Read Online The Apprentice: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B

mixing spatula, he began blending colors on a stainless-steel palette. “Yeah, this looks about right for an old Elvis girl.” He began smoothing it onto the corpse’s cheeks, blending it all the way up to the hairline, where silver roots peeked beneath the black dye job.
    “Maybe you remember talking to Mrs. Hallowell’s daughter,” said Rizzoli. She pulled out a photo of Gail Yeager and showed it to Joey.
    “You should ask Mr. Whitney. He handles most of the arrangements here. I’m just his assistant—”
    “But you and Mrs. Yeager must have discussed her mother’s makeup for the funeral. Since you prepared the remains.”
    Joey’s gaze lingered on Gail Yeager’s photograph. “I remember she was a really nice lady,” he said softly.
    Rizzoli gave him a questioning look. “Was?”
    “Look, I’ve been following the news. You don’t really think Mrs. Yeager’s still alive, do you?” Joey turned and frowned at Korsak, who was wandering around the prep room, peeking into cabinets. “Uh . . . Detective? Are you looking for something in particular?”
    “Naw. Just wondered what kind of stuff you keep in a mortuary.” He reached into one of the cabinets. “Hey, is this thing a curling iron?”
    “Yes. We do shampoos and waves. Manicures. Everything to make our clients look their best.”
    “I hear you’re pretty good at it.”
    “They’ve all been satisfied with my work.”
    Korsak laughed. “They can tell you that themselves, huh?”
    “I mean, their families. Their families are satisfied.”
    Korsak put down the curling iron. “You’ve been working for Mr. Whitney, what, seven years now?”
    “About that.”
    “Must’ve been right out of high school.”
    “I started off washing his hearses. Cleaning the prep room. Answering the night calls for pickup. Then Mr. Whitney had me help him with the embalming. Now that he’s getting on in years, I do almost everything here.”
    “So I guess you got an embalmer’s license, huh?”
    A pause. “Uh, no. I never got around to applying. I just help Mr. Whitney.”
    “Why don’t you apply? Seems like it’d be a step up.”
    “I’m happy with my job the way it is.” Joey turned his attention back to Mrs. Ober, whose face had now taken on a rosy glow. He reached for an eyebrow comb and began to stroke brown coloring onto her gray eyebrows, his hands working with almost loving delicacy. At an age when most young men are eager to tackle life, Joey Valentine had chosen instead to spend his days with the dead. He had shepherded corpses from hospitals and nursing homes to this clean, bright room. He had washed and dried them, shampooed their hair, brushed on creams and powders to grant them the illusion of life. As he stroked color on Mrs. Ober’s cheeks, he murmured: “Nice. Oh yes, that’s really nice. You’re going to look fabulous. . . .”
    “So, Joey,” said Korsak. “You been working here seven years, right?”
    “Didn’t I just tell you that?”
    “And you never bothered to apply for any, like, professional credentials?”
    “Why do you keep asking me that?”
    “Is that because you knew you wouldn’t get a license?”
    Joey froze, his hand about to stroke on lipstick. He said nothing.
    “Does old Mr. Whitney know about your criminal record?” asked Korsak.
    At last Joey looked up. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
    “Maybe I should. Seeing as how you scared the shit out of that poor girl.”
    “I was only eighteen. It was a mistake—”
    “A mistake? What, you peeped in the wrong window? Spied on the wrong girl?”
    “We went to high school together! It wasn’t like I didn’t know her!”
    “So you only peep in windows of girls you know? What else you done, you never got caught for?”
    “I told you, it was a mistake!”
    “You ever sneak into someone’s house? Go into their bedroom? Maybe filch a little something like a bra, or a nice pair of panties?”
    “Oh, Jesus.” Joey stared down at the lipstick he’d