The Apprentice (19 page)

When the DNA lab paged her at noon, she was relieved to escape, at least for the moment, that accusing stack of files. She left her desk and headed down the hall to the south wing.

The DNA lab was in S253, and the criminalist who’d paged her was Walter De Groot, a blond Dutchman with a pale man-in-the-moon face. Usually he winced when he saw her, since her visits were almost always for the purpose of prodding or cajoling him, anything to hurry along a DNA profile. Today, though, he gave her a broad grin.

“I’ve developed the autorad,” he said. “It’s hanging there now.”

An autorad, or autoradiogram, was an X-ray film that captured the pattern of DNA fragments. De Groot took down the film from the drying line and clipped it onto a light box. Parallel rows of dark blots tracked from top to bottom.

“What you see here is the VNTR profile,” he said. “That’s short for ‘variable numbers of tandem repeats.’ I’ve extracted the DNA from the different sources you’ve provided, and isolated the fragments with the particular loci we’re comparing. These aren’t really genes, but sections of the DNA strand that repeat with no clear purpose. They make good identification markers.”

“So what are these various tracks? What do they correspond to?”

“The first two lanes, starting at the left, are the controls. Number one is a standard DNA ladder, to help us estimate the relative positions for the various samples. Lane two is a standard cell line, again used as a control. Lanes three, four, and five are evidentiary lines, taken from known origins.”

“Which origins?”

“Lane three is suspect Joey Valentine’s. Lane four is Dr. Yeager’s. Lane five is Mrs. Yeager’s.”

Rizzoli’s gaze lingered on lane five. She tried to wrap her mind around the concept that this was part of the blueprint that had created Gail Yeager. That a unique human being, from the precise shade of her blond hair to the sound of her laughter, could be distilled down to this chain of dark blots. She saw no humanity in this autorad, nothing of the woman who had loved a husband and mourned a mother.
Is this all we are? A necklace of chemicals? Where, in the double helix, does the soul lie
?

Her gaze shifted to the final two lanes. “And what are these last ones?” she asked.

“These are the unidentifieds. Lane six is from that semen stain on the Yeagers’ rug. Lane seven is the fresh semen collected from Gail Yeager’s vaginal vault.”

“These last two look like a match.”

“That’s correct. Both unidentified DNA samples are from the same man. And, you’ll notice, it’s not Dr. Yeager or Mr. Valentine. This effectively eliminates Mr. Valentine as the semen source.”

She stared at the two unidentified lanes. The genetic fingerprint of a monster.

“There’s your unsub,” said De Groot.

“Have you called CODIS? Any chance we could talk them into moving a little faster on a data search?”

CODIS was a national DNA data bank. It stored the genetic profiles of thousands of convicted offenders, as well as unidentified profiles from crime scenes across the country.

“Actually, that’s the reason I paged you. I sent them the rug stain DNA last week.”

She sighed. “Meaning we’ll hear back from them in a year.”

“No, Agent Dean just called me. Your unsub’s DNA isn’t in CODIS.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Agent Dean gave you the news?”

“He must have cracked the whip at them or something. In all my time here, I’ve never seen a CODIS request expedited this fast.”

“Did you confirm that directly with CODIS?”

De Groot frowned. “Well, no. I assumed that Agent Dean would know—”

“Please call them. I want it confirmed.”

“Is there some, uh, question about Dean’s reliability?”

“Let’s just play it safe, okay?” She looked, once again, at the light box. “If it’s true our boy’s not in CODIS…”

“Then you’ve got yourself a new player, Detective. Or someone who’s managed to stay invisible to the system.”

She stared in frustration at the chain of blots. We have his DNA, she thought. We have his genetic profile. But we still don’t know his name.

Rizzoli slipped a disk into her CD player and sank onto the couch as she toweled off her wet hair. The rich strains of a solo cello poured from the speaker like melted chocolate. Though she was not a fan of classical music, she had bought a CD of Alex Ghent’s early recordings in the Symphony Hall gift shop. If she was to familiarize herself with every aspect of his death, so, too, should she know about his life. And much of his life was music.

Ghent’s bow glided over the cello strings, the melody of Bach’s Suite no. 1 in G Major rising and falling like the swells of an ocean. It had been recorded when he was only eighteen. When he’d sat in a studio, his fingers warm flesh as they’d pressed the strings, steadied the bow. Those same fingers now lay white and chilled in the morgue refrigerator, their music silenced. She had watched his autopsy that morning and had noted the fine, long fingers, had imagined them flying up and down the cello’s neck. That human hands could unite with mere wood and strings to produce such rich sounds seemed a miracle.

She picked up the CD cover and studied his photograph, taken when he was still only a boy. His eyes gazed downward, and his left arm was draped around the instrument, embracing its curves, as he would one day embrace his wife, Karenna. Though Rizzoli had searched for a CD featuring both of them, all their joint recordings were sold out in the gift shop. Only Alexander’s was in stock. The lonely cello, calling to its mate. And where was that mate now? Alive and in torment, facing the ultimate terror of death? Or was she beyond pain and already in the early stages of decomposition?

The phone rang. She turned down the CD player and picked up the receiver.

“You’re there,” said Korsak.

“I came home to take a shower.”

“I called just a few minutes ago. You didn’t answer.”

“Then I guess I didn’t hear it. What’s up?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“If anything turns up, you’ll be the first one I call.”

“Yeah. Like you called me even
once
today? I had to hear about Joey Valentine’s DNA from the lab guy.”

“I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I’ve been running around like crazy.”

“Remember, I’m the one who first brought you in on this.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“You know,” said Korsak, “it’s going on fifty hours since he took her.”

And Karenna Ghent has probably been dead for two days, she thought. But death wouldn’t deter her killer. It would whet his appetite. He’d look at her corpse and see only an object of desire. Someone he can control. She doesn’t resist him. She is cool, passive flesh, yielding to any and all indignities. She is the perfect lover.

The CD was still playing softly, Alexander’s cello weaving its mournful spell. She knew where this was going, knew what Korsak wanted. And she didn’t know how to turn him down. She rose from the couch and turned off the CD. Even in the silence, the strains of the cello seemed to linger.

“If it’s like the last time, he’ll dump her tonight,” said Korsak.

“We’ll be ready for him.”

“So am I part of the team or what?”

“We’ve already got our stakeout crew.”

“You don’t have me. You could use another warm body.”

“We’ve already assigned the positions. Look, I’ll call you as soon as anything—”

“Fuck this ‘calling me’ shit, okay? I’m not gonna sit by the phone like some goddamn wallflower. I’ve known this perp longer than you, longer than anyone. How would you feel, someone cuts in on your dance? Leaves you outta the takedown? You think about that.”

She did. And she understood the anger that was now raging through him. Understood it better than anyone, because it had once happened to her. The shunting aside, bitter view from the sidelines while others moved in claim her victory.

She looked at her watch. “I’m leaving right now. If you want to join me, you’ll have to meet me there.”

“What’s your stakeout position?”

“The parking area across the road from Smith Playground. We can meet at the golf course.”

“I’ll be there.”

At two A.M. in Stony Brook Reservation, the air as muggy and thick as soup. Rizzoli and Korsak sat in her parked car, closely abutting dense shrubbery. From their position, they could observe all cars entering Stony Brook from the east. Additional surveillance vehicles were stationed along Enneking Parkway, the main thoroughfare winding through the reservation. Any vehicle that pulled off onto one of the dirt parking areas could swiftly be hemmed in on all sides by converging vehicles. It was a purse-string trap, from which no car could escape.

Rizzoli was sweating in her vest. She rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Forest smells.

“Hey, you’re letting in mosquitoes,” complained Korsdk.

“I need the fresh air. It smells like cigarettes in here.”

“I only lit up one. I don’t smell it.”

“Smokers never do.”

He looked at her. “Jeez, you been snapping at me all night. You got a problem with me, maybe we should talk about it.”

She stared out the window, toward the road, which remained dark and untraveled. “It’s not about you,” she said.

“Who, then?”

When she didn’t answer, he gave a grunt of comprehension. “Oh. Dean again. So what’d he do now?”

“Few days ago, he complained about me to Marquette.”

“What’d he tell him?”

“That I’m not the right man for the job. That maybe I need counseling for
unresolved issues
.”

“He talking about the Surgeon?”

“What do you think?”

“What an asshole.”

“And today, I find out we got instant feedback from CODIS. It’s never happened before. All Dean has to do is snap his fingers, and everyone jumps. I just wish I knew what he was doing here.”

“Well, that’s the thing about fibbies. They say information is power, right? So they keep it from us, ‘cause it’s a macho game to them. You and me, we’re just pawns to Mr. James Fucking Bond.”

“You’re getting confused with the CIA.”

“CIA, FBI.” He shrugged. “All those alphabet agencies, they’re all about secrets.”

The radio crackled. “Watcher Three. We got a vehicle, late-model sedan, moving south on Enneking Parkway.”

Rizzoli tensed, waiting for the next team to report in.

Now Frost’s voice, in the next vehicle. “Watcher Two. We see him. Still moving south. Doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”

Seconds later, a third unit reported: “Watcher Five. He’s just passed the intersection of Bald Knob Road. Heading out of the park.”

Not our boy
. Even at this early-morning hour.
Enne
king Parkway was well traveled. They had lost count of how many vehicles they’d tracked through the reservation. Too many false alarms punctuating long intervals of boredom had burned up all her adrenaline, and she was fast sliding into sleep-deprived torpor.

She leaned back with a disappointed sigh. Beyond the windshield she saw the blackness of woods, lit only by the occasional spark of a firefly. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she murmured. “Come to Mama…”

“You want some coffee?” asked Korsak.

“Thanks.”

He poured a cup from his thermos and handed it to her. The coffee was black and bitter and utterly disgusting, but she drank it anyway.

“Made it extra strong tonight,” he said. “Two scoops of Folgers instead of one. Puts hair on your chest.”

“Maybe that’s what I need.”

“I figure, I drink enough of this stuff, some of that hair might migrate back up to my head.”

She looked off toward the woods, where darkness hid rotting leaves and foraging animals. Animals with teeth. She remembered the gnawed remains of Rickets Lady and thought of raccoons chewing on ribs and dogs rolling skulls around like balls, and what she imagined, staring into the trees, was not Bambi.

“I can’t even talk about Hoyt anymore,” she said. “Can’t mention him without people giving me that pitying
look
. Yesterday, I tried to point Out the parallels between the Surgeon and our new boy, and I could see Dean thinking:
She’s still got the Surgeon on the brain
. He thinks I’m obsessed.” She sighed. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s how it’ll always be. I’ll walk onto any crime scene and I’ll see his handiwork. Every perp will have his face.”

They both glanced at the radio as Dispatch said, “We have a request for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Any units in the area?”

No one responded.

Dispatch repeated the request: “We have a call for a premises check, Fairview Cemetery. Possible unauthorized entry. Unit Twelve, are you still in the area?”

“Unit Twelve. We’re on the ten-forty, River Street. It’s a code one. We’re unable to respond.”

“Roger that. Unit Fifteen? What’s your ten-ten?”

“Unit Fifteen. West Roxbury. Still on that Missile six. These folks are not calming down. Estimate at least a half hour, hour till we can get to Fairview.”

“Any units?” said Dispatch, trolling the radio waves for an available patrol car. On a warm Saturday night, a routine premises check of a cemetery was not a high-priority call. The dead are beyond caring about frolicking couples or teenage vandals. It is the living who must command a cop’s first attention.

Radio silence was broken by a member of Rizzoli’s stakeout team. “Uh, this is Watcher Five. We’re situated on Enneking Parkway. Fairview Cemetery’s in our immediate vicinity—”

Rizzoli grabbed the mike and hit the transmit button. “Watcher Five, this is Watcher One,” she cut in. “Do not abandon your position. You copy?”

“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.