“That one with the brains splattered on the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?” she snapped, and walked away to join the medical examiner, who was crouched in the middle of the road, studying the asphalt. “People on this street are jerks,” said Rizzoli. “No one gives a damn about the victim. No one knows who he is, either.”

Dr. Ashford Tierney didn’t look up at her but just kept staring at the road. Beneath sparse strands of silver hair, his scalp glistened with sweat. Dr. Tierney seemed older and more weary than she had ever seen him. Now, as he tried to rise, he reached out in a silent request for assistance. She took his hand and she could feel, transmitted through that hand, the creak of tired bones and arthritic joints. He was an old southern gentleman, a native of Georgia, and he’d never warmed to Rizzoli’s Boston bluntness, just as she had never warmed to his formality. The only thing they had in common was the human remains that passed across Dr. Tierney’s autopsy table. But as she helped him to his feet, she was saddened by his frailty and reminded of her own grandfather, whose favorite grandchild she had been, perhaps because he’d recognized himself in her pride, her tenaciousness. She remembered helping him out of his easy chair, how his stroke-numbed hand had rested like a claw on her arm. Even men as fierce as Aldo Rizzoli are ground down by time to brittle bones and joints. She could see its effect in Dr. Tierney, who wobbled in the heat as he took out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead.

“This is one doozy of a case to close out my career,” he said. “So tell me, are you coming to my retirement party, Detective?”

“Uh… what party?” said Rizzoli.

“The one you all are planning to surprise me with.”

She sighed. Admitted, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Ha. I always could get a straight answer from you. Is it next week?”