The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content by Tess Gerritsen Page A

apartment, to sitting down with an iced tea and the TV tuned to The Discovery Channel.
    She was waiting at the first intersection for the light to turn green when her gaze drifted to the name of the cross street. Worcester.
    It was the street where Elena Ortiz had lived. The victim’s address had been mentioned in the
Boston Globe
article, which Catherine had finally felt compelled to read.
    The light changed. On impulse, she turned onto Worcester Street. She’d never had reason to drive this way before, but something drew her onward. The morbid need to see where the killer had struck and to see the building where her own personal nightmare had come to life for another woman. Her hands were damp, and she could feel her pulse quickening as she watched the numbers on the buildings climb.
    At Elena Ortiz’s address, she pulled over to the curb.
    There was nothing distinctive about this edifice, nothing that shouted to her of terror and death. She saw just another three-story brick building.
    She stepped out of her car and stared at the windows of the upper floors. Which apartment had been Elena’s? The one with the striped curtains? Or the one with the jungle of hanging plants? She approached the front entrance and looked at the tenant names. There were six apartments; Apartment 2A’s tenant name was blank. Already Elena had been erased, the victim purged from the ranks of the living. No one wanted to be reminded of death.
    According to the
Globe
, the killer had gained access by way of a fire escape. Backing up onto the sidewalk, Catherine spotted the steel lattice snaking up the alley side of the building. She took a few steps into the gloom of the alley, then abruptly halted. The back of her neck was prickling. She turned to look at the street and saw a truck rattle by, a woman jogging. A couple getting into their car. Nothing that should make her feel threatened, yet she could not ignore the silent shouts of panic.
    She returned to her car, locked the doors, and sat clutching the steering wheel, repeating to herself: “Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.” As cold air blasted from the car vent, she felt her pulse gradually slow. At last, with a sigh, she leaned back.
    Her gaze turned, once again, to Elena Ortiz’s apartment building.
    Only then did she focus on the car, parked in the alley. On the license plate mounted on its rear bumper.
    POSEY5.
    In an instant she was fumbling through her purse for the detective’s business card. With shaking hands she dialed his number on her car phone.
    He answered with a businesslike, “Detective Moore.”
    “This is Catherine Cordell,” she said. “You came to see me a few days ago.”
    “Yes, Dr. Cordell?”
    “Did Elena Ortiz drive a green Honda?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I need to know her license number.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
    “Just
tell me
!” Her sharp command startled him. There was a long silence on the line.
    “Let me check,” he said. In the background she heard men talking, phones ringing. He came back on the line.
    “It’s a vanity plate,” he said. “I believe it refers to the family’s flower business.”
    “POSEY FIVE,” she whispered.
    A pause. “Yes,” he said, his voice strangely quiet. Alert.
    “When you spoke to me, the other day, you asked if I knew Elena Ortiz.”
    “And you said you didn’t.”
    Catherine released a shuddering breath. “I was wrong.”

     

six
    S he was pacing inside the E.R., her face pale and tense, her coppery hair a tangled mane about her shoulders. She looked at Moore as he stepped into the waiting area.
    “Was I right?” she said.
    He nodded. “Posey Five was her Internet screen name. We checked her computer. Now tell me how you knew this.”
    She glanced around the bustling E.R. and said: “Let’s go into one of the call rooms.”
    The room she took him to was a dark little cave, windowless, furnished with only a bed, a chair, and a desk. For an exhausted doctor whose single