The Apprentice (16 page)

“Agent Dean came to see me this morning,” said Lieutenant Marquette. “He has doubts about you.”

“The feelings are mutual,” Rizzoli said.

“He’s not questioning your skills. He thinks you’re a fine cop.”

“But?”

“He wonders if you’re the right detective to be lead on this one.”

She said nothing for a moment, just sat calmly facing Marquette’s desk. When he’d called her into his office this morning, she had already guessed what the meeting was about. She had walked in determined to maintain ironclad control over her emotions, to offer him no glimpse of what he was waiting for: a sign that she was already over the edge, in need of being replaced.

When she spoke, it was in a quiet and reasonable voice. “What are his concerns?”

“That you’re distracted. That you have unresolved issues having to do with Warren Hoyt. That you’re not fully recovered from the Surgeon investigation.”

“What did he mean by
not recovered
?” she asked. Already knowing exactly what he’d meant.

Marquette hesitated. “Jesus, Rizzoli. This isn’t easy to say. You know it isn’t.”

“I’d just like you to come out and say it.”

“He thinks you’re unstable, okay?”

“What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“I think you’ve got a lot on your plate. I think Hoyt’s escape knocked the wind out of you.”

“Do you think I’m unstable?”

“Dr. Zucker has also expressed some concerns. You never went for counseling last fall.”

“I was never ordered to.”

“Is that the only way it works with you? You have to be ordered?”

“I didn’t feel I needed it.”

“Zucker thinks you haven’t let go of the Surgeon yet. That you see Warren Hoyt under every rock. How can you lead this investigation if you’re still reliving the last one?”

“I guess I’d like to hear it from you, Lieutenant. Do
you
think I’m unstable?”

Marquette sighed. “I don’t know. But when Agent Dean comes in here and lays out his concerns, I’ve got to take notice.”

“I don’t believe Agent Dean is an entirely reliable source.”

Marquette paused. Leaned forward with a frown. “That’s a serious charge.”

“No more serious than the charge he’s leveling at me.”

“You have anything to back it up?”

“I called the FBI’s Boston office this morning.”

“Yes?”

“They know nothing about Agent Gabriel Dean.”

Marquette sat back in his chair and regarded her for a moment, saying nothing.

“He came here straight from Washington,” she said. “The Boston office had nothing to do with it. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work. If we ask them for a criminal profile, it always goes through their area field division coordinator. This didn’t go through their field division. It came straight from Washington. Why is the FBI mucking around in my investigation in the first place? And what does Washington have to do with it?”

Still, Marquette said nothing.

She pressed on, her frustration building, her control starting to crack. “You told me the order to cooperate came through the police commissioner.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Who in the FBI approached OPC? Which part of the Bureau are we dealing with?”

Marquette shook his head. “It wasn’t the Bureau.”

“What?”

“The request didn’t come from the FBI. I spoke to OPC last week, the day Dean showed up. I asked them that same question.”

“And?”

“I promised them I’d keep this confidential. I expect the same from you.” Only after she’d given a nod of assent did he continue. “The request came from Senator Conway’s office.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. “What does our senator have to do with all this?”

“I don’t know.”

“OPC wouldn’t tell you?”

“They may not know, either. But it’s not a request they’d brush off, not when it comes direct from Conway. And he’s not asking for the moon. Just interagency cooperation. We do it all the time.”

She leaned forward and said, quietly: “Something’s wrong, Lieutenant. You know it. Dean hasn’t been straight with us.”

“I didn’t call you in here to talk about Dean. We’re talking about you.”

“But it’s his word you’re relying on. Does the FBI now dictate orders to Boston P.D.?”

This seemed to take Marquette aback. Abruptly straightening, he eyed her across the desk. She had hit just the right nerve.
The Bureau versus Us. Are you really in charge
?

“Okay,” he said. “We talked. You listened. That’s good enough for me.”

“For me, too.” She stood up.

“But I’ll be watching, Rizzoli.”

She gave him a nod. “Aren’t you always?”

“I’ve found some interesting fibers,” Erin Volchko said. “They were lifted with sticky tape from the skin of Gail Yeager.”

“More navy-blue carpet?” asked Rizzoli.

“No. To be honest, I’m not sure what these are.”

Erin did not often admit that she was baffled. That alone piqued Rizzoli’s interest in the slide now under the microscope. Through the lens, she saw a single dark strand.

“We’re looking at a synthetic fiber, whose color I’d characterize as drab green. Based on its refractive indices, this is our old friend DuPont nylon, type six, six.”

“Just like the navy-blue carpet fibers.”

“Yes. Nylon six, six is a very popular fiber due to its strength and resilience. You’ll find it in a large variety of fabrics.”

“You said this was lifted off Gail Yeager’s skin?”

“These fibers were found clinging to her hips, her breasts, and a shoulder.”

Rizzoli frowned. “A sheet? Something he used to wrap her body?”

“Yes, but not a sheet. Nylon wouldn’t be appropriate for that use, due to its low moisture absorbency. Also, these particular threads are made up of extremely fine thirty-denier filaments, ten filaments to a thread. And the thread’s finer than a human hair. This kind of fiber would produce a finished product that’s very tight. Maybe weatherproof.”

“A tent? A tarp?”

“Possible. That’s the kind of fabric one might use to wrap a body.”

Rizzoli had a bizarre vision of packaged tarps hanging in Wal-Mart, the manufacturer’s suggested uses printed on the label: PERFECT FOR CAMPING, WEATHERPROOFING AND WRAPPING DEAD BODIES.

“If it’s just a tarp, we’re dealing with a pretty generic piece of fabric,” said Rizzoli.

“C’mon, Detective. Would I drag you over here to look at a perfectly generic fiber?”

“It’s not?”

“It’s actually quite interesting.”

“What’s interesting about a nylon tarp?”

Erin reached for a folder on the lab countertop and pulled out a computer-generated graph, on which a line traced a silhouette of jagged peaks. “I ran an ATR analysis on these fibers. This is what popped out.”

“ATR?”

“Attenuated Total Reflection. It uses infrared microspectroscopy to examine single fibers. Infrared radiation is beamed at the fiber, and we read the spectra of light that bounces back. This graph shows the IR characteristics of the fiber itself. It simply confirms that it’s nylon six, six, as I told you earlier.”

“No surprise.”

“Not yet,” said Erin, a sly smile playing at her lips. She took a second graph from the folder, laid it beside the first. “Here we see the IR tracing of exactly the same fiber. Notice anything?”

Rizzoli gazed back and forth. “They’re different.”

“Yes, they are.”

“But if these are from the same fiber, the graphs should be identical.”

“For this second graph, I altered the image plane. This ATR is the reflection from the
surface
of the fiber. Not the core.”

“So the surface and the core are different.”

“Right.”

“Two different fibers twisted together?”

“No. It’s a single fiber. But the fabric has had a surface treatment. That’s what the second ATR is picking up— the surface chemicals. I ran it through the chromatograph, and it seems to be silicone-based. After the fibers were woven and dyed, a silicone rub was applied to the finished fabric.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Waterproofing? Tear resistance? It must be an expensive process. I think this fabric has some very specific purpose. I just don’t know what it is.”

Rizzoli leaned back on the lab stool. “Find this fabric,” she said, “and we’ll find our perp.”

“Yes. Unlike generic blue carpet, this fabric is unique.”

The monogrammed towels were draped over the coffee table for all the party guests to see, the letters AR, for Angela Rizzoli, entwined in baroque curlicues. Jane had chosen them in peach, her mother’s favorite color, and had paid extra for the deluxe birthday gift wrapping with apricot ribbons and a cluster of silk flowers. They’d been delivered specifically by Federal Express, because her mother associated those red, white, and blue trucks with surprise packages and happy events.

And Angela Rizzoli’s fifty-ninth birthday party should have qualified as a happy event. Birthdays were a very big deal in the Rizzoli family. Every December, when Angela bought a fresh calendar for the new year, the first thing she did was flip through the months, marking the family’s various birthdays. To forget a loved one’s special day was a serious transgression. To forget your
mother’s
birthday was an unforgivable sin, and Jane knew better than to ever let the day slip by uncelebrated. She’d been the one to buy ice cream and string up the decorations, the one who’d sent out invitations to the dozen neighbors who were now gathered in the Rizzoli living room. She was the one now slicing the cake and passing the paper plates to guests. She’d done her duty as always, but this year the party had fallen flat. And all because of Frankie.

“Something’s wrong,” Angela said. She sat flanked on the couch by her husband and younger son, Michael, and she stared without joy at the gifts displayed on her coffee table—enough bath oil beads and talcum powder to keep her smelling sweet into the next decade. “Maybe he’s sick. Maybe there’s been an accident and nobody’s called me yet.”

“Ma, Frankie’s fine,” said Jane.

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in. “Maybe they sent him out on—what do you call it? When they play war cames?”

“Maneuvers,” said Jane.

“Yeah, some kinda maneuvers. Or even out of the country. Some place he’s not supposed to tell anyone about, where he can’t get to a phone.”

“He’s a drill sergeant, Mike. Not Rambo.”

“Even Rambo sends his mother a birthday card,” snapped Frank Senior.

In the sudden hush, all the guests ducked for cover and took simultaneous bites of cake. They spent the next few seconds chewing with fierce concentration.

It was Gracie Kaminsky, the Rizzolis’ next-door neighbor, who bravely broke the silence. “This cake is
so
good, Angela! Who baked it?”

“Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”

Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”

Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”

“I didn’t have the time to bake one.”

It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.

“Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.

Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”

“Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.

“Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about—”

“Since you’re so
busy
, I guess I should get down on my knees and
thank
you
for even making it to your only mother’s
birthday
.”

Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her
face
stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.

The phone rang. Everyone froze.

At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.

Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long
? With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.

“What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”

Jane winced.
Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the bl
ame
on me
.

In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.

“Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”

Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the
kitchen
when her mother called out:

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Who, me?”

“That’s what he says.”

Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.

Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.

“I asked you for
one
fucking favor,” he said.

“Are you talking about the gift?”

“I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”

“You could’ve expected that.”

“I bet you’re thinking this is
so
cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”

“You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”

“And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”

“I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”

“Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”

“
My
gift was already delivered.”

“And I guess it was too much
trouble
just to pick up a little something for me?”

“Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”

“Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you, ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’ ”