The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content Read Online Free PDF

this—oh god, I hope this isn’t about someone I know.”
    “It’s about Andrew Capra. And what happened to you in Savannah.”
    For a moment she could not speak. Her legs suddenly felt numb and she reached back toward the wall, as though to catch herself from falling.
    “Dr. Cordell?” he said with sudden concern. “Are you all right?”
    “I think . . . I think we should talk in my office,” she whispered. Abruptly she turned and walked out of the E.R. She did not look back to see if the detectives were following her; she just kept walking, fleeing toward the safety of her office, in the adjoining clinic building. She heard their footsteps right behind her as she navigated through the sprawling complex that was Pilgrim Medical Center.
    What happened to you in Savannah?
    She did not want to talk about it. She had hoped never to talk about Savannah to anyone, ever again. But these were police officers, and their questions could not be avoided.
    At last they reached a suite with the plaque:
     
    Peter Falco, M.D.
    Catherine Cordell, M.D.
    General and Vascular Surgery.
     
    She stepped into the front office, and the receptionist looked up with an automatic smile of greeting. It froze half-formed on her lips when she saw Catherine’s ashen face and noticed the two strangers who had followed her in.
    “Dr. Cordell? Is something wrong?”
    “We’ll be in my office, Helen. Please hold my calls.”
    “Your first patient’s coming in at ten. Mr. Tsang, follow-up splenectomy—”
    “Cancel it.”
    “But he’s driving all the way from Newbury. He’s probably on his way.”
    “All right, then have him wait. But please, don’t put any calls through.”
    Ignoring Helen’s bewildered look, Catherine headed straight to her office, Moore and Rizzoli following right behind her. Immediately she reached for her white lab coat. It was not hanging on the door hook, where she always kept it. It was only a minor frustration, but added to the turmoil she was already feeling, it was almost more than she could handle. She glanced around the room, searching for the lab coat as though her life depended on it. She spotted it draped over the filing cabinet and felt an irrational sense of relief as she snatched it up and retreated behind her desk. She felt safer there, barricaded behind the gleaming rosewood surface. Safer and in control.
    The room was a carefully ordered place, the way everything in her life was carefully ordered. She had little tolerance for sloppiness, and her files were organized in two neat stacks on the desk. Her books were lined up alphabetically by author on the shelves. Her computer hummed softly, the screen saver building geometric patterns on the monitor. She slipped on the lab coat to cover her bloodstained scrub top. The additional layer of uniform felt like another shield of protection, another barrier against the messy and dangerous vagaries of life.
    Sitting behind her desk, she watched Moore and Rizzoli glance around the room, no doubt taking the measure of its occupant. Was that automatic for police officers, that quick visual survey, the appraisal of the subject’s personality? It made Catherine feel exposed and vulnerable.
    “I realize this is a painful subject for you to revisit,” said Moore as he sat down.
    “You have no idea how painful. It’s been two years. Why has this come up now?”
    “In relation to two unsolved homicides, here in Boston.”
    Catherine frowned. “But I was attacked in Savannah.”
    “Yes, we know. There’s a national crime database called VICAP. When we did a search of VICAP, looking for crimes similar to our homicides here, Andrew Capra’s name came up.”
    Catherine was silent for a moment, absorbing this information. Building the courage to pose the next logical question. She managed to ask it calmly. “What similarities are we talking about?”
    “The manner in which the women were immobilized and controlled. The type of cutting instrument used.