched down to inspect what they had found.

The skull had been separated from the body and lay isolated from the rest of the nearly skeletonized remains. A gold crown glinted like a pirate’s tooth from the row of dirt-stained teeth. She saw no clothing, no remnants of fabric, only exposed bones with leathery bits of decomposing flesh still adhering. Clumps of long brown hair were matted to leaves, suggesting that these remains were a woman’s.

She straightened, her gaze scanning the forest floor. Mosquitoes lit on her face and fed off her blood, but she was oblivious to their sting. She focused only on the layers of dead leaves and twigs, the dense underbrush. A deeply sylvan retreat that she now regarded with horror.

How many women are lying in these woods?

“It’s his dump site.”

She turned and looked at Gabriel Dean, who had just spoken. He was crouched a few feet away, sifting through the leaves with gloved hands. She had not even seen him pull on gloves. Now he stood up, his gaze meeting hers.

“Your unsub has used this place before,” said Dean. “And he’ll probably use it again.”

“If we don’t scare him off.”

“And that’s the challenge. Keeping it quiet. If you don’t alarm him, there’s a chance he’ll come back. Not just to dump another body, but to visit. To recapture the thrill.”

“You’re from the behavioral unit. Aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer her question but turned to survey the array of personnel standing around in the woods. “If we can keep this out of the press, we might have a chance. But we’ve got to clamp down on it now.”

We
. With that one word, he had stepped into a partnership with her that she had never sought, had never consented to. Yet here he was, issuing edicts. What made it especially galling was the fact that everyone else was listening to their conversation and understood that her authority was now being challenged.

Only Korsak, with his customary bluntness, dared step into the dialogue. “Excuse me,
Detective
Rizzoli,” he said. “Who is this gentleman?”

“FBI,” she said, her gaze still fixed on Dean.

“So could someone explain to me when this turned into a federal case?”

“It hasn’t,” she said. “And Agent Dean is about to leave the site. Could somebody show him the way?”

She and Dean gazed at each other for a moment. Then he tipped his head to her, a silent acknowledgment that he was conceding this round. “I can find my own way out,” he said. He turned and walked back toward the golf course.

“What is it with these fibbies?” said Korsak. “Always think they’re king of the hill. What’s the Bureau doing here?”

Rizzoli stared at the woods into which Gabriel Dean had just vanished, a gray figure blending into the dusk. “I wish I knew.”

Lieutenant Marquette arrived on the scene a half hour later.

The presence of brass was usually the last thing Rizzoli welcomed. She disliked having a superior officer look over her shoulder as she worked. But Marquette did not interfere and simply stood among the trees, silently appraising the situation.

“Lieutenant,” she said.

He responded with a curt nod. “Rizzoli.”

“What’s with the Bureau? They had an agent here, expecting full access.”

He nodded. “Request came through OPC.”

So it had been approved at the top—the Office of the Police Commissioner.

She watched as the CSU crew packed up their kits and headed back toward the van. Though they were standing within Boston city limits, this dark corner of Stony Brook Reservation felt as isolated as the deep woods. The wind tossed leaves into the air and stirred the smell of decay. Through the trees she saw Barry Frost’s flashlight bobbing in the darkness as he untied the crime scene tape, removing all traces of police activity. Tonight, the stakeout would begin, for an unsub whose craving for a whiff of decay might draw him back to this lonely park, to this silent grove of trees.

“So I don’t have any choice?” she said. “I have to cooperate with Agent Dean.”

“I assured OPC we would.”

“What’s the Bureau’s interest in this case?”

“Did you ask Dean?”

“It’s like talking to that tree over there. You get nothing back. I’m not thrilled about this. We have to give him everything, but he doesn’t have to tell us squat.”

“Maybe you didn’t approach him the right way.”

Anger shot like a poison dart into her bloodstream. She understood the unspoken meaning of his statement:
You’ve got an attitude, Rizzoli. You always tick off men
.

“You ever meet Agent Dean?” she asked.

“No.”

She gave a laugh laced with sarcasm. “Lucky you.”

“Look, I’ll find out what I can. Just try to work with him, okay?”

“Does someone say I haven’t?”

“Phone call says. I hear you chased him off the site. That’s not exactly a cooperative relationship.”

“He challenged my authority. I need to establish something right off the bat here. Am I in charge? Or am I not?”

A pause. “You’re in charge.”

“I trust Agent Dean will get that message, too.”

“I’ll see he does.” Marquette turned and stared at the woods. “So now we’ve got two sets of remains. Both female?”

“Judging by the skeletal size, and the clumps of hair, the second one looks like another female. There’s almost no soft tissue left. Postmortem scavenger damage, but no obvious cause of death.”

“Are we sure there aren’t more of them out here?”