Surgeon. For her, the word had special meaning, and the sound of it pierced her like an icy needle, chilling her even on this warm day. She looked at the front door and saw that the knob was sooty with fingerprint powder. She took a deep breath, pulled on latex gloves, and slipped paper booties over her shoes.

Inside, she saw polished oak floors and a stairwell that rose to cathedral heights. A stained-glass window let in glowing lozenges of color.

She heard the whish-whish of paper shoe covers, and a bear of a man lumbered into the hallway. Though he was dressed in businesslike attire, with a neatly knotted tie, the effect was ruined by the twin continents of sweat staining his underarms. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing beefy arms bristling with dark hair. “Rizzoli?” he asked.

“One and the same.”

He came toward her, arm outstretched, then remembered he was wearing gloves and let his hand fall again. “Vince Korsak. Sorry I couldn’t say more over the phone, but everyone’s got a scanner these days. Already had one reporter worm her way in here. What a bitch.”

“So I heard.”

“Look, I know you’re probably wondering what the hell you’re doing way out here. But I followed your work last year. You know, the Surgeon killings. I thought you’d want to see this.”

Her mouth had gone dry. “What’ve you got?”

“Vic’s in the family room. Dr. Richard Yeager, age thirty-six. Orthopedic surgeon. This is his residence.”

She glanced up at the stained-glass window. “You Newton boys get the upscale homicides.”

“Hey, Boston P.D. can have ‘ em all. This isn’t supposed to happen out here. Especially weird shit like this.”

Korsak led the way down the hall, into the family room. Rizzoli’s first view was of brilliant sunlight flooding through a two-story wall of ground-to-ceiling windows. Despite the number of crime scene techs at work here, the room felt spacious and stark, all white walls and gleaming wood floor.