CMYK

by domini_porter

Summary:

Jane and Maura investigate the brutal murder of a renowned photographer, who turns out to be an old friend of Maura's mother, Constance. While documenting the scene, Jane comes across something that shifts her perception of herself, Maura, and their relationship.

Chapter 1: Page 67

Jane pulled up to the scene, a tasteful modern house with more windows than walls, set back far from the road against a carefully-cultivated landscape. She couldn’t suppress her low whistle of admiration as she walked briskly up to the front door, pausing for a second as she crossed over the large, shimmering reflecting pool in the center of the grounds, the polished stone path cutting straight through the middle, level with the pool’s glassy surface.

She nodded to the patrol officer standing at the door, bracing herself awkwardly as she slipped a pair of flimsy cotton booties over her shoes. “The doc here yet?”

“With the body. Upstairs. Bad one today, Detective. Just a heads up.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, offering the uniform a tight grimace that almost passed for a smile. She ducked under the red tape and into the entryway.

“Holy shit,” she breathed as she glanced around. The victim was some kind of artist, she’d gathered. Photographer or something, big in the 90s.

Big is right, she thought to herself as she stared, mouth agape, at the massive black and white print occupying nearly the entire two-story wall in front of her.

“Cute, huh,” Korsak chuckled, appearing next to her.

“Jealous?” Jane replied, still unable to tear her eyes away.

“I haven’t had any complaints,” he said mildly.

“Way too much information, pal,” she grimaced before gesturing to the photograph. “I assume this is the work of our vic?”

Korsak nodded. “Kight Sheridan. Famous photographer in the 90s, mostly fashion, club kids, glossy magazines, and, well . . .” he gestured to the massive print, “other stuff. Went by the name CMYK professionally. Owner of this house, the studio across from the pool out back, a gallery in SoWa, and, sadly, one very dead body. But hey, at least we got to witness said body at its . . . uh . . . peak.” He chuckled again, tried and failed not to glance back at the photograph.

“No,” Jane breathed. “That’s a self-portrait?”

“Uh-huh,” Korsak said, and Jane was sure she caught a faint hint of admiration.

Why the hell not? If I was hung like that—

“I gotta go talk to some people out back. You get upstairs, Jane. The doc’s waiting.”

Jane shook her head. Not the time, Rizzoli. And anyway, what about showing a little respect for the dead?

And Kight Sheridan was, as she quickly discovered, extremely dead.

The blood started on the floating blond wood stairs, spattered in thick droplets and long arcing swoops. It continued down the long arcade hall, open on one side to the soaring center of the house, and met its end, along with its former owner, in the sprawling white bedroom occupying the entire western half of the house, a massive wall of windows looking out to the pool and studio building beyond.

Before that, though, was Kight Sheridan, splayed across the white carpet, soaked crimson now. The body was face-down, nude, though the amount of blood gave Jane the odd impression of it being clad in a sheer red gown.

“Goddamn,” she muttered before she could stop herself. She’d come across plenty of rough scenes, but some were rougher than others. And anyway, it was important to find things like this repulsive, a shrink had once said. Kept her sure she was still human. Jane wasn’t sure why she’d remembered that, when she always made it her business to let her mandated shrinks go in one ear and out the other.

Still, the thought always helped a little, with the really bad ones.

“Jane? Don’t come in here without a suit.”

Maura popped up from behind the enormous bed, swaddled in white Tyvek. “My assistant has them, he’s outside with Korsak and the media by the pool.”

“Shit, the media knows already? How—wait, okay, hold on. Start from the beginning. What can you tell me from this doorway, other than this was obviously a terrible way to die.”

“Yes,” Maura said softly, and as Jane caught her eye she saw something, a true sorrow.

“You, uh, you okay, Maura?”

“I knew the victim,” she said briskly, straightening her shoulders. “A friend of my mother’s. Constance’s, I mean. Not my—“

“Your art mother, yeah, that makes sense. So this guy—“

“Kight. And not a guy, they used gender-neutral pronouns.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, you didn’t know.”

Maura glanced away, and Jane could tell she was trying to hold back tears.

“Maura, look, if this is too much, we can always call in Pike—“

“No!” Maura cried. “No. That won’t be necessary. I am more than capable of completing my examinations in a professional and objective manner. It’s just . . . sad. And upsetting. This death wasn’t peaceful, or dignified, or beautiful. I’d like to do what I can to help find who did this, to bring them to justice.”

“Of course,” Jane said softly, gently. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t do your job, I was just—“

“Go get a suit on, Jane. There’s a lot I need to show you.”

 

---

 

The next day, she and Maura were combing through Kight Sheridan’s home office, searching through desks and cabinets crowded with photographs, books, folders, looking for anything that might help them discover who would’ve murdered Sheridan so brutally. The tech team hadn’t turned up much in the rest of the house; no weapon, no prints, no fibers, no blood belonging to anyone other than the victim.

Jane was already frustrated with the case; in murders as graphic and brutal as this one it was almost impossible for the killer to not leave something behind.

“Nothing,” she’d sighed, shaking her head when the lab reports had started rolling in.

She wanted to be knee-deep in evidence at this point, but Maura was waiting on preliminary results and hadn't yet performed the autopsy. Korsak had sent the other detectives nosing around Sheridan's finances, gallery, friends and coworkers, all the usual avenues, but nothing had turned up yet. So, back to the scene it was.

Jane shook her head again as she raked her eyes over every inch of the house before joining Maura in the office just off the main living space. “How is there nothing? It’s like the killer was wearing a hazmat suit.”

“Perhaps they were,” Maura said, carefully lifting the top off a banker’s box stuffed with papers. “Perhaps you’ll just have to use your top-notch detective skills in lieu of an easy answer.”

Jane glared at her, but didn’t manage to keep it up when she saw the glitter of mirth in Maura’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she grumbled half-heartedly, “perhaps.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“I always have ideas,” Jane huffed, then shrugged. “I just . . . don’t exactly know what they are at the moment.”

“Well,” Maura said, “Kight certainly knew a lot of people. And despite what the hagiographical profiles that will undoubtedly be coming out soon will say, the art world is just as cutthroat as anything else. To get to the top would certainly not discount making enemies along the way.”

“And would you happen to have any insights into Sheridan’s potential enemies, Doctor Isles?”

Maura blanched. “I couldn’t possibly say,” she gasped, affronted. “I may have connections to that world through my mother, but it was never my natural environment.”

“Of course,” Jane said hastily. “I’m not saying you know anything, Maura, that’s ridiculous. But if you have any ideas on where to start . . .”

Maura frowned, bit her lip. Jane found herself looking away, like she always did when Maura did anything with her mouth. Just to be polite. Naturally.

“I suppose I could ask my mother.”

“Only if you feel comfortable,” Jane said, though she was having a hard time suppressing the urge to get Constance on the phone that very second. “I know it’s not always easy for you two.”

“Thank you, Jane,” Maura said, smiling gently, and Jane found herself turning away again, busying herself with the large photo books laid out on a heavy credenza. “I’ll certainly give her a call. She and Kight were dear friends, I can’t imagine she wouldn’t want to help.”

“That’d be great, Maur,” Jane grinned, then turned her attention back to the books, flipping open the nearest one. It was an oversized hardcover with thick, glossy pages. The cover showed a male torso, chiseled, oiled, starkly lit. The image cut off just at the start of the model’s thatch of pubic hair, not showing anything explicit, but Jane had a feeling the book's contents wouldn’t be quite so modestly edited.

“Pretty racy stuff,” Jane muttered, trying to suppress the fierce blush creeping up her neck as she flipped through.

“Erotic art—“

“Ew, Maura. Please not that word.”

“What, Jane? It’s entirely appropriate, and your prudishness isn’t the measure of what makes something art.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—“

She froze. The page she’d flipped to stared up at her, a close-up of a woman’s bare breast and part of her throat, the hard nipple coated with a thick, shiny glob of—

“Oh my god,” she muttered, wishing she could snap the book closed, but her hands were refusing to cooperate.

“What?” Maura asked, turning away from the heavy armoire filled with stacks of sleek, glossy black boxes that so far contained various contracts and other documents.

Jane gulped, still staring at the image, her throat suddenly dry. “Is this—uh, no, nothing, never mind.”

“Is what what, Jane?” Maura crossed over to her, Jane’s hands finally obeying just as Maura reached her side.

“Oh,” she said, her voice almost cheerful. “Page 67?”

“So it is . . . that’s . . .”

“Me, yes,” Maura finished matter-of-factly. “I was in college. Mother was in New York for the season, and she was hosting Kight, who was in the city for a retrospective at MoMA.”

“So you . . .”

“Sat for a session," Maura said, her face open and guileless. After a beat she frowned. "How did you even know it was me? Kight anonymized all their subjects in order to transform the images into something universal. It wasn't about the individual so much as what manifestation of desire or instinct the body represented. There's quite a lot of scholarship on the impact of their work on--”

“Uh-huh, yeah. I'll read the Cliffs Notes, I promise."

Maura looked at her expectantly for what felt like a thousand years until she abruptly realized she'd been asked a question. One she'd have to answer.

"It was your, uh, your freckles,” Jane mumbled. She still couldn’t quite manage to process what she’d seen, especially when it was her best friend, basically her family. “On, uh, the ones on your collarbone, you know,” she finished, trying desperately not to stammer too badly.

Maura beamed. “You recognized my freckles? That’s so sweet, Jane.”

Jane’s face burned. She dropped the book with a heavy thud and whirled away, trying to hide her hot blush.

It’s Maura. She loves this stuff. I mean, uh, art. She loves art. It’s just art, she said so herself. So what if she got naked and let some guy—

Jane shuddered involuntarily. Couldn't help thinking about the enormous photograph right out there in the other room. Shifted her weight from foot to foot without thinking, just trying to make herself relax. To make her body behave.

“What?” Maura asked, her voice anxious. “Jane? Are you all right? It's nothing, it was years ago, a favor for Mother, really.”

Jane felt the dark, hot twist low in her belly mix uncomfortably with an abrupt jolt of confusion and distaste. “A favor for Constance? Your mother? Ew, Maura.”

“She wasn’t present, Jane, please. It was in a professional studio, Kight’s assistants were there, it was hardly a hot date.”

“Oh yeah, that makes it just peachy. So it was him--uh, them, I mean? Who, uh . . ." she snapped her mouth shut. "Nope. Never mind."

"Of course it was, Jane." She looked at Jane, confused, Jane assumed, as to why Jane didn't get it. But it wasn't that she didn't get it. She absolutely got it.

Shut up.

Jane cleared her throat, tried to play it cool. Room temperature, at least. "How come you never told me?”

She winced as she heard her own voice, half-accusing, half-whining. She rubbed at her scarred palms, twisting her fingers around and around themselves. Tried to take a deep breath, to calm down a little, but the image of Maura’s breast was burned into her brain.

“I honestly hadn’t thought about it in years. I was young, I was just learning what it was like to be sexually empowered. But it wasn’t a meaningful intimate encounter, Jane. It was about me. Feeling comfortable and confident about my own body and erotic potential. And besides, Kight wasn’t interested in me in any way other than as a subject; they had very . . . particular personal tastes.”

Jane felt herself growing irrationally angry, the thin fire starting to race through her veins, but she wasn’t sure at whom. Her first thought was Maura, for letting someone do that to her, something so vulgar and objectifying. Maura was supposed to be the delicate, precious one, soft and sweet and wide-eyed and definitely not the one being photographed naked with someone’s . . . that on her . . . there. The fact that the person doing it didn’t even care about her like that somehow made it even worse.

But Jane knew that wasn’t fair. Knew Maura’s maybe-too-healthy sex drive was both very real and something she didn’t have any shame around; the shame part was Jane’s specialty. But still, Jane couldn’t help the flash of fury currently burning its way through her.

Yeah. Fury. She was furious. That was all. It’s not like—

“Jane?” Maura’s voice was small, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she snapped back, a little too quickly.

“It’s not as though we haven’t seen each other naked before.”

“Yeah, when we were taking Silkwood showers, not . . . uh . . .”

“Consensually?”

She was almost certain Maura’s voice had dropped just slightly, the word seeming to slink out of her mouth. Jane was sure she was about to burst into flame. Was she doing it on purpose? No. Of course not. Maura didn’t think of her like that. They didn’t. They didn’t think of each other like that. Nope. Not at all. Just two best friends. Life-long best friends. Forever. And posing for that picture was probably just another Tuesday for her, anyway. Nothing earth-shattering. Compared to the way she talks about her dates--

Don't make it worse, Rizzoli.

“Well,” Maura continued more brightly, “I apologize if seeing the photograph made you uncomfortable, though I won’t apologize for participating in it; it was a very freeing experience, as well as extremely validating in a way that has allowed me to accept and value myself both intellectually, through my accomplishments, and physically, as a sexual animal.”

“I bet,” Jane muttered. "Please don't say 'sexual animal' again."

“I wasn’t a particularly confident person for a long time, Jane,” Maura said, her voice faintly wounded. Jane grimaced. She knew she was overreacting, but once that train had left the station she was just along for the ride. And going with mad was definitely better than going with that other thing that she could feel tugging at her, the thing she stuffed down as quickly as possible.

You wanted to lick it off.

Jane clenched her fists, her jaw, every part of her that she could. Shut the fuck up, she shouted internally. Just shut the fuck up, okay?

But you wanted to lick it off her. You still do. You want to feel her under your tongue, to know what she tastes like—

Shut the FUCK up.

“Yeah," Jane said quickly, trying to cover for her traitorous brain. "I know, Maur. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

“Just what, Jane?” Maura touched her lightly—not just touching, she's got her hand on my bicep, she’s rubbing it a little with her thumb—shut up, Jane, shut up, just shut—

“Nothing,” Jane mumbled. “Look, I don’t think we’re going to find anything important in here. To the case. Important to the case.”

Jane could swear the corner of Maura’s mouth twitched up. Could swear there was a little mischievous sparkle in her hazel eyes. “You’re probably right. I’d like some scene techs to go over this room, though. For my own satisfaction, if nothing else.”

“Yeah,” Jane managed to get out, though it took some effort. “Sure.”

“But since we’ve seen no evidence of anyone having been in this room, why don’t we take this—” Maura reached out and slid the book across the table, tucking it into her bag—“just in case anyone else recognizes my freckles.”

Jane could’ve sworn Maura winked at her. Just a tiny little wink. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced Maura thought the whole thing was funny. Maybe a little more than funny? Maybe she was thinking about—

Shut up shut up shut UP

But Maura was right; it was extremely unlikely that the book would turn out to be a piece of evidence. And if it emerged that it was important, well, she was just holding it for safekeeping. That’s all.

“Yeah,” Jane stammered again. “Good idea.”

“You know," Maura said, tapping her lip for a moment before pulling the book back out. "I already have a signed edition somewhere at the house, but I haven’t looked through it in years. You could have this one, if you wanted.”

“What?!” Jane’s head whipped around. “I don’t want that, Maura!”

Maura looked crestfallen. “Why not? It’s a collection of seminal works by a world-renowned artist. From the desk of the artist themselves!”

“Seminal, Maura? Really?”

“Generative. Creative.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.”

“It’s a perfectly applicable word! And if you don’t want the book, I’ll donate it to—”

“I’ll take it,” Jane snapped, snatching it out of Maura’s hands. “We don’t need to be donating dirty books to anyone.”

“It’s not dirty, Jane,” Maura sighed. “Perhaps if you spend some time with it, you’ll find it more illuminating. Kight’s insights into human sexuality really are something worth grappling with.”

She’s doing it on purpose. She has to be.

“I’ve got a side table with an uneven leg. This’ll be perfect.”

“Jane, the book is three inches thick. And that table is only uneven because half the legs are on that horrible rug.”

“Hey, I happen to think it's a very nice rug!" She sighed as Maura quirked an eyebrow. "Doorstop, then,” she said, gingerly sliding the book into her own bag.

“Jane—”

“I’m taking it, Maura, what else do you want from me?”

Jane was sure she could see, literally, physically see, the thought drifting through Maura’s brain.

Or maybe it’s your brain, Rizzoli.

SHUT UP

“Come on,” she said, a little too gruffly. “Let’s get out of here, give the techs something to do with their day.” She adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the book feeling even heavier than its bulk would suggest. It felt like something dangerous, like it might bite her fingers if she reached inside.

Page 67. Page 67. Page 67.

Knock it off, knock it off, knock it off. You’re going to take it home and shove it in the back of your closet and never look at it again.

She winced again. Shove it right into that closet, Rizzoli. Nice and deep and dark. Great plan. Definitely not super-obvious.

“Jane?” Maura asked from behind her. “You’re sure you’re all right? With . . . this?”

The flush spread up her neck in record time. “Of course, Maura. It’s your body, why shouldn’t you, you know, feel, uh . . .”

“Sexy? Powerful? Desirable?”

This time Jane was certain Maura was using her low voice on purpose. “Yeah, okay, time to go. You call your mother, I’ll call the scene techs and then find out if we’ve got anything on the financials or the gallery. And I'm gonna find Korsak and give him hell about the media getting to the scene before I did.”

"Well, they were very well-known in the art world, and I'm sure some of their work would be widely recognized by a large segment of the population."

"I'm not saying he--they, sorry--didn't deserve the press. Just . . . who tipped them off? We know nobody else was expected in the house all day. So who knew? The killer? Just what we need, a press-hungry murderer. But--"

"Jane," Maura said evenly. "You're rambling."

"I'm not rambling, I'm detecting. And you should be honored to witness it live and in person."

"Hmm," Maura murmured.

"Maybe also rambling," Jane muttered.

As they made their way out of the house, Maura paused next to a framed portrait of the victim, a more traditional head-and-shoulders shot of Sheridan gazing directly into the camera, their face almost totally expressionless. Jane looked too; the longer she stared at the image, the more she began to see something in the artist’s eyes, something tantalizing and unknowable.

She glanced at Maura, whose own eyes were veiled with unshed tears. “Maura?” she said softly, resting her hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder. “I’m—I’m really sorry you lost your friend.”

“They weren’t really my friend,” Maura said, sniffling. “But Mother will be devastated. They meant a lot to each other, and even though I wasn’t particularly close with Kight, I anticipate her grief will be overwhelming.”

“Well, if you need anyone to help you help her, you know I’m here for you. Will you tell Constance I’m sorry for her loss?”

Maura looked up at her, wide hazel eyes shining, a warm, grateful smile on her face. “I will, Jane. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Jane said, her voice brighter. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you come over tonight? It's just . . . talking with Mother will be difficult, I'm sure, and I myself am experiencing some strong emotions, despite not considering myself a close friend. You know how I can be with emotions, and I'd . . . I'd appreciate your being there."

Page 67. Page 67.

Shut up, you creep, she’s sad and needs your support as her friend. Her best friend. Forever.

“Yeah,” Jane said, grimacing as her voice cracked just a little. “You want me to bring dinner?”

“By ‘dinner’ do you mean ‘beer’?”

“You know me so well.” Jane grinned at her. Maura cocked her head slightly, giving a look very similar to Kight Sheridan’s obscure gaze.

“In many ways, that’s true,” she murmured. The low tone made Jane shiver, just a little bit.

She’s definitely doing it on purpose.

“Well,” Jane coughed, clearing her throat. “Let’s get back to the station. Get through today, then I’ll meet you at your place.”

“Good,” Maura said, still giving her that impenetrable look.

“I’m leaving the book at home, though,” she joked, aware of how weak her voice sounded.

“Of course,” Maura said, her face brightening. “We can just look at mine.”

Jane gaped as Maura offered her a cheery smile and walked briskly toward the door.

Oh fuck.

 

 

Chapter 2: The Voidist School

Summary:

The next part! Where plot things happen!

I've already written The Horny Chapter which is both fun and also kind of annoying since we're not quite there yet, but have heart and hold true, dear readers, it'll be worth the wait.

“So,” Jane sighed, flopping into her creaky office chair. She’d spent the ride back to the station with her fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel, her eyes glued to the road, barely able to follow Maura’s stream of questions and observations.

Page 67. Page 67. Page 67.

It wasn’t until she nearly sailed past the entrance to the parking garage that she snapped out of it, embarrassed about almost missing the turn but relieved to think about anything other than Maura’s naked breast.  She’d dropped Maura by her car, since she wasn’t doing the autopsy until the next day. Had startled back a little when Maura leaned in for a hug, had tried to play it cool, but Maura gave her that look again, the one she’d given her at Sheridan’s house, and simply confirmed that Jane would be coming over later.

Jane had stumbled up to the bullpen in a daze, half-anxious, half-confused, some other, secret half awkwardly turned on. Had mostly shaken it off—she hoped—by the time she made it to her desk.

“So,” Korsak echoed, rifling through the stacks of papers on his desk. “Dead ends first. Finances. Nothing hinky there for the past five years, or so the forensic accountants tell me. Apparently art dealing makes the books look funny even when it all shakes out in the end.”

“Last five days?”

Korsak squinted at the page he was holding. “Ten grand to Materiel des Corps Holdings—that’s Sheridan’s local business, regular 10k on that date every month for the gallery mortgage, drawn from another corp account tied to his publishing and licensing income.”

“Their,” Jane said absently, grabbing the sheet from Korsak.

“Whose?”

“Their publishing and licensing income, not his.”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Janie, this guy—“

“You’re a smart man, right, Lieu?” Jane interrupted, trying to suppress a flash of irritation. Korsak had come a long way, but a long way wasn’t always far enough. And she herself might not always feel totally comfortable with it yet, she at least knew that was her own damn problem.

“I better be,” Korsak chuckled.

“Then how come you’re acting dumb?”

He froze, his smirk dropping to a frown.

“Janie—“

“Call people what they want to be called. I don’t really care what you think to yourself about it, old man, but the times, they have a-changed, so get used to it. And anyway, you really wanna spend another two Saturdays in a row in sensitivity training?”

Even though she’d kept her tone lightly sardonic, Korsak’s expression was a mix of shame, surprise, and disdain. She eyed him expectantly until the shame won out.

“Whatever you say, Detective,” he muttered gruffly.

“If that’s what it takes,” Jane muttered. She cleared her throat, looked back at the page. “Says here Sheridan received, uh, $9300 the day before?”

“Royalties.”

“Must be nice.”

“Making money for work you already did? Sign me up.”

“Anything else from the scene?”

Korsak sighed, leaned back. “Nada. I had the techs go back over it with a fine-toothed comb, not a single carpet fiber out of place.”

Jane frowned for a moment, something tickling at her brain. “Lemme see the scene pics,” she said, leaning over her desk.

“You got something, Rizzoli?” Korsak lifted his eyebrow as he handed her the thick folder.

“Dunno yet,” she muttered, flipping through to the close-ups of the body. “Hold on—“

She lifted her head, eyes narrowed. “This look freshly vacuumed to you?” She slid the photo over. He squinted down at it.

“Brush lines on the carpet,” he said.

“And if you look here—“ Jane pushed another picture over, a wide shot from the doorway. The thick carpet was lined around the body and over to the doorway, but the remainder of the room appeared untouched.

“Looks like the perp cleaned up after himself. Or themselves,” he added, smirking at Jane, who only rolled her eyes.

“Did they find a vacuum?”

Korsak flipped through reports, stopping at a single page. “Says they found three. Pulled the canisters, still waiting on analysis.”

Jane sighed. “What are the odds that’s a dead end too?“

Korsak shrugged, the  stretched his arms over his head with a grunt. “You find anything, uh, interesting over there this afternoon?” Korsak asked, mirth in his tone. “Any big breaks?”

Jane rolled her eyes again. “Starting to think you might want one of those books yourself,” she muttered.

“Books? What books?” Korsak perked up.

“Uh,” Jane stammered, praying her blush would stop before it crept past her shirt collar. “You know, books. Coffee-table books of Sheridan’s work over the years.”

“Looks like you found a good one, Janie,” he teased. “Anything stimulating? Artistically, of course,” he added, smirking.

“Not as stimulating as you’ll find my boot to your ass if we don’t start getting useful results in.”

“Easy there, Detective.”

Jane sighed. “Sorry, Lieutenant. It’s just this case. How is there nothing?” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Finances, fine. How’d the media get there so quick?”

“Guy who found him—them—was over to winterize the pool, nobody answered the door so he went around back, saw the vic’s blood on the window, called us, then called his boyfriend’s sister-in-law who works at the Post. Randall Tyler. Story checks out, he was seen on camera at another job before Sheridan’s, plus he was at dinner the night before with a group of friends, then his home security system shows a fingerprint verification at 10:37, no in or out until 9 the next morning.”

“What’s a pool boy doing with a security system like that?” Jane mused, looking at Randall Tyler’s DMV shot. Mid-30s, clean-cut, vaguely handsome.

“The boyfriend’s house. Myron Handel, businessman, late 60s, just so happens to be one of Sheridan’s account trustees.”

“So the money man’s younger boyfriend is the vic’s pool boy. Great. Anything on Handel?”

“Only that while Sheridan’s place is big, it might qualify as Handel’s guest house.”

“How’s the relationship with Tyler?”

Korsak grimaced a little. Jane chose to ignore it. “Together nine years, no reported problems. Not married, but joint accounts. Pool boy also works as a model, according to him, but says it’s been a long time.”

Jane sighed. This wasn’t getting any easier. She didn’t have any gut feeling Tyler or Handel were involved, but knew she needed to talk to them both. Slipped her notebook out of her jacket pocket, jotted down their names and numbers.

“So we’ve got no financial motive that we can find. No forensic evidence. No suspects.”

“Yet,” Korsak said. “The doc’s still gotta do the autopsy, right?”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed. “You know she knew Sheridan?”

A look of sadness passed over his face, which made Jane almost forgive him for being a little bit homophobic. Almost.

“She all right? Should we get Pike in?”

“No,” Jane said quickly. “No to Pike. And Maura’s okay, I think. She didn’t know Sheridan that well, but still.”

“Yeah,” Korsak said. “Tell her I’m sorry, would you?”

“You could tell her yourself, you know,” Jane grumbled. Something about his tone felt knowing, somehow, and even though there wasn’t anything to know, she toed at her bag, sliding the heavy book deeper under her desk.

“But you’re gonna see her first, right?”

Jane glared at him, trying to parse his tone. What did he know? What was he insinuating? Was she blushing?

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

He looked back placidly, gave her a shrug.

“I just figured you’d be seeing her later, like  you usually do. Sue me.” He shrugged again, peered down at a folder. “You gonna go over to the gallery? I had a couple new guys on it, but, y’know . . .” he trailed off, eyed her meaningfully.

“New guys,” she sighed. “Yeah, I’ll follow up. Anything I should know?”

He tossed her the folder. “Manager’s name is, uh . . . something. It’s written there. I gather she wasn’t especially helpful. One of the new guys said she told him to buy a better suit.”

“Yeah, well,” Jane lifted her eyebrow, nodded at Korsak’s rumpled wool jacket.

“Hey!” he protested. “I got a fresh one in the closet for emergencies, you know that.”

“It’s not just the crumbs,” she muttered.

“What’s that?”

“I said I’ll head right over, Lieutenant.’”

He gave a stern little harrumph, but his eyes twinkled when they met Jane’s.

“That’s what I thought. But no go today, Rizzoli; this manager lady was very clear that we needed to come back in the morning. Said she had to break the news to the rest of the team first, seemed pretty broken up about it herself. Gave the new guys access to the computers no problem, though, they’re goin’ through records and security videos now.”

Jane sighed again, but didn’t really mind putting the gallery visit off until tomorrow; maybe by then Maura’s mother would have something for her.

Which you’ll find out at Maura’s later. Tonight.

She shook the thought from her head with a grimace.

“All right, Janie?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I’ll, uh, go check in with the new guys.”

“Yeah,” Korsak said, giving her a quizzical look. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine!” she cried. “Just—in need of a lead.”

That’s not all you’re in need of.

“Old-fashioned detective work,” Korsak chuckled. “Elbow grease.”

“Uh-huh,” Jane muttered, grabbing her bag from under her desk. “I’m gonna head out after I talk to the new guys, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Rizzoli. And Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Maura I’m sorry for her loss, wouldja?”

Jane winced. She was being weird. She had to stop being weird. “Yeah,” she smiled. “Thanks, Korsak. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“Good night, Jane.”

“Night, boss.”

In the hallway, Jane sighed. The book in her bag was making her shoulder ache, already, and not just from the weight. She glanced toward the dark little room that held the electronics analysis team, thought about how much she’d probably get—or not—out of that brief conversation, then sighed again, shifted her bag on her arm, and spun around toward the elevators. It wasn’t that early to be heading out. Plus she had to get ready.

What the fuck? Get ready for what?

Jane grimaced. It’s just Maura’s. Just going over to Maura’s. Talking about a case. Like always.

Might as well take a shower, Rizzoli. Shave your legs while you’re at it.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath as she jabbed at the elevator button again.

But she could use that shower anyway, right?

The elevator dinged, and the doors pulled open.

 

---

 

Jane sat in her car, drumming her thumbs on the steering wheel. She’d texted Maura she was on her way twenty minutes ago, had made it in twelve, had sat there for six, was debating whether or not to fake a devastating car accident along the way and just flee back to her apartment when a sharp rap on the passenger window made her jump in her seat.

“Jesus, Maura, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Language, Jane.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing out here? You’ve been sitting in your car for almost seven minutes, are you all right?”

Just how obvious are you being, Rizzoli? Did you accidentally write ‘I wanna fuck my best friend and I suddenly can't stop being weird about it’ on your forehead?

“Yeah,” she coughed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking?”

“Hmm,” Maura murmured. “Well, you can think inside, where there’s central heating and beer. I also picked up some bulgogi, don’t make that face, you’ve had it before, you like it.”

“Thanks,” she managed. “Uh, yeah, I’ll be right in.”

Maura quirked an eyebrow as she turned back to the house.

“Wow,” Jane breathed, lowering her head to the steering wheel. “Very normal shit, Rizzoli.”

All that had happened, really, was that Jane had seen a picture of Maura—not even her face, just one part—from twenty years ago, way before they’d known each other. And it’s not like she hadn’t already seen that part herself. Sure, it was during a decontamination shower, but, hey, there it was. No big deal.

So what the fuck is your problem?

“I don’t have a problem,” she mumbled to herself. “This is not a problem.”

Nine minutes, kid. Nine.

“Fuck,” she groaned, pulling herself out of her car. Took a deep breath as the chilly night air hit her face, grateful for the slight shock.

Just go talk to your best friend about the brutal, mysterious murder of her friend. Her mom’s friend. Who she knew. Who took her picture—

“Jane, I’m getting worried.” Maura’s voice cut through her spiraling anxiety. She stood on her front stoop, arms crossed against the chill. Warm golden light from the house spilled around her, making her seem to glow. Jane was struck momentarily dumb at the sight of her, but straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath.

“Coming,” she called as she trotted up the driveway.

Inside it was comfortably warm, as usual, a bottle of beer already on the counter, dotted with condensation. It smelled clean inside, faintly sweet. Like Maura.

Like home.

Jane frowned. She truly didn’t know why seeing a picture of her friend was causing her so much turmoil. Yeah, sure, she had a huge crush on Maura, but who the hell didn’t? She’d nearly punched Tommy in the face on more than one occasion over it. And it wasn’t the gay thing, not nearly so much anymore, anyway. Half the people who met them thought they were a couple, and Jane had a sneaking suspicion half the people who knew them already thought so too, and the more she got used to it, the more she found it more flattering than not.

Sure, she hadn’t really thought about other women like that before. But Maura was somehow more than that. Some kind of . . . something else. She was so beautiful that it was impossible not to think about it, even in passing, right? But no, she’d always pursued relationships with men. Even though the men she’d dated had turned out to be mostly pieces of shit. That wasn’t men’s fault. Right?

Or maybe it’s just that Maura, when you looked at it objectively, was the total package, and she was, somehow, maybe because of God, Jane didn’t know or care, Jane’s best friend, her family, someone she felt, well, perfect with. All the parts in place. Except one.

But it was okay, it was totally cool, if that part never fit in. Maura had never shown any interest in her like that, had told her right to her face that she wasn’t attracted to her, and it was all right as long as she got to be Maura’s best friend. Forever.

It was totally all right. Mostly. Just . . . a toothache that never quite went away. An itch right between the shoulder blades. The urge to sneeze a sneeze that never came. Nothing fatal, just maybe things would be that tiny bit more perfect if—

“I called Mother,” Maura said, interrupting her now-careening train of thought for which Jane was grateful.

“How’d it go? Is she okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m all right, Jane, thank you. The call was difficult, as I’d expected, but not painful. Mother was very open about her grief, and encouraged me to be so as well. She told me some of her favorite memories of Kight, many of which I’d never heard before, so it ended up being a rather nice way for us to deepen our bond, as well as releasing some emotional pressure.”

“I’m glad it went okay. Did she, um . . .” Jane drifted off, not wanting to barge straight into the transactional part of the conversation, but eager for anything new about the case.

“She couldn’t tell me much, as she was quite upset and obviously unprepared for such a conversation."

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be an ass, it’s just I really, really want to find whoever did this.”

“I do too, Jane,” Maura said, faintly wounded.

“I know, Maura. I just—”

Maura smiled softly, crossed around the kitchen island to stand next to her, deftly uncapping the bottle and handing it to her.

“It’s all right. I understand how frustrating this all must be, and I think talking about the case might help me feel a bit more . . . centered.” She nodded once, then crossed back around, uncorking a bottle of red, letting it ripple into her glass. Took a long sip, closed her eyes, gave a soft little moan of appreciation that made Jane almost choke on her swig of pale ale.

“So, did she have any ideas at all?”

“Mm,” Maura said, swallowing her wine almost languidly. Jane was pretty sure something had shifted, maybe had been shifted since she walked in, maybe since she’d dropped Maura at her car, maybe before that. Maybe it wasn’t just her who couldn’t stop thinking. But in any case, Jane couldn’t quite shake the impression that Maura was standing so that her hips were slightly swayed, her back arched just a little, her chin raised as she swallowed, so that Jane could see the sip of wine slide smoothly down.

Or maybe it’s just you, and you should stop being so weird.

Maura cleared her throat, set her wine glass on the marble countertop. “She mentioned something about Dzanc and Denis, some long-standing feud, but said she couldn’t imagine they’d be responsible.”

“Dz . . . dank?”

“Dzanc and Denis, a creative partnership based in Paris. They were pioneers of the brief Voidist school in the early 1970s, it wasn’t very well received.”

“So they’re artists.”

“Yes, they’ve been working in performance and installation art for decades now. It makes sense that they would have crossed paths with Kight at some point, they were all in New York at the same time in the Eighties, but they’ve been working exclusively on the continent since the first Bush administration, and from what I could gather, Kight's refusal to leave America with them caused their rift.”

“So they’re artists, and they had some sort of . . . political disagreement with our victim?”

“Mother didn’t elaborate, but knowing what little I do about all the people involved, it does seem more likely to be a conflict of ideology or practice rather than something that would lead to international murder thirty years later, yes.”

“Ah, yeah, okay. Thank you, Maura, for asking her.”

“She did say she’d consider it more carefully when she was in a clearer state of mind. As I’d anticipated, she’d very much like to see the person responsible for this murder held accountable. I . . . I said she should feel free to call you if she recalled anything potentially helpful to the case,” Maura added, sounding slightly abashed. “I hope that was all right.”

“That’s totally all right, Maura, that’s great. Thank you for doing that.”

“Oh,” Maura said, picking up her wine glass again. “She did suggest you talk to Jocasta at the gallery, who was apparently Kight’s right hand when it came to just about everything.”

“Jocasta,” Jane mumbled.

“Have you already—”

“No, not yet. Korsak sent some new guys.”

“Ah,” Maura said. “That must be why Mother emphasized that you speak with Jocasta; she must have already heard about today’s visit.”

“Yeah, Korsak didn't seem to think it went too well either. And jeez, I had no idea fancy art people gossiped so much.”

“Sociologically, the art world can’t be said to gossip more or less than any other small, closely-connected subgroup.”

“Yeah, but detectivologically it’s a real pain in my ass.”

“Language, Jane. On multiple counts.”

She sighed, took another swig of her beer. “I just . . . everything so far has been a dead end. I’ve got some flimsy little half-leads, but nothing really useful. How do you do something like that to someone—let alone someone rich and relatively famous—and just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” Maura said, crossing to her again, circling her wrist lightly, the touch sending a shiver up Jane’s spine. “But I know you’ll find out.”

After they’d eaten—Jane unable to resist intentionally mispronouncing the names of the food, despite Maura being right about her liking Korean—she found herself feeling odd, antsy, uncomfortably anxious. Was she supposed to go? Stay? Why was this suddenly so weird?

Maura seemed to catch her indecision, though if she also noticed her mounting panic she gracefully overlooked it. “Come and sit with me. Drink your beer. I found Kight’s book, we can really dig in to the concepts together.”

Jane blanched, staying rooted to the spot. “I—uh—”

Maura watched her fumble for a few seconds before she broke, her warm giggle automatically absolving her of whatever Jane was going to try to object to. “I’m just kidding, Jane,” she soothed. “Well, not about sitting with me. But I left the book on the shelf. Even though I really do think you could glean some insights from their creative philosophy and body of work.”

“How about instead I glean some football from your giant TV?”

Maura frowned. “How about a documentary—"

“Maura,” Jane whined.

“—a documentary," she continued, ignoring Jane's petulance, "on Jack the Ripper? I promise you can get mad at the policework if I can comment on the poor postmortem procedures, even given the standards of the time.”

“Can I tell you my theory on who did it?” Jane asked, hopeful.

“Only if I can tell you mine,” Maura said, and Jane was sure—was sure—Maura winked at her as she turned toward the living room.

She’s definitely doing it on purpose.

Jane took another deep, fortifying breath before grabbing another beer out of the fridge and joining Maura in the living room, sitting near her on the couch, but not quite touching her. “This better have re-enactments,” Jane said as Maura fiddled with the remote.

“I think it even has dialogue.”

“Perfect,” Jane sighed, flinging her arms across the back of the couch.

“I’m glad you think so,” Maura murmured, glancing at her as she set the remote down, then after a beat, shifted over so that her body was pressed against Jane’s.

Jane’s heart jumped into her throat and stayed there, beating so hard she was sure her whole body was vibrating. She and Maura had sat close together before, but that was, well, before. Before whatever new thing had happened tonight, or yesterday, or whenever. She cleared her throat, took a sip of her beer, and let her arm slide down, pulling Maura slightly closer.

“Oh good,” Maura sighed happily as she let her head rest against Jane’s shoulder. “Voiceover.”

 

 

 

Chapter 3: The Boquete Single-Origin

Summary:

HERE COMES CONNIE

also, like, a *lot* of fluffy romantical musings, not a *ton* of plot. but *some* plot.

Jane awoke with a jolt, briefly confused as to her surroundings. As the fog lifted, she realized she was still on Maura’s couch, Maura still snuggled into her, breathing slowly and evenly. The menu screen for the documentary she’d fallen asleep halfway through—it turned out the re-enactments weren’t quite bad enough to be funny, and the rest of the story she already knew—glowed patiently from the television. Jane had no idea how long they’d been there, but her arm was asleep and she was on the fast track to a kink in her neck.

“Maura,” she whispered.

Maura didn’t stir.

“Maura, she said a little louder. Maura made a soft noise, burrowed a little closer.

Jane really, really, wanted to be asleep in Maura’s insanely comfortable guest bed, but she also really, really wanted to keep holding Maura, warm and pliant and so close.

Well, at least you can finally admit you’re in love with her. Why not pretend for a minute?

Jane bit her lip. Could she do that? Was she? Like, in love-love? Sure, she’d never felt safer or happier than she did right at this second, but was that love-love? Or was it just having the best best friend of all time?

“Jane,” Maura sighed drowsily, her fingers flexing against Jane’s stomach.

Jane froze, seized by the irrational fear that Maura had somehow heard her thoughts.

Did you say the quiet part loud?

Maura murmured something else, something too soft and sleep-infused for Jane to make out. She inhaled slowly, excruciatingly slowly, then hissed it all out between her teeth. She just needed to wake Maura up, point her to her bedroom, then stumble next door and land face-down on the Duxiana. Then everything would be normal again.

“C’mon,” Jane said, gingerly sliding her arm from under Maura, who offered a faint noise of protest. “Time for bed.”

“But you never told me who your Ripper is,” Maura yawned, sitting up. Her face was creased with sleep, she rubbed blearily at her eyes. She looked so sweet and unguarded that Jane got what people meant when they talked about swooning.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Jane smiled, helping Maura up. “You’ll never guess.”

“I never guess,” Maura mumbled petulantly.

“One of your many gifts,” Jane said, heroically resisting the urge to kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go, pretty lady.” She tugged at Maura’s arm, slowly directing them up the stairs, Maura drifting into her ensuite.

Jane sighed as soon as she crossed back out into the hall. Rubbed her forehead.

It’s just a toothache, Jane. That’s all. Just a sneeze you can’t quite sneeze.

Sighed again as she slipped into the guest room, kicking off her shoes as she collapsed onto the bed. She was just weighing the benefits of actually getting under the covers as opposed to passing out where she lay when she heard a soft rap on the door.

“Yeah?” she croaked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

Maura pushed the door open slowly, just enough to peer inside. “You’re sleeping in here?” she said, her tone oblique.

“I, uh, I figured . . .” she drifted off, both her brain and her mouth abruptly useless. Was Maura upset? Did she want Jane to . . .

“Of course,” Maura said, shaking her head a little, like she was embarrassed. Was she embarrassed? If she was, that meant—

“I could sleep with you, if you wanted,” Jane blurted out, cursing herself in the same second before switching to a round of mental applause as Maura’s face broke into a dreamy grin.

“Go brush your teeth,” she said, pushing the door open wider. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

Jane just nodded as Maura disappeared back into her bedroom. She lay there, perched on her elbows, feeling that same inopportune urge to run.

It’s not like they hadn’t slept in the same bed before. Chaste, giggly, like sisters. Nothing was different this time.

Except Maura had seemed almost disappointed to find Jane in the guest room. That was different.

She gulped hard, then pushed herself up, eyeing her discarded shoes. Knelt down, picked one up.

Sure, Rizzoli, you could always run away like a coward. Instead of sleeping next to the person you want to sleep next to the most. But yeah, put that shoe on. Great choice.

She frowned, set the shoe down neatly, nudging the other in place next to it. Slipped out of the guest room and into Maura’s.

It was dark, almost pitch black. Maura had some fancy programmable thing that gradually lifted her blinds in the morning, but at night it was so dark she could hardly make her way to the bathroom, muttering a curse as she hip-checked a side table.

Maura was already under the covers, apparently sound asleep again. Jane froze for a moment, afraid her clumsiness had been too loud, then eased into the bathroom, where she hastily brushed her teeth with the toothbrush Maura had always kept for her; something that hadn’t escaped Jane’s notice. It had just . . . appeared one day. And it changed when Maura’s did.

That’s just being hospitable.

In her master bath, though. Not the guest bath. It’s always been in here.

Cool. Shut up.

She scrubbed at her face with something she hoped was a cleanser; she was perennially overwhelmed by the tubs and vials and tiny little pots of creams and serums arranged neatly on the counter, but the bottle she’d grabbed was on her side of the sink—

Your side?

—which probably meant Maura had anticipated her ignorance of skin care and set it where she’d reach for it. Just like the soft tank top and snug boy shorts she’d left on the little shelf by the door, exactly Jane’s size and style, something she could’ve left behind on some other visit, if not for the luxuriousness of the fabric as it slid against her skin. Her regular pajamas, but just a little better.

She stared at herself in the mirror, the faint illumination from the dim overhead panel filtering over her in a way that looked absurdly like moonlight. Eyes glimmering, hair wild and soft.

Her, but just a little better.

Was it love-love? It kept feeling like it. And the more it felt like it, the more Jane knew she had to figure out a way to not let her stupid, awkward, embarrassingly adolescent feelings ruin the best friendship she’d ever had. The most important one.

Just stop being weird, Rizzoli. It’s only a toothache.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “A toothache.”

She straightened the hand towel on its little rack, made sure she didn’t have any toothpaste at the corners of her mouth, and slipped back into the bedroom, her eyes adjusted to the dark, finding the bed easily.

As she slid under the soft duvet, she could already feel the warmth of Maura’s body. She paused. Was she supposed to cuddle up or lay on her own side? Whatever, whatever was fine, but—

“Mmm,” Maura mumbled, rolling over to face Jane’s side of the bed, sleepily reaching for her.

Cuddling it was.

Jane slid toward her, sliding one arm under her, unable to help her goofy grin as Maura mumbled wordlessly again, as she tugged Jane closer.

Jane tucked Maura’s head under her chin, working to match her breaths to Maura’s slow, peaceful rhythm. Felt so warm, so good, felt sleep begin to swallow her again.

“Jane?”

Maura’s voice was small, sleepy, but her lips brushed just barely against Jane’s neck, her breath warm against Jane’s skin, and suddenly she was wide awake.

“Yeah, Maur?”

“You think I’m pretty.”

The words were hazy, dreamy, content, while all Jane’s dreamy contentment had abruptly fled.

“I—“ she frantically reviewed every single interaction they’d ever had before remembering she’d not ten minutes ago cajoled a half-asleep Maura up the stairs with a rasping let’s go, pretty lady.

Her first thought was that it couldn’t possibly have been the first time she’d told Maura she was pretty. Maura was pretty; she was gorgeous, stunning, in the way water was wet and the sky was blue. There was no way she hadn’t told Maura she was pretty six hundred times a day for the last decade.

But the more she considered it, the more she realized she’d only thought Maura was pretty six hundred times a day. Had confirmed it with every other person who’d ever seen her, sure. Had nearly knocked her own baby brother’s block off because of it, obviously. But had she ever said it out loud, to her, or just shoved it way down deep and dark, like she’d done with the book she’d hidden as soon as she’d gotten home from work?

She looked down at Maura, whose eyes had closed again, breath still slow and steady.

You’re in love with her. Ta-da!

“I think you’re beautiful,” she whispered so quietly it was nearly just a breath.

Maura didn’t signal that she’d heard, but a beat later she sighed, shifted, held on a little tighter.

 

---

 

Jane awoke to Maura’s soft-but-frantic whispering of her name, or maybe it was the way Maura was shaking her shoulder, gently but urgently.

“Maura?” she mumbled thickly. “What time is it? Is everything okay?”

“It’s six-fifty,” Maura said, “and yes, but also no?”

Jane struggled to sit up, still shrugging off sleep. Maura was fully dressed, her hair pinned back. “What? What’s not okay?”

“Mother is coming.”

“Your mother is coming?”

“Yes, in less than half an hour. Please get up, I started coffee but you’ll need to get ready.”

“Slow down, Maur. One step at a time. First of all, which mom are we talking about?”

“Constance,” Maura breathed, her brow furrowing. “She called from the airfield, she came on her friend Andrés’s plane, he flew her down from a studio retreat near Ithaca. Well, he was flying down and she got a ride. They left at 5:30; it’s a small Cessna so the journey took longer than a conventional private jet, but they arrived at the airfield without incident and now it’s just commute traffic, and I had no idea—“

“Calm down, Maura, it’s all right. Half an hour means she’ll beat me back here, but I’ll get ready as quick as I can. No problem.”

“She’s coming to see you, Jane, you have to be here!” Maura sounded horrified at the potential breach of etiquette, or maybe it was the idea of making Constance wait, and being alone with her while that happened.

“Wh—why did she get on a Cessna from Ithaca at five-thirty in the morning to see me?”

“Something about Kight. She didn’t say more, but she was calling from Boston, and I barely have any of the espresso she prefers as it is.”

“Okay, well, it’s gotta be important for her to just jump on a plane—“

“They don’t even have direct flights from Ithaca to Boston, Jane! She rode in Andrés’s Cessna!” Jane wasn’t sure why the plane was such a big deal, but Maura sounded dangerously close to panic. Jane reached out and grasped both of Maura’s hands in hers.

“Maura, it’s okay. I need you to breathe with me. Umami breathing, yeah?” She soothed the backs of Maura’s hands with her thumbs, exaggerated her own breathing.

“Ujjayi,” Maura corrected faintly. Jane laughed.

“See? It’s okay. You have some of the espresso Constance likes, yeah? Easy-peasy. And my clothes from last night are fine, right?”

“Jane,” Maura gasped. “You’re joking.”

“Uh, do you see an outfit for an impromptu visit from your mother after an impromptu sleepover anywhere?”

“Wait,” Maura said, disappearing into her enormous closet. Jane could hear the soft clink of hangers being dragged back and forth.

“Something that would fit me, not you,” Jane called, reflexively glancing down at her chest.

“Obviously, Jane,” Maura huffed as she emerged with two long garment bags over her arm. “Get up, we need to decide.”

“Decide what?”

Maura laid the bags side by side, deftly unzipping each one. “I really like the burgundy,” she murmured to herself, “but I think—yes.” She slipped the fabric from the hanger, holding it out to Jane. “Put this on.”

“Put what on? Did I accidentally leave a whole outfit here?”

“You’ve left several outfits here, but no. I’ve had these for you in case of emergency for a while. Go put it on, Jane, she’ll be here in nineteen minutes!”

Jane was too bewildered to speak. She accepted the garment and ducked into the bathroom.

“Where’s my bra?” she shouted.

“You won’t need one,” Maura called back.

“At seven in the morning?” Jane muttered incredulously. She shook out the fabric—a dress; of course Maura would take advantage of a clothing emergency to make her wear a dress.

In fairness, she thought, she was about to face Constance. And it might be useful for her gallery follow-up later. Jacinda or whatever her name was. The one who noticed the new guy’s suit.

Jane hated talking to people you had to dress up for, literally, but she begrudgingly acknowledged Maura’s impeccable taste as she slipped the garment on; a navy sheath, made from some thick, silky material that she assumed cost more per yard than her old backyard and the house in front of it.

The dress fit so perfectly it was like it had been tailored, but Jane was sure she’d never had anything tailored to her, especially something like this. The skirt wasn’t quite tight, an elegant taper to just above her knee. The bodice was reinforced along the bust, the high, round neck notched to just below the dip of her collarbones. It felt sharp, professional, not girly, and Jane was annoyed that she liked it.

She frowned in the mirror as she coiled her hair at the nape of her neck, jabbing it into place with some hairpins she found in a little china dish.

“Come on, Jane, it’s not that bad.”

“Why—and how—do you have emergency dresses for me,” she demanded as she emerged, dropping her pajamas on the bed.

Maura sighed. “Fold those,” she said, pointing at the items. Jane grumbled, but reached for them immediately. “And I have emergency clothes for you for emergencies, I’m not sure what’s confusing about the concept. As for how, you really have left a lot of things over the years, I’ve observed the styles and cuts that seem both comfortable and also flattering, and size tags are easy to read.”

Jane stood with her mouth open, trying to find some argument with Maura’s emergency-outfits plan, but instead gave a little pout and folded her arms. “What, no matching heels?”

Maura rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’m an amateur, Jane?” she huffed as she pulled a shoebox out of the closet. “These are flats, though; this isn’t a black-tie emergency.”

“Please don’t tell me you have a ballgown for me in there,” she groaned.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maura sighed. “It’s a tuxedo.” She dropped the box on the bed. “I’ll be downstairs, I need to switch out the Costa del Sol.”

“I’ll drink it,” Jane called after her, trying to keep her voice light despite being presented with the knowledge that Maura had bought her a tuxedo with the expectation that she’d eventually find herself in it. “Even if it is for commoners.”

“Be nice, Jane,” Maura’s voice drifted from downstairs. Jane sighed heavily, flipped open the shoebox, slid on the smart navy flats.

She sat on the bed for another moment, tried to get her thoughts straightened out. She’d woken up so abruptly she hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy it, but finding out Maura had been including her in her life more than she already knew gave her the exact same kind of feeling, she bet. All warm and glowy.

Plus the dress was really nice. And the shoes were really comfortable.

Fuck.

“Jane! Two minutes!”

She slid off the bed, giving herself one more glance in the long mirror near the door. Not too fuckin’ shabby.

She clomped down the steps intentionally, hoping to make Maura laugh, but instead she was standing next to the kitchen island, frozen in place, hazel eyes wide.

“What,” she muttered, smoothing self-consciously at the dress. “You already saw it upstairs. And you’re the one who picked it out.”

“I—yes,” Maura stammered. “You look . . .”

“Gimme that,” Jane said, breaking the tension for both of them as she grabbed for the coffee cup in Maura’s hand.

“Don’t spill it—“ Maura began, but her scolding was cut off by the chime of the doorbell.

“Oh god,” she gasped, going abruptly pale.

“Hey,” Jane said softly, stepping close to her. “It’s okay. It’s your mother, she’s getting better at being a human, and anyway, if she’s going to be a cold bitch to anyone, it’ll be to me.”

“Jane,” Maura whispered, scandalized. “Please.”

“She’s a cold bitch sometimes, Maura,” Jane whispered conspiratorially. “Facts are facts.”

She almost—almost—punctuated her words with a swift kiss to Maura’s cheek. Felt herself starting to dip in, even, before pulling back, managing not to slosh any coffee over the rim of her cup.

“Better get it,” she said, taking a long, distracting sip.

Maura gave her a pleading look. Jane shrugged, indicating she was too engaged with her coffee to help.

“Honestly,” Maura sighed, before pausing, straightening her shoulders, and plastering a wide smile on her face as she clicked open the door.

“Hello, Mother,” she cooed as Constance leaned in for a peck on the cheek.

“Hello, darling,” Constance cooed back. “Are you going to welcome me in?”

It wasn’t the first time Jane had wondered if Maura’s mother wasn’t actually a vampire.

“Oh yes, of course. How was your trip? I’m so sorry you had to come down in the Cessna.”

“It was no trouble, dear.” Constance smiled brightly, but conspicuously fluffed at her hair. “I will say those headsets are quite something, aren’t they? Dreadful things, but Andrés and I had a lovely time reminiscing about our dear Kight.”

When she said Sheridan's name, Jane could literally feel Constance’s sharp blue gaze snap over to her.

“I’m so sorry again, Mother,” Maura said, leaning in for another awkward little hug. Constance patted her lightly on the shoulder, her eyes fixed on Jane

“It’s all right, dear. A terrible loss, but we must do what we can to carry on. Jane,” she said, releasing Maura and crossing to her as Maura busied herself with taking Constance's small overnight bag before turning back to the espresso machine. “You do look . . . lovely,” she finished, and Jane gave her a sardonic little smirk.

“Thanks, Constance. And thank you for interrupting your retreat to come and see me, though of course you could have called—”

“In a bit, dear,” Constance said briskly, taking Jane’s elbow, leaning just a little closer than Jane felt entirely comfortable with. Like she was within snapping distance.

“Has Andrés left?” Constance murmured, her lips hardly moving. Jane turned to look out the window, but stopped at the sudden, surprising pressure of Constance’s grip on her bicep. “The car, is it gone?”

Jane felt herself go a little cold, the kind of focusing shiver she felt when she was walking into an active scene. She flicked her eyes up, just able to see the driveway from where she was standing. A small red coupe, looked like an older Porsche—sounded like one, from the way the transmission groaned and squealed as it reversed—slowly made its way out of the drive, gliding past the house. Jane was pretty sure the driver wouldn’t be able to see in at this time of day, so she tried to get a look at his face, but he was gone.

“Yes,” she said quietly, waiting until Constance relaxed her grip to speak at a normal volume, still dampened by the loud hiss of the milk frother. “What the—Constance, what’s going on? Who was that guy?”

“I’m so sorry, dear,” Constance said, her carefully-composed expression breaking into something that looked uncomfortably like fear. “I tried to take a car from the airfield, but Andrés quite uncharacteristically insisted he drive me into the city himself.”

“Not a fan of the Parkway at rush hour?”

“He detests urbanization,” Constance said, but before she could clue Jane in to what that might possibly mean, Maura was at her side, holding a perfectly-foamed demitasse cup.

“Macchiato, Mother. The Boquete single-origin.”

Constance accepted the cup gratefully. “Thank you, darling.”

Maura frowned. “What’s going on, Mother? Jane?”

“Perhaps we should sit in the other room,” Constance said, nodding toward the sofa.

“Yeah,” Jane agreed. “You got your coffee, Maura?”

“Yes,” Maura said uncertainly. “Is everything all right?”

“Perfectly,” Constance said airily, though her eyes remained locked on Jane’s.

Once they’d all sat down together, Constance in the armchair, Jane and Maura on the sofa, Constance cleared her throat.

“I may know who murdered Kight.”

Chapter 4: Donatella Della Valle's Cousin's Son Enzo

Summary:

the plot thickens! and how do you thicken a plot? by stirring it! and who's the best at stirring up plots? you guessed it . . . angela

“All right,” Jane said when they were all settled. “So what’s going on?”

Constance sighed, took a deep breath, set her shoulders. “I believe Kight was murdered by Blanton Cronie.”

Maura gasped. Jane stared blankly.

“And that is . . .”

“Jane, Blanton Cronie is the biggest publisher of art media in the world,” Maura said incredulously. “They handle all of Kight’s physical production as well as archival print licensing.”

As Jane took in the information she felt a little twitch in her detective brain. She’d seen that name before.

“They published all Kight’s retrospectives, including PRECIPICE?” Maura nudged.

“Ah!” Constance cried, lighting up. “That’s the volume you appeared in, isn’t it, dear?”

Jane grimaced. She was barely starting to settle into the idea of the photograph, she didn’t need Maura’s dismissive little it was a favor to Mother, really, rattling around in there too.

She could swear Constance gave her a little smirk. Of course, Jane was pretty sure her face gave away that she knew exactly what they were all talking about. And of course, Constance was one of those people who seemed to forget she and Maura weren’t a couple about every ten minutes. It used to bother her, especially before they’d had their little showdown, but now it just forced her to think about how Maura’s mother didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest that her daughter might be in a relationship with another woman.

“Kight was so attenuated in that era,” Constance sighed wistfully, sipping her macchiato. “Every concept, every image.”

“Sure,” Jane mumbled. “So you think his—their, sorry—publisher had one of its most, I assume, prestigious and profitable artists murdered? That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“Well—“ Constance began, but was interrupted by a hurricane.

“CONNIE,” Angela bellowed from the patio, her enthusiastic rasp seeming to rattle the sliding-glass doors.

“Oh great,” Jane muttered as Maura beamed and Constance flinched, but quickly recovered into a gracious, genuine smile as she stood to greet Angela.

“I can’t believe my Janie didn’t tell me you were coming to visit,” Angela grumbled, glaring at Jane as she let herself in. She enveloped Constance in a tight hug, oblivious to the other woman’s awkward discomfort. “Look at you, always so stylish even at this hour. I must look like a drowned rat!” She patted at her still-damp hair.

“You look lovely, Angela,” Constance assured her, and Jane pouted a little at how easily Constance was able to compliment her mother who, Jane thought petulantly, did look like a drowned rat. She cleared her throat, Angela throwing her another death glare before noticing Jane’s outfit.

“Oh Janie, you look so classy!” she cried. A beat later, her voice dropped into low suspicion. “Did someone die?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Homicide detective, Ma, remember? Someone always died.” Maura and Constance winced in unison.

Shit.

“I mean, uh, yes, but not like that,” she mumbled by way of apology.

“Well, you can go take care of that while Connie and I catch up,” Angela said, patting Constance’s hand.

“What are you doing here, Ma?” Jane groused before she could stop herself. “I mean, don’t you have work?”

“Not on Thursdays,” Angela sniffed. “I was just stopping by for a cup of coffee. With Maura.”

“You have coffee with Maura?”

“If we’re both home,” Maura said, her voice almost apologetic as she made half-desperate eye contact with Jane.

Jane just needed ten seconds to process everything. A lead on Sheridan’s murder. Maura’s mother. Her own mother, who apparently had started a little coffee klatch that didn’t include her.

She panicked briefly at the kinds of questioning Angela most likely unloaded on Maura when Jane wasn’t around. It wasn’t that she was afraid of what Maura might say—sometimes Jane was grateful for Maura’s physical inability to lie and her corresponding ability to evade through exactitude—but what Angela might interpret.

Angela knew better than anyone how very much not a couple her daughter and her daughter’s best friend were. Hell, not three days went by without her mother trying to fix up a date for Jane and whatever one of her friends’ worthless nephews was in town that week, Jane complaining without fail that she’d rather just hang out with Maura than pretend to care about whatever crypto scam Donatella Della Valle’s cousin’s son Enzo was obsessed with this month.

But.

Jane had noticed that while her mother’s endless stream of set-ups hadn’t dried up, she had been acquiescing to Jane’s strident refusals more and more easily. Especially if Jane refused with the excuse of spending time with Maura.

But it’s not an excuse, is it. You’d rather spend time with Maura than anyone else. Because you’re in love with her.

Shut up shut UP.

“Janie?” Angela’s voice cut through her fog. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Ma,” she said, maybe a little too forcefully.

“Jeez, I was just asking,” Angela muttered. “Didn’t you say you had a murder to solve?”

“Indeed,” Constance cut in gracefully. “Maura tells me you’re going to speak with Jocasta at the gallery. I was wondering if perhaps I might join you. I know her quite well.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, right, Jane?” Maura said hopefully.

Jane frowned. She didn’t like talking to suspects—and since she didn’t know any better yet, that included this Jocasta—with anyone else around, especially civilians, but she’d also encountered the art world before, and there wasn’t enough body armor in the whole of BPD to protect from those barbs. And anyway, Constance spoke the language, and she’d give Jane automatic credibility.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Yeah, it is. Thanks, Constance.”

“And then we can get lunch!” Angela crowed. “Just let me get changed.”

“Ma!” Jane shouted.

“What?” Angela shouted back. Maura and Constance glanced at each other, but Jane could see that their look was more charmed than distressed.

“Why don’t you let Jane and I go talk with Jocasta,” Constance soothed, “and you and I can get lunch after. Maura, do you know if Le Bol Vert will be available for two around twelve-thirty?”

“I think so, Mother,” Maura said, a look of relief on her face. Jane didn’t know why; it’s not like Angela was her mother.

Well. Not technically.

Sure seems like neither one of them especially minds the idea, though.

Shut UP, Jane.

“Okay, fantastic,” Angela beamed. “Oh Connie, I’m so glad to have someone I can have a real conversation with, finally.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Jane pouted.

“Yes,” Angela shot back. Maura giggled. Jane glared at her.

“And don’t you have anything better to do?” Jane grumbled. Maura’s face fell.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “An autopsy.”

Jane felt her heart clench. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, placing her hand gently on Maura’s arm. Glanced at Constance, her expression soft and sorrowful. Angela looked at all of them, putting the pieces together.

“Oh no,” she gasped, grasping Constance’s hand. “A friend of yours? Is that why you’re here?”

Constance nodded, accepting Angela’s condolences.

“It’s all right,” Maura smiled at Jane, placing her own hand over Jane’s and giving it a light squeeze.

“You sure you don’t want us to call in Pike?”

Maura’s nose wrinkled. “Certainly not.”

“Okay,” Jane smiled back, still not lifting her hand. “If you’re sure.”

“Quite sure, Jane,” Maura nodded. “I should have preliminary results this afternoon.”

“All right,” Jane said, squeezing her arm, almost—almost—missing the subtle glance between their two mothers.

Great.

“Angela, would you like some coffee? If I know my galleristes, Jocasta won’t be in until at least ten.”

Jane was pretty sure Constance’s tone was at least a little conspiratorial, and it made her whole gut clench. Just don’t tell Ma about the picture, please, she prayed.

“Thank you, Connie, I’d love a cup,” Angela replied pointedly. “What a lovely offer.”

“It’s just coffee, Ma,” Jane sighed. “I’ll get it.”

“No, you and Maura have work,” Angela sniffed. “Don’t you?”

Jane hadn’t been planning on going into the precinct until after her talk with Jocasta, but her mother’s tone was distressingly close to the one she’d used when Jane had begged to go out with her friends with a pile of unfinished homework on her bed.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “I can drive you in, Maura, then I’ll come back and pick up Constance.”

“Don’t be absurd,” the two Isles women said in synchrony. Jane felt like shriveling into nothingness for half a second.

“It would make much more sense for me to go in now and for Jane to drive Mother to the gallery in an hour,” Maura said.

“And we can easily take a car to the restaurant,” Constance added.

“Yeah, Jane,” Angela concurred. “Easily.”

Jane wanted to throw up her hands. Or maybe just throw up. She glared at her mother, the traitor, who had abruptly changed her tune; probably when she realized she’d have access to a whole hour of grilling her daughter, with Constance’s backup. But at least she’d be able to change before going in to work.

“Fine,” Jane muttered, shooting a dark look at her mother.

“I just need to finish getting ready,” Maura said. Jane eyed her; immaculately coiffed and dressed, makeup subtle and professional. Maura shrugged helplessly, almost imperceptibly, then all but fled up the stairs.

Jane stood in the living room, abruptly aware of the two women scrutinizing her.

“You really do look very nice, Jane,” Constance said, almost easily.

“Maura picked it,” she mumbled uncomfortably, acutely aware of the dress.

“Obviously, Janie,” her mother sighed. “Are you kidding me? Like you’d ever pick out something so nice.”

Her mother’s tone was incredulous, but Jane could hear the pride and admiration woven through it. She winced, wishing Maura would just once let her wear pants. She looked fine in pants. Plus they had pockets.

“Thanks, Ma,” Jane snarked.

“A Ted Baker, yes? Maura did always have exquisite taste.”

“She clearly got it from her mother,” Angela said, eyeing Constance’s chic pantsuit.

“I know the feeling,” Jane muttered. Angela looked like she was about to swallow Jane whole. “Lemme get you that coffee, Ma,” she said a little too loudly. “Constance, refill?”

“Thank you, dear,” Constance said smoothly. “That would be divine. Angela, why don’t we sit? You can tell me everything.”

Jane knew—she just knew—“everything” meant “everything about Jane’s personal life,” even if Constance didn’t say as much. She recognized that gleam in her mother’s eye. Was pretty sure she recognized it in Constance’s eye, too.

“Fantastic,” she muttered, turning back toward the kitchen.

 

---

 

A painful hour of cataloguing Jane’s romantic failures later, she pried Constance away from Angela with the promise she’d have her back by noon. Constance gave Angela a little hug, and Jane was positive she whispered something in her mother’s ear, something that made Angela give her a knowing smirk.

“Time to go,” she said, more to her mother than Constance.

“You get her back here by—“

“By noon, I know,” Jane sighed. “It’s not like either of you will turn into a pumpkin at 12:01.”

“You don’t know that, Janie,” her mother warned. Jane rolled her eyes.

“Just let me get my purse,” Constance said, heading upstairs to the guest room where Maura had put her things. Jane felt a momentary stab of disappointment about not being able to stay over again, but mentally cursed herself and shoved the thought down.

“I wish I could be more like her,” Angela sighed wistfully. “So refined.”

“So’s diesel oil,” Jane muttered, ducking reflexively from her mother’s sharp swat.

“You be nice.”

“Everyone keeps telling me to be nice. I’m nice! I’m nice!”

Angela let out a loud guffaw as Constance came back down the stairs.

“Did I miss something?”

“Yeah, my Janie just told me she’s nice, if you can believe that.”

“Niceness isn’t always a virtue,” Constance said, giving Jane a little wink. Jane knew that Maura wasn’t her biological daughter, but there were times when Maura was just like her. Jane wasn’t sure how she felt about that, especially when it was her pride on the line.

“I suppose,” Angela sighed.

“Well,” Constance said brightly. “Shall we go, Jane?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.”

She pecked her mother on the cheek, then held open the door for Constance.

“Uh, sorry about the car,” she said as they approached it. “Just lemme dump some stuff in the back.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” Constance said, waving her hand. “I fear Maura continues to overstate my expectations.”

“She’s not overstating this one,” Jane groaned as she flopped an armload of assorted junk into the back seat. “Long hours,” she said by way of apology.

“Indeed,” Constance said, easing into the passenger seat. “Jane,” she said, suddenly placing her hand on Jane’s. “I don’t thank you enough for taking care of my daughter. I just wanted you to know how grateful I am that Maura has someone like you in her life.”

Jane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Uh, thank you, Constance. I’m lucky to have her in mine.”

“Mmm,” Constance murmured, letting her hand linger just a bit longer before pulling away and fastening her seatbelt.

Jane knew there was a lot of work going on behind the scenes of that little mmm, but she pushed it away. “So, do you think we can—“

“Blanton Cronie, yes,” Constance interrupted, her tone crisp. “I believe they may be responsible for this horrible crime. A significant percentage of Kight’s catalogue was coming up for licensing renewal in the next year.”

“And Sheridan was having second thoughts about renewing?”

Constance nodded. “Kight had been in a long-standing disagreement with several of the board members about the direction the company was going. The great digital shift, you know.” She sighed. “While there are certainly some marvelous new voices working in that arena, us older generation struggles to hold true to our life’s work, our craft, our ideals. And when you’re discussing twenty, thirty-year exclusive global contracts . . .” she drifted off, shaking her head.

“So Sheridan was pissed that they wanted to turn their work into memes?”

Constance looked at her blankly.

“Never mind. Do you happen to know anyone at the company Sheridan might have been specifically upset with?”

Constance’s face shifted, taking on a shade of the fear Jane had seen when she’d first arrived. 

“Your friend,” she guessed. “With the plane.”

“I’d hardly call Andrés a friend,” Constance said. “We’re all acquainted, of course; it’s quite a small world. There were eight of us up at the studio retreat, Andrés included. Though I must emphasize he'd been there for two months already, and he hadn't left to my knowledge during that time.”

“Good to know. So, not friends, but acquainted well enough that he let you tag along to Boston on a moment’s notice.”

“That’s just it,” Constance said, leaning toward her. “We were at dinner after we’d all found out about Kight, and I mentioned wanting to get back to Boston rather earlier than I’d anticipated, and Andrés just so happened to be flying in early the very next morning. Insisted I go with him.”

“But you think . . . maybe he wasn’t actually planning to go before you mentioned it?”

They were stopped at a red light, so Jane turned to face her. Constance was pale, drawn, her fingers knit tightly together.

“I do not,” she said softly. “And then when he insisted on driving me into the city—he hates cities. He once took eight days to drive from New York to Santa Cruz because he refused to pass through any densely urban areas.”

“Okay,” Jane said, easing the car through the intersection. “Did he say anything strange or noteworthy? About Sheridan, or Blanton Cronie?”

“Not directly. Andrés knows what a close relationship Kight and I have—“ she caught herself, a soft little gasp slipping past her lips, “or had, I suppose. He wouldn’t dare impugn Kight in front of me. But it was common knowledge that Andrés was one of the biggest supporters of the company’s ideological shift. A shift, I should mention, that would be impossible to make if the company lost Kight’s catalogue.”

“Just how much was Sheridan worth? Sorry if it’s inappropriate to ask—“

“The catalogue in question brought Blanton roughly sixteen million dollars per year.”

Jane nearly swerved into oncoming traffic. “Holy shit.”

“Indeed,” Constance replied wryly. “A good deal of that was commercial re-licensing fees, which are, frankly, ludicrous, but are the little devil of capitalism dancing on all our shoulders.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jane murmured, pretending she got that last part.

“There’s surprisingly little money to be made in this industry if you’re a creator,” Constance said. “Talent is helpful, but the titans are the ones who have excellent business managers.”

“And Sheridan’s was?”

“Oh, Kight had several for all their various ventures. But this particular negotiation was being spearheaded by Robert Vanallen, who handled all dealings with Blanton Cronie.”

“Robert Vanallen,” Jane repeated.

“Oh, do you know him?”

“Not yet,” Jane said. “Is that it?”

She pointed to a stylish storefront between a fancy dress shop Maura probably had an account at and a fancy wine bar she’d probably love. The facade was all glass, thick and rippling; she could see vague shapes behind it. A small, plain plaque next to the door read MATERIEL DES CORPS in round black letters.

“Yes,” Constance said quietly, and once Jane had pulled into a spot a few doors down, she turned to look at her, not quite sure how to handle seeing the most terrifying woman she’d ever met on the verge of tears.

“I’m—I’m really sorry you lost your friend, Constance,” she said awkwardly. “But I’m going to find the person who did it and bring them to justice.”

Constance smiled at her. A real smile, full of warmth and gratitude. Jane wasn’t quite sure how to handle that either.

“I know you will, dear.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence before Constance gently cleared her throat. “Ah,” she said. “I believe that’s Jocasta. Shall we?”

“After you,” Jane said.

 

Notes:

first, thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos! and for reading! it's a really joyful part of this whole process!

second: it may be increasingly obvious that I haven't actually engaged with the television show in probably close to a decade; if things seem anachronistic or weird, canon-wise, well, they are; as long as we're all having fun, I really can't be arsed to put myself through that queerbaiting pain all over again.

third: I promise they'll do it! the chapter is already written! it's the longest one so far! but we gotta find out who killed the dead artist too.

fourth: the titles don't actually mean anything; thinking up titles sux and is hard. so I'm just picking little phrases that I liked from the chapters.

Chapter 5: A Secret Love for Crappy Procedurals

Summary:

murder plot stuff! moms being sneakily smarter than their willfully idiotic children! almost-naked self-reflection!

 

She was in her mid-forties, short, reed-thin; the severity of her cropped, spiky, bright-red haircut emphasized by her enormous magenta glasses. She gave Jane the impression of a haughty squirrel, or would have, if she hadn’t burst into tears and flung her arms around Constance the second she saw her.

“Oh god,” she wailed. “How could this happen?”

“That’s the question I’m trying to answer,” Jane cut in. “Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston Homicide.”

Jocasta’s face went from extravagant sorrow to cold suspicion in a flash. She stepped back, crossed her arms over her chest.

“Do you have a warrant?”

Jane frowned. Either something was immediately fishy, or Jocasta had a secret love for crappy procedurals; on first impression Jane found herself suspecting the latter. Regardless, she kept her face calm and professional.

“No, I’m just here to ask some questions.”

“Like those two who were here yesterday? I’ve answered enough questions about this horrible mess, thank you.” She started to turn away.

“Jo,” Constance cut in, her tone conciliatory. Despite Jane hating to share scenes she felt a flash of gratitude. “There’s no need to be on alert. This is Detective Rizzoli, one of the city’s finest officers and a dear friend of my daughter’s; of course you remember Maura.”

“Ah, Maura,” Jocasta said, seeming to thaw slightly, though she still eyed Jane with vague disdain. “How is she? I thought I saw her at the gala a few months ago, in that stunning Balmain.”

“She was there,” Jane interrupted gruffly. Maura had gone with some bland guy in a suit—not even a tuxedo—Gordon or Patrick or Biff or something; she’d met him at the fancy grocery store Jane hated. He’d made a clumsy pass when he’d taken her home after the gala—

You saw the dress, you would have too. And you would have worn that tuxedo she’s got in her closet for you while you did it.

Shut up shut up shut up

—and while Maura hadn’t seemed particularly upset about Kyle or Todd or whoever’s pawing, it had taken every ounce of Jane’s willpower not to track the guy down.

Because you’re in love with her, and you wanna do dumb shit to prove it so you don’t have to say it out loud and deal with the disappointment.

Jocasta eyed her curiously, probably because she was grimacing, or maybe it was that she’d noticed Jane’s outfit and approved. Or maybe it was the other thing.

“Oh, are you two—“

Jane knew the end of the sentence before Jocasta could get it out.

“Oh no, dear,” Constance cut in. “They’re just very close friends.”

Jane swore Constance winked at her again. If only psychically.

“So, can we go in?” Jane asked, ready to be done with the personal questioning so they could get to the professional kind.

Jocasta gave her the tiniest sneer, then pulled the heavy gallery door open, holding it for Constance and releasing it just before Jane crossed the threshold.

With every passing second she was more and more relieved that Constance had come along. Maura certainly traveled in these circles, but had told Jane several times that her social standing was mostly down to her name and her wealth. Jane knew she never felt especially comfortable around her mother’s friends, and while she’d been initially incredulous that anyone could be snobby about Maura, who was a rich, beautiful genius, she’d quickly learned these people could be snobby about anything.

“So,” Jocasta sighed extravagantly. “what can I help you with, Detective?”

“First, I’m sorry if the two officers yesterday weren’t as courteous or helpful as they could have been. New guys,” she shrugged, figuring everyone everywhere understood what that meant. She hated apologizing in general, let alone to someone like this, but she needed to get Jocasta talking. And anyway. New guys.

“Hmmm,” Jocasta hummed. “They certainly didn’t inspire much confidence.”

“Yeah, I know. But if I’m going to find out who murdered your boss—“

“Kight was more than my boss,” Jocasta said, a dramatic warble creeping into her voice. “A friend, a mentor, an inspiration.”

She was clearly on the verge of grandiose sobs again. Jane wanted to roll her eyes so far back she could see the Big Bang; took a deep breath instead. “But Sheridan did sign your paychecks, correct?”

Jocasta’s face darkened. “Yes.”

“Okay. Do you have any idea what might have happened? Who might have wanted to do this?”

Jocasta’s brow furrowed behind her enormous glasses. Jane could see at once that she absolutely did have an idea, but was trying to decide if she wanted to share it, a look she knew well. After a beat she bit her lip and glanced at Constance, who gave a small, encouraging nod.

“I think,” she said slowly, quietly, her whole demeanor seeming to shift, “I think it was Blanton. Kight’s exclusive publisher.”

“Okay,” Jane nodded. “Can you tell me why? Maybe walk me through a timeline of the situation, from when Kight first started to reconsider the contract renewal. Anybody who might have been pushing for it, or who seemed angry about Sheridan’s change of plans. Anybody who might have had access to the house in the last year.” 

The woman looked rattled. Jane smiled what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “From what Constance tells me, you’re the only one to ask.”

Jocasta frowned, looked at Constance, then back at Jane.

“How did you know?” she asked, still quietly, like she was afraid of being overheard. “About the contract dispute?”

“Our suspicions are quite aligned,” Constance said gently. “I came down from Hollow Spring Farm just this morning to discuss my opinion with Detective Rizzoli. She was planning to talk with you, and I invited myself along.”

Jane didn’t miss Constance’s emphasis on her rank; something about it made her chest puff a little, or would, if not for the reinforced bust of her dress.

Another point to Connie, I guess.

She looked closely at Jocasta, who seemed more and more anxious with each passing second. Stepped in a little closer, tried not to tower over her. At least the flats were a good idea.

“Should we find somewhere else to talk?” she murmured, her eyes dark and serious.

There was nobody else in the gallery, but Jocasta nodded emphatically. “The coffee shop across the street.”

“Delightful,” Constance murmured. “Do they still have that lovely Fukamushi sencha?”

“No,” Jocasta replied mournfully. “Val had to switch suppliers.”

“Alas,” Constance sighed, giving Jane a wry little look, one that said I know it’s ridiculous, but isn’t it a bit charming? “We shall have to make do.”

In the end, Jocasta’s feelings about the publishing house’s responsibility for Kight Sheridan’s murder were basically the same as Constance’s. Jane wrapped up their conversation with a shortlist of names to prioritize; at the top was, to Jane’s lack of surprise, one Andrés Matins: noted artist, twin-engine pilot, and executive board member at Blanton Cronie.

“Not that he did it,” Jocasta had gasped, scandalized. “Andrés hates mess.”

“Hates mess, hates cities, sounds like a blast.”

“He’s . . . certainly very important and influential.” Jocasta’s tone was admirably diplomatic.

“Got it,” Jane gave her a knowing smile.

To her surprise, Jocasta had smiled back.

 

---

 

True to her word, Jane pulled back into Maura’s driveway at precisely 11:57am. She didn’t get out of the car, eager to run back to her apartment to change, then to find Korsak to update him on the possible break they’d been searching for.

Constance gave her a polite nod as unbuckled her seatbelt, Angela already standing at the front door.

“Chill out, Ma,” she muttered. Constance let out a little laugh.

“She’s a wonderful woman, Constance said, pausing in her seat. “And a very good mother.”

Jane was pretty sure she heard a little tiny bit of longing in Constance’s voice.

“Hey,” she said. “You’re doing great.” Was a little surprised to discover it felt true. They’d gotten off on a foot so bad Jane had been ready to put the entire horse down, but after a long stretch of cautious politesse Jane was starting to think it might be okay—maybe—that she was becoming more involved in her daughter’s life. Maybe. For now.

In her own ma’s life, well, that was a different story, one she obviously had no role in. After things had gotten patched up and Angela was free to stop loathing her for Maura’s sake, she’d quickly latched on to the cosmopolitan woman so unlike herself.

Angela adored Constance, admired her, and Jane was pretty sure Constance found things to admire about Angela, too; Jane had been deeply unsettled the first time she’d seen cool, reserved Constance burst into laughter at one of her ma’s well-placed jabs at some incompetent man or other. And if that excruciating-sounding—to Jane, at least—friendship worked for them, maybe anything was possible.

Constance smiled at her, and Jane was briefly afraid she’d cry again. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “You’ll be over for dinner tonight, yes? Angela promised her famous gnocchi.”

“Uh,” Jane said, worried she’d missed that part of the morning’s conversation while she’d been zoning out in the couch. “Yeah, of course. Have a nice time at lunch, and remember, if she drives you crazy, I’m the police. I can make anyone disappear, even overbearing Italian mothers.”

Constance laughed again, louder this time, and Jane felt an unaccountable swell of pride. “Duly noted,” she smiled. “Thank you for this morning, Jane. I do hope it was helpful. I’ll see you this evening; please say hello to Maura for me.”

“Will do,” Jane gave her a little salute, immediately cringing. What was it about Constance that inevitably made her act like an idiot?

You want to impress her.

“I do not,” she muttered, throwing the car into reverse.

Yes, you do. You want her to like you, because she’s Maura’s mom.

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

She stopped by her apartment, starting to yank the dress off before remembering it was her special emergency dress, and Maura would be upset if it had a wrinkle, let alone a ripped seam. She eased it off gently, a little weirded out by the cool ambient air against her bare breasts. A person shouldn’t be basically stark naked at noon on a workday.

Unless that is your workday.

She glanced at her closet, the book seeming to glow from under its pile of old baseball jerseys way in the back corner, up on the highest shelf.

Page 67.

She didn’t want to look. Not one bit. And yet—

Before she could blink the book was in her hands, glossy and seductive.

You can still put it back, you know. Go do murder-solving stuff like you’re supposed to.

But Jane didn’t put the book back.

She sat on her bed, still naked except for the tight shorts Maura had given her to sleep in, and set her hand on the cover.

Look or don’t, kid. Quit fucking around.

She frowned, bit her lip. It was already there, in her hands. And Maura didn’t seem bothered at all. It was art. Just art. Not real life.

She took a deep breath and flipped through to page 67.

At first she could hardly even organize the image into anything comprehensible; a long milky slope of skin, a dark pink crescent of areola, a light constellation of freckles that had started this whole thing. And the shiny, gooey blob, suspended from a stiff nipple.

Maura’s stiff nipple.

She wanted to slam the book closed and shove it back into its hiding spot, but felt a strange urge to sit and really look at the image, not in a secret, salacious way, not like she was staring at her best friend’s naked breast in the throes of . . . whatever, but a stranger’s. A subject’s. To see it through Maura’s eyes.

The first time, all Jane had been able to see was degradation, humiliation, crass exploitation, plus an awkward, half-frightening bolt of lust that made her more than a little ashamed. But this time she thought about Maura’s perspective. Empowering. Validating. Sexy.

Jane had a hard time believing someone using another body like an object could be empowering to the person being used. Wouldn’t it feel the opposite?

She tried to imagine it happening with any of the men she’d been with and shivered with revulsion at each iteration. Nope. Not for her.

But you wanted to lick it off her.

She glanced around guiltily, afraid that even though she was alone in her own locked apartment someone would still somehow be able to see her, to know what she was thinking.

Maybe you don’t get it because you’re trying to imagine what it’s like to be on the receiving end and not the one who—

This time Jane did snap the book closed.

“Nope,” she whispered furiously. “Nope nope nope.”

She stood up, quickly rifling through what she hoped was her clean pile, yanked on a sports bra and tank top. Tugged on her jeans.

Once she was clothed she felt better. Less exposed, literally and figuratively. She eyed the book on her bed, once again feeling the faint, ridiculous worry that it might bite her.

“Quit being an idiot, Rizzoli,” she muttered, picking it up.

Right before she stuffed it back under her old jerseys she caught a glimpse of the text on the back.

“. . . the dizzying precipice of desire, the promise of exquisite obliteration before the irreversible clarity of true intimacy, in Sheridan’s inimitable and provocative . . .”

The words irreversible clarity stood out. She felt like she got the clarity part, but the irreversible part was trickier. Wasn’t that the point of intimacy? You can’t un-sleep with someone. And more than that, something about it felt dangerous, vaguely threatening. Jane wasn’t sure why.

That’s what makes it art, not just a dirty book.

“It’s still dirty,” she muttered as she thrust it back onto the shelf.

She snapped the closet door shut firmly, pressing her hand against it to make sure. It wasn’t just about Maura’s picture, it was about all of it; the emotional tumult the picture had unleashed within her, the confusion about Maura and about herself, what she wanted, the idea of intimacy as something risky, something possibly dangerous.

She’d rather think about murder, if she was being honest.

She grabbed her blazer from the hook on the bedroom door, slipping it on as she fished for her shoes. Was about to slam her way out the door before she remembered her emergency outfit. Sighing heavily, she darted back into her bedroom, carefully hanging the dress, smoothing it out, letting her hands play over the thick silk. Carefully picked up the flats, set them neatly under it.

You should bring it back to Maura’s tonight so you don’t accidentally ruin it.

Or you could leave it here and pretend you forgot; maybe she’ll come over to pick it up.

“All right,” she muttered to her warring brain. “Murder to solve.”

She left the dress in her closet, not entirely on purpose, but the idea of it sitting in her horrible car without a garment bag made even Jane wince. “Sorry Maur,” she whispered. “I promise I won’t ruin it.”

Or at least I’ll try not to, she thought as she locked the door behind her.

 

 

Notes:

title note: ;)

Chapter 6: You Can't Take It With You, But Someone Else Can Always Collect

Summary:

plot plot plot plot plot!

prob gonna be a bit longer btwn chaps as work sucks (I know)

Korsak sat back in his chair, the ancient springs letting out an exhausted squeak. “And you got all this from the doc’s mom? Nice work, Rizzoli.”

Jane shrugged. “I didn’t do much of anything. Constance came down to tell me about it after she heard about the murder.”

“Still,” Korsak said, giving her a little grin. “This is a big lead.”

“Maybe,” Jane said. “I mean, yeah, this publisher stuff is really hinky, but that still doesn’t tell me who actually did it.”

“What’s next on your list?”

Jane furrowed her brow, shifted through the papers on her desk. “I gotta talk to the pool boy and his husband, and then Sheridan’s licensing attorney. Vanallen.”

Korsak sat forward. “Robert Vanallen?”

Jane nodded. Korsak let out a low whistle, chuckled as he shook his head.

“What? You know this guy?”

“He’s one of the biggest names in the business. Remember the whole debacle when they built the new City Hall?”

“The wetland thing?”

“Yeah. Vanallen beat the feds in their own house and now we’ve got a shiny new building. He’s got every major player in the Northeast in his pocket.”

“Great,” Jane muttered. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to talk to the cops.”

“Better be careful, Janie, Vanallen’s got a permanent table at the Commissioner’s Ball. Right up front.”

Jane’s face soured. “Aw, man, I fuckin’ hate politics. You got anyone else you can send?”

Korsak gave an exaggerated swivel of his head, surveying the bullpen. “No luck, Rizzoli. Get on Vanallen’s radar. At this point he’s just a source, not a suspect.”

“Yeah, but what if he was working with this Matins guy to make sure Blanton’s version of the deal went through? Constance says all these people move in the same circles. And if Matins is on the board at Blanton Cronie and had a good reason to want Sheridan out of the way—

“Or sixteen million good reasons,” Korsak cut in.

“Or sixteen million good reasons, well, he’d have to have dealt with Vanallen at least a couple times.”

“Right,” Korsak said. “I’ll put the new guys on background for Matins and Vanallen. Just background,” he said quickly, cutting off Jane’s groan of protest. “But listen, Rizzoli, we gotta get these guys up to speed eventually. I’m not saying—I’m not saying they’re partner material, okay? Just that we need our detectives to at least know the ropes.”

“And I’m the ropes, huh,” Jane grimaced, rolling her eyes. Korsak just shrugged.

“I’ll get some stuff to you later today or tomorrow. Give you a little head start before you meet with these guys.”  

“Thanks,” Jane sighed. “Let me work Matins, though. I’ve got a good in with Maura’s mom—“ she resolutely ignored Korsak’s little smirk—“and I’d really like to know why he insisted on flying her down to Boston, what else he might be doing here.”

“But you said she thought he only volunteered to take her because she said she wanted to get into the city.”

“Yeah, because one of her best friends had been murdered and she was staying in an extremely isolated area with one of the potential conspirators, plus he lied about already planning to fly in. And if Matins is involved and suspects Constance knows something, he’d probably have some people he needs to talk to in town.”

“People like Robert Vanallen, maybe.”

“I’m not saying he was in on it, but I’d really like to dive a little more into Blanton and this contract. See just how well these two knew each other.”

“You think Vanallen would have his own client killed?”

Jane sighed. “I hope not. But maybe Sheridan was worth more dead than alive. Dead photographer, I bet sales will go through the roof.”

“You can’t take it with you but someone else can always collect, I guess.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She tapped her fingertips on the desk. “You seen Maura today?”

“Yeah, she came in a couple hours ago. Doing Sheridan’s autopsy, she must still be down there.”

“Cool,” Jane said, pushing away from her desk. “I’ll go see what she’s got.”

Korsak mumbled something under his breath. Jane shot him a glare; he responded with an innocent smile.

“That’s what I thought, old man,” she muttered. “Get me some good stuff on Matins and Vanallen so we can find out who killed Sheridan, yeah?”

“You got it,” Korsak said, shooting her a finger gun. “Oh hey, Janie?”

“Yeah?” Jane turned in the doorway.

“You think we should keep an eye on Constance? If Matins thinks she knows something . . .”

Jane winced. She’d thought about it briefly, but hadn’t really given the possibility a lot of consideration.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, she’s staying at Maura’s for at least a couple days, I think, so she should be pretty safe. I could see if they want me to hang out there. I don’t want to freak anyone out, though.”

“You mean Maura?”

She heard the way his tone softened and felt a flush start to creep up her neck.

“Nah,” she waved her hand dismissively, hoping it looked cool and relaxed, not like a frantic flail. “More like my ma; she loves Constance almost as much as she loves getting worked up over . . . everything.”

Korsak grinned. “Always nice when the mothers get along.”

Jane wanted to snap at him but thought better of it. She took a deep breath, tried counting to ten, but as usual only made it to two and a half. “I’ll stay over at Maura’s, no need to get any uniforms involved. Since there’s no actual threat.”

“You’re playing with the big boys on this one, Rizzoli.” Korsak’s tone was serious. “No direct threat means I can’t order departmental protection, but if these people are involved . . .”

“Yeah,” she replied grimly. “You want me to bring Constance down for an official statement?”

“Not yet. Let’s talk to Matins and Vanallen first, we don’t want to blow our source. Hold off on the other two, too; we don’t know if they’re in on it with the others.”

“Good call,” she said. “I’m gonna go see what Maura’s got.”

“Say hi to her for me,” Korsak called after her. Jane waved him off as she strode down the hall.

She jabbed at the elevator button, abruptly nervous. Her palms were sweaty; she cursed herself as she swiped them along her jeans.

It wasn’t the picture, not really. It was more what it meant; not about Maura, but about her. She’d gotten over the squeamishness of it, had told herself she’d moved past the awkward arousal—

At least you can act like you’re past it. In public, anyway.

“Damn right,” she muttered as the elevator doors finally groaned open.

But now there was this other thing. This worse thing. It was one thing to have a harmless crush on a gorgeous, accomplished person; another thing entirely to be in love with your best friend. And not just regular love. Love-love.

She realized she’d been standing in the elevator without pressing a button for way too long. Whacked the B with her sweaty palm.

Don’t forget she’s spent the day cutting up her mom’s best friend.

Despite not knowing if Kight Sheridan had actually been Constance’s best friend, the thought sneaked up on her and then hit her over the head with a frying pan.

She didn’t know why she was suddenly cold all over, suddenly on the verge of tears in the work elevator. She’d nearly died before. Maura had nearly died before. It had been bad, obviously; she’d thought she understood the depth of that fear and grief, but now . . .

The elevator settled at the basement, Jane wiping furiously at her eyes as the doors opened.

Jesus Christ, Rizzoli, get it together. If you do this like a normal person, you can have a beer later. Two beers. Three beers.

She took a deep breath, squeezed her hands into fists a couple times. Pushed through the swinging doors.

Maura was in the black scrubs today. They did what they predictably did to Jane’s dumb brain.

One more instance of mental whiplash and Jane was pretty sure it’d be her on some slab next.

“Hey,” she said softly, not wanting to startle Maura, whose head was bent over a microscope.

“Oh, Jane, come look at this.”

Maura straightened up, an errant curl slipping against her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, but it slipped again; she gave a frustrated little tsk and Jane kinda felt like swooning again.

You’re even in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. How did you not get this until now, Boston’s Most Celebrated Detective?

“Shut up,” she muttered without thinking, then blanched at Maura’s startled expression. “Not you, sorry. Just, uh, trying to work some stuff out.”

“About the case?” Maura asked brightly, slid off her stool. “I think I can help.”

She plucked a file from the long bench, held it out. “My preliminary results.”

“You know I’m just gonna need for you to translate anyway, Maur. Can you give me the bullet points?”

Maura smiled. Her eyes were sparkling, though Jane wasn’t sure if it was residual tears or excitement about her findings. “Yes. Kight Sheridan was murdered with a long, thin object, most likely metal. Death was caused by the severing of both the carotid and femoral arteries. It was . . .” she seemed to recognize her own enthusiasm, to catch herself. “It was very quick,” she finished softly. “If not peaceful.”

“Thanks, Maura,” Jane said, unable to resist the urge to put her hand on the small of Maura’s back, to give her a reassuring pat, and then, when Maura seemed to sag just slightly into the touch, to leave her hand there.

“The, um, the majority of the superficial wounds appear to be post-mortem. Several slashes along the chest, torso, and upper back. Some were pre-mortem, but most were inflicted after death.”

“Sounds personal.”

“Well, you would know better than me—“

“I doubt it,” Jane grinned.

She could swear Maura blushed, just a little. Was suddenly very aware of how close they were standing, of her hand on Maura’s back, just above the swell of her—

She stepped back quickly, clearing her throat. Maura gave her a quizzical look.

“Uh, well, you know.”

“Desecration of the body after death,” Maura murmured. “Indicative of deep rage toward the victim.”

“Yeah,” Jane said.

“I’ve been trying to think of who could have hated Kight that much. Who could hate anyone that much.”

Her voice trembled. Once again Jane reached out, catching Maura’s hand in her own.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to put yourself in that monster’s shoes.”

“I know,” Maura sniffled, giving Jane’s hand a squeeze.

“So,” Jane said after a beat. “Murder weapon?”

“I’m not sure,” Maura frowned. “The slashes are rather unusual in that the weapon seems to be quite long and thin, with little evidence of the blade being dragged along the dermis.”

“So what, a sword?” Jane joked, or thought she joked, until Maura made that adorable deep-thinking face—

Adorable?

Yes. It’s fucking adorable. Shut up.

“The edges of the cuts are quite clean and precise, with a shallow, relatively uniform depth. All approximately the same length, no residue or transfer from the weapon . . . yes, Jane, it could very well be a sword; based on the shallowness of the wounds versus the force with which they were delivered per the blood patterning, I’d say most likely a fencing blade.”

“Okay, you’re a fencer, what kind of sword could do something like that? I thought they were dull.”

“There are three types of fencing weapons, the foil, the épée, and the sabre.”

“The middle one, that’s the one you use, right?”

Maura smiled that smile that made her knees start to buckle. “It is, Jane! Yes, I duel with the épée, which is the longest and heaviest. The foil is the lightest, and the sabre is between the two.”

“So which one did this?”

“The sabre is the only fencing weapon that incorporates the edge of the blade, the other two use only the tip. And yes, in sport fencing the weapons are dull; it’s only meant to be evocative of true combat.”

“But someone could sharpen one, yeah?”

“Feasibly,” Maura nodded. “If the weapon were made of a high-quality alloy. These cuts are remarkably clean. This blade was very sharp.”

“Was it the same weapon that made the fatal cuts?”

Maura bit her lip. “I believe so. But those cuts were controlled, deliberate. Those arteries are very specifically the ones that result in rapid blood loss. The carotid is fairly easy, but the femoral would require both knowledge and either overwhelming physical force or the compliance of the victim.”

“You’re not saying Sheridan—“

“Oh god, Jane, of course not! I’m saying in order to sever a femoral artery you have to insert the blade high on the inner thigh. It’s not a sneak attack. Either Kight was already losing consciousness from the carotid blood loss or they weren’t in any condition to fight back for some other reason.”

“Any evidence of drugs in their system?”

Maura shook her head. “No hits on the major sedatives, and I won’t have a full panel for forty-eight hours.”

Jane sighed. “Okay. Anything else?”

Maura’s expression shifted. “Yes, actually. There’s something I wanted to show you. Look at this, it’s a sample of Kight’s liver tissue.”

Jane leaned down and squinted into the microscope. “Looks like . . . some liver cells?”

“Look up in the right-hand corner, do you see those little dark spots?”

Jane squinted again. “Yeah, I think so. What is it?”

“Heavy metal poisoning,” Maura said. “Kight was dying.”

Jane looked at her, blinked.

“I suspected it when I examined the liver and kidneys; both have extensive lesions and scarring, which was unusual, given Kight was a teetotaler. So I examined the tissue, and the deposits are quite apparent, as you can see. I can’t say what the metals are yet, but my suspicion is silver or chromium, both are used in photographic production. Kight developed their own film for decades, it’s not unreasonable that they’d be exposed to these chemicals, and since they build up in the body, the longer the exposure, the greater the risk.”

“So they were murdered, but they were dying anyway? How long would they have had?”

Maura shook her head. “I don’t know. These levels are quite high. I’d like to ask Mother about Kight’s appearance and behavior over the last several months; symptoms of heavy metal poisoning can look like aging or other illnesses, though there are some specific identifiers.”

“Maybe the murderer didn’t know?”

“It’s possible.”

Jane put her hand on her hip. Now she had a victim who had already been dying. She had to figure out if Matins knew about Sheridan’s condition, if it meant anything for the contract dispute. Sheridan had to have a will, had to have all kinds of things set up to manage their fortune and their legacy. Had they gotten medical treatment? Did they even know themselves? And now she had to find a fancy sword.

“Jane?”

It was clear that it wasn’t the first time Maura had said her name.

“Sorry,” she said, offering a crooked grin. “Wheels spinning.”

“Of course,” Maura smiled. “Are you still coming to dinner?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Your mom? My mom? After they’ve spent the whole day together? Sounds so fun!”

“Jane.”

“Ugh, yes, of course I’m coming to dinner.” The end of her conversation with Korsak flashed through her mind. “Uh, Maura?”

Maura looked at her, concerned. “Yes, Jane?”

“Okay, so it’s not a big deal and nobody needs to freak out—”

“You know saying that only freaks people out, Jane.”

“Yeah, I know, but still.”

“What is it?”

Jane took a deep breath. “I’m gonna stay at your house for a few days.”

Maura’s brow wrinkled. “Why? And where? My mother—”

“That’s why,” Jane said quickly, hoping to save the conversation about where she’d be sleeping for later. “Korsak and I are working on some theories that involve some pretty big names, and while there’s totally nothing to worry about . . . “

“Andrés?”

“He’s one of them.”

“He dropped Mother off at my house this morning.”

“I know, Maur, and it’s stuff like that that makes me want to make sure you’re safe. And Constance. And Ma, I guess.”

Maura didn’t respond right away. Jane could see the thoughts swirling behind her clear amber eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said softly, contritely. “I keep getting you into danger.”

“You’re not getting anyone into danger, Jane,” Maura sighed. “But I agree. It would certainly make me feel safer to have you at home. At my home,” she said quickly. “And of course for Mother’s peace of mind.”

She looked flustered. Just a little bit flustered.

Jane knew the feeling.

“So,” she said. “Dinner tonight. Ma’s making gnocchi.”

“Oh, I do love Angela’s gnocchi,” Maura said a little dreamily. “Should I pick up some wine on my way home?”

“I don’t even know why you’re asking me,” Jane teased.

“Hmm,” Maura said thoughtfully. “You’re right.”

Chapter 7: Poor Bracey Stacey

Summary:

just a mostly-fluffy lil interlude featuring my two fav moms <3

Jane sat in her car outside Maura’s house for the second night in a row, trying to compose herself before facing the Italian Inquisition. She could see her mother standing at the kitchen island rolling out ropes of gnocchi dough, Constance at the stove behind her, Maura seated at the island, a glass of wine in her hand. Angela was talking animatedly, Constance turning around to respond, whatever she said making all three of them laugh.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not because she was dreading whatever awkward discussion her mother would surely, eagerly moderate—okay, not only that—but because the scene through the window looked so . . .

Perfect.

She took a deep breath, grabbed the duffel bag she’d packed at her apartment. She’d brought enough stuff for a couple nights, really hoped she wouldn’t need to stay that long.

For the case, you mean. You’d stay here forever if Maura wanted you to.

Shut up.

She walked in without knocking, resisting the urge to chastise Maura about keeping the door locked, engaging the deadbolt herself as she shut it behind her.

“Janie!” Angela shouted. “About time, you missed all the fun!”

“An hour of kneading pasta dough isn’t exactly my idea of fun, Ma,” she sighed, dropping her bag by the island. She’d hoped to wait until later to tell everyone about her plan to babysit, but Angela spotted it instantly.

“What, you planning on getting too tipsy to drive home? Or . . .” she glanced at Constance, not quickly enough to escape Jane’s notice. She wondered, cringingly, about what they’d discussed at lunch. Had a pretty good idea that she didn’t even want to touch right now. Or maybe ever.

She sighed again. “Hello, Ma,” she said pointedly. “Hi, Constance.”

“Hello, dear,” Constance said warmly, her cheeks slightly pink, and Jane wondered just how early they’d broken out the pinot grigio. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Angela was just telling us about the time Lonny Rondazzo tried to ask you to a dance by challenging you to a basketball competition,” Maura chimed in, pulling out the other chair, patting the seat.

“It was a game of horse, and he ended up having to take his cousin Stacey to Homecoming,” Jane smirked as she slid next to Maura. “Poor Bracey Stacey.”

Constance and Maura looked at her quizzically. “She wore headgear in ninth grade,” Jane shrugged.

Angela swatted a dish towel at her from across the island. “Don’t be mean,” she chided.

“What? It’s not like I gave her the nickname. And besides, you know what they called me.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she blushed and grimaced at the same time.

“Roly-Poly Rizzoli!” her mother cackled. “Awwww, my little bambina paffutella.” She leaned over, tried to pinch Jane’s cheek, Jane dodging her with a whine.

“It’s hard to believe you were ever anything but slim, Jane,” Constance said, the wine apparently letting a bit more frankness into her voice than she ordinarily would have allowed. 

Even though Jane hated being the center of attention, especially about her body, there was something kind of cozy about the loose, festive mood that made her more willing to overlook her annoyance and embarrassment.

“Yeah, well, growing eight inches in a year really helps redistribute the mass,” she muttered. “How’s that gnocchi coming, Ma?”

“Almost ready, don’t be impatient. Connie, is the water boiling?”

“It is,” Constance said, picking up a slotted spoon from its trivet.

“Salted?”

“Salted.”

“Angela’s been teaching us her secret technique,” Maura murmured. “Though salting the water doesn’t actually—“

“Yeah, it’s all just superstition,” Jane said, hushing her, “but she’ll kill you if you question her methods. Or worse, she’ll never feed you again.”

“Ritualized food preparation processes are common to every culture on Earth,” Maura said. “Did you know that there’s a tribe in the Micronesian Islands that insists on preparing taro using only implements carved from a specific—“

“Sounds fascinating,” Jane deadpanned. “Is there beer for me?”

Maura sighed. “Jane. Is there ever not beer for you?”

Jane saw their mothers exchange another tiny look.

Fuck.

She hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to what this increasingly-obvious confederation between her mother and Constance implied. She’d gone out of her way to not give it a lot of thought. But here they were, their silent conversation so loud Jane could hear every word.

She already knew Constance didn’t seem to have a problem with her daughter being with a woman, but her ma? Her burning-incense-in-the-home, Jesus-suffering-on-the-cross-hung-over-the-toilet Italian Catholic ma? The woman who’d said some deeply embarrassing and occasionally offensive things about people who didn’t have a life just like hers for decades?

Though, she conceded, it had been a long time since Angela had said something that made Jane burn with secondhand embarrassment and, if she was being honest, more than a little confused guilt. Years, even. Angela’s hairstylist was gay and she adored him, brought him cannoli from Mike’s Bakery every time he refreshed her highlights, gossiped about his love life, had even tried to set him up with one of the civilian employees at the precinct. Sure, she’d been shocked when she’d learned Jane’s second cousin Mariella was getting married to a woman, had refused to attend the wedding, but afterward had confessed she’d wished she’d gone, had sent a belated gift, had commented on how handsome Mariella’s wife looked in her wedding suit.

“She doesn’t even look like a man,” Angela had marveled, and Jane had wanted to sink into the floor.

And there had been that time a few months ago when she’d come whirling into the cafe, roaring like a Sicilian lioness with a thorn in her paw after intervening in an altercation between a young trans kid and a group of boys who were harassing her in the street. Angela had sent the boys running with a cascade of maternal disappointment and a well-timed reference to one of their mothers, had bundled the girl in her cardigan, insisting she buy her a cup of cocoa, a sandwich, did she have somewhere safe to stay, did she need a ride, did she want Angela to call that Bobby Russo’s mother, it would be her pleasure.

“I just don’t understand it, Janie,” she’d spat through furious tears. “How people can be so small-minded and cruel.”

Like you were the whole time I was growing up? Jane had wanted to snap, but had held her tongue in honor of her mother’s newfound personal growth, something she suspected had to do with the abrupt departure of her deadbeat, meathead husband.

But still. Jane couldn’t quite believe Angela would be so eager to give up a church wedding and a long white veil for her only daughter. Even if she did seem . . . not opposed to whatever narrative she’d been cooking up with Constance.

She always did want a doctor in the family.

Shut UP.

“Jane?” Maura asked softly, and Jane was grateful their mothers were busy stirring the pot. At least it was literally this time.

“I’m fine,” she said nonchalantly, though Maura gave her a curious look. “Just gonna grab a beer.”

“Get me some more butter while you’re in there,” Angela called without looking up. Jane saw Constance flinch, wondered when the last time she’d had a meal prepared by a nosy Italian mother could possibly have been.

“There’s a reason I became a cop,” Jane joked, handing her mother the paper-wrapped loaf of butter. “Chasing bad guys helps burn off the calories.”

She grabbed her beer, popping the cap off with the top of the corkscrew on the counter.

“Orange slices in the fruit drawer,” Maura said, and this time Angela let out an audible snort.

“I wish Frank had been half as good to me as you are to my Jane,” she said, still facing the stove. Gave Constance a little bump with her hip. “Instead of me always having to do everything for that figlio di puttana.” She mimed spitting on the ground.

Constance barked out a laugh.

“Apologies for my language, Connie, I always forget you lived in Italy.” Her tone was admiring. Angela was fiercely proud of her heritage, but had only been to Sicily once, before Jane had been born.

“We must go,” Constance said instantly. “There’s a lovely little pensione in Palermu that I know you’d simply adore.”

“I’ve always wanted to go back,” Angela sighed dreamily. “Maybe we should all go together,” she said meaningfully, eyeing their two daughters. “It could be like a celebration.”

“A celebration of what, Ma?” Jane groused, knowing exactly what her mother was hinting at.

Jane did not need her mother planning her wedding again. Especially not to someone Jane couldn’t even imagine kissing on the cheek without wanting to dissolve into a fine mist of awkward shame and terror.

Why is everyone cooler with this than you? What the fuck is going on?

“Oh, I’d love to go back to Sicily!” Maura said excitedly. She had missed the subtext, and Jane was torn between being glad Maura’s not-entirely-solid grasp of social cues meant she wouldn’t have to deal with this weirdness from all sides—

Or maybe you’re the one being weird—

—and being a little upset at not having anyone to commiserate with. But then again, commiserating with Maura about this particular irritation would inevitably lead to having to talk about . . .

“Dinner!” Angela announced, tapping her spoon against the sauce pot. “Constance, you and Maura go sit, Janie and I will dish up. Anybody want more wine?”

 

---

 

Three hours later Jane was stuffed, exhausted, and entirely ready to say goodnight to her ma, who had sat next to Constance and whispered and giggled so much Jane felt a flash of pity for her tenth-grade math teacher.

“I’m gonna head home,” Angela said once the countertops were sufficiently spotless. “Janie, are you staying, or should I wrap you up some gnocchi to take back to your apartment?”

Her voice was all syrupy innocence. Jane wanted to throttle her, but settled for foiling whatever insane scheme she’d been brewing.

“Actually, I’m, uh, gonna be staying here for a few days.”

“Why?” Angela demanded instantly. Her eyes narrowed. “Is something going on?”

Constance’s mouth was set in a thin line. Angela frowned.

“Connie, are you okay? Jane—“

“It’s fine, Ma!” Jane cried. “It’s just a precaution!”

“Jane Clementine Rizzoli, if you’ve gotten us into another crazy situation—“

“Ma!”

Her mother fell silent, but folded her arms across her chest and glowered at her.

“Like I said,” Jane sighed. “This investigation involves some pretty powerful people, so I thought it was best to . . . hang out, I guess. While Constance is here, anyway.”

“I swear to God, Jane,” Angela growled, swiftly crossing herself. “If one of you is in danger again—“

Jane signed. “Everything’s fine, Ma. I swear. Just being extra-cautious. You know how I am. I learned it from you, anyway.”

“Well I’m calling your brothers. If you need to be here, maybe they do too.”

“No, Ma,” she said firmly. “You know I’m tougher than both of them anyway. And it’s just a couple days, until I catch these guys.”

They both froze, suddenly aware that there were other people in the room, both of whom looked bewildered and slightly anxious.

“Sorry,” Angela said, patting Constance on the shoulder. “If my Janie says it’s okay, it’s okay. She’ll take care of you.”

Constance nodded, then took a deep breath and smiled. “Your middle name is Clementine?” she said. “How darling.”

“Like the song! That’s what I thought!” Angela cried. Jane rolled her eyes. Angela swatted at her.

“So where are you sleeping, Janie? You can come stay on my pullout—“

“It kinda defeats the purpose of me being here if I’m in the guest house,” Jane said. “Besides, Maura’s couch is nicer than my bed.”

Angela gave a dissatisfied little hmmph.

“It’s fine, Ma.”

Maura was doing that little frown thing that meant she was about to point out something Jane would inevitably prefer remain un-pointed out.

“Yes, Doctor Isles?”

“It’s just that while the couch is very comfortable when used as intended, I’m concerned that the tufting may cause uneven sleep quality, leading to body aches, tiredness, and irritability tomorrow.”

“Achy, tired, and irritable is basically my whole . . . modem operator,” Jane shrugged with a crooked little grin, choosing to gloss over the brush with a neck crick she’d had on this very couch the night before, but that was less about the tufting and more about—

“Modus operandi, Jane,” Maura tutted. “You have to know that one, as it’s commonly referred to as ‘an M.O.’”

Jane winked at her. Hoped neither mother noticed. Hell, she kind of hoped Maura hadn’t noticed, but it was late, she was tired, she was carb-drunk, and she really, really wanted her mother to go back to her own damn house so she could get a little peace.

“I’ll be fine, everyone, okay? Thank you for your concern, I’m very touched, now, can we all please go to bed?”

Angela huffed again, but acquiesced, hugging Constance, then Maura, with an added exaggerated kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well, ladies,” she said, before eyeing Jane. “You too, Miss Contrarian. You better hope you don’t wake up with a stiff neck.”

“I’m starting to hope I just don’t wake up,” Jane muttered. Angela ignored her, wrapping her daughter in a suffocating hug.

“I love you, Jane, and you better not die. Or let Maura die. Or Constance.”

“Or you,” Jane pointed out.

“Eh, me dying I could live with,” Angela shrugged, and Constance let out a musical little giggle, one that sounded almost exactly like Maura’s. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Night, Ma.”

Angela succeeded in pinching Jane’s cheek this time, then darted out into the yard, cackling gleefully.

Once she left, it was as though the abrupt quiet was another person in the room with them. They all stood for a moment, slightly dazed, then Constance softly cleared her throat.

“I’ll be off too, my dears. Maura, thank you again for hosting me so unexpectedly.”

“You’re always welcome here, Mother,” Maura said, and Jane’s heart broke just a little at how tentative they both sounded. Her ma drove her crazy every single day, but the idea of not yelling and laughing and getting mad about how to properly salt the pasta water made her a little bit sad.

She’s got Ma too. In fact, she’s got Ma more than you do at this point.

Yeah, but—

“Goodnight, Mother,” Maura said, seemingly unsure about giving Constance a hug. Jane fake-coughed, nudged her forward, Maura blinking before offering an embrace, which Constance immediately accepted.

“Goodnight, Maura darling,” Constance said, also giving Maura a kiss on the cheek, albeit way more fashionably Continental than Angela’s sloppy mwah.

Jane had never really thought about it, but she definitely preferred the kind that left her wiping at her cheek with her sleeve. Though she’d never, ever, ever admit it.

Constance gave her a little nod. “Goodnight, Jane, and thank you for serving as our able protector, in addition to all the other debts I owe you.”

“Uh, yeah, of course. And it’s no problem at all, don’t worry about it. Goodnight, Constance.”

Constance turned and gracefully ascended the stairs, disappearing around the corner. Jane waited for a few seconds, then flopped onto the couch, groaning loudly.

“We made it,” she croaked.

“I had a lovely time,” Maura said brightly, perching next to her on the sofa. “I find it so fascinating that my mother and yours have developed such an . . . idiosyncratic relationship.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jane muttered, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “But it’s way better than them hating each other, that’s for sure.” She yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “You got any pillows?”

“Jane,” Maura said, her face doing that thing again. “I really think you should—”

“I’m sleeping on the couch, Maur,” Jane said firmly.

“But your back—”

“—will be fine for a night or two. I’ve slept in my patrol car; I can handle a ten-thousand-dollar couch.”

Obviously she couldn’t tell Maura the real reason. Obviously.

“Are you concerned about what Mother will think?” Maura asked guilelessly. “I can’t imagine why she’d possibly—”

“No,” Jane said, just a little too quickly. “It’s not that, okay? It’s . . . uh . . . okay, if something did happen, wouldn’t it be best if I was down here where I can see everything?”

Maura eyed her skeptically. “All right,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll get your toothbrush.”

“I brought mine. From my apartment, I mean.” Jane winced as Maura’s face fell slightly.

Great job, Rizzoli. Way to go.

“Ah.”

“I’m . . .” Jane drifted off. What was she? “I dunno,” she sighed. “I’m tired, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Jane,” Maura said, but it was in that artificially bright tone that meant Jane did have to apologize, if only she knew for what. She knew it was something. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. And it sucked.

You could just tell her you love her.

Shut up

“I’ll get you some bedding,” Maura said, turning swiftly toward the linen closet.

“What the fuck,” Jane breathed once Maura had vanished down the hall. She rubbed at her temples. “What the fuck am I even doing?”

You’re not fucking up the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

So am I supposed to tell her I love her or not?

How should I know?

Jane was contemplating the easiest way to fake her own death to start a new life in Manitoba when Maura came back in, nearly obscured behind a mountain of blankets.

“I can help you put the sheets on.”

“It’s a couch, Maura, it doesn’t need sheets.”

Maura frowned at her again.

Drowning in a river’s a pretty easy one to work. They’ll just never find your body, happens all the time.

“I mean, thank you, Maura, for this wonderful bedding.”

Maura crossed her arms over her chest.

Jane sighed, held out her hands for the pile of blankets, grabbed the thick pillow from Maura’s hand. “Wanna sit?”

Maura’s face softened. “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable tonight,” she said, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Our mothers are quite . . . formidable together.”

“It’s okay. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Yeah, the mom thing is a lot. There’s only so much I like talking about myself, and it’s not at all, so . . .”

“You did an admirable job,” Maura smiled, the kind that made Jane get all wobbly. Sweet and genuine and kind.

Loving.

Please stop it. Just for one minute.

“Thanks,” Jane said, really, really wanting to follow her up the stairs, to climb into her big, warm bed, to fall asleep to the sound of her soft breathing.

“I’m going to go upstairs,” Maura declared a moment later. “I anticipate I’ll be asleep in approximately twenty-six minutes.”

“Gotcha,” Jane said, not entirely getting her.

“If you change your mind before then.”

Jane’s mouth was dry. Her head was swimming, but suddenly her mouth was the Sahara.

“Thanks,” she managed. Maura smiled again, slid off the arm of the couch, crossed to her.

Gave her a hug without needing a push.

“Goodnight, Jane,” she murmured, then pulled back, paused for just a moment before pressing her lips softly, briefly to Jane’s cheek.

Turned and went up the stairs without looking back.

 

Notes:

does this count as the first kiss yea or nay; sound off in the comments

Chapter 8: An Expensive Judas Of A Sofa

Summary:

it's very cute

Jane cracked her eyes open with the first chilly rays of sunlight. She groaned.

Maura had been right about her back. Goddamn it.

She stretched as much as she could while still laying on the couch, then gingerly pushed herself up, muttering curses under her breath as she massaged her shoulders.

At least she thought they were under her breath.

“I won’t say I told you so,” Maura tutted, appearing from the kitchen in her bathrobe, the long blue one. “But—“

“Sounds an awful lot like you’re about to say you told me so,” Jane grumbled.

Achy. Tired. Irritable. An ideal trifecta, as always.

Maura tutted, setting a cup of coffee on the low table, Jane snatching it immediately. “Would you like me to rub out the kinks?”

Jane choked, hot coffee shooting out her nose. “Ow,” she whined. “Maura . . .”

“Is that a yes or a no, Jane?”

“I’m fine. I just need to stretch a little.” She set the coffee down, tried some basics. Was starting to feel a little better when something undoubtedly important went ping in her neck. She yelped, grabbing the sore spot. A tight little knot rose up under her fingers, white-hot and agonizing.

“You do realize how gracious I’m being, right, Jane?” Maura sighed, pushing Jane’s hand aside, gently palpating the spot.

Her fingers were deft, cool, magical.

Magical because of your neck, right?

Yes. Shut up. It’s too early and I pulled a muscle.

Maura murmured as she pressed along Jane’s skin. Jane knew she should probably tell her to stop, that it was nothing, a bag of frozen peas and she’d be fine, but Maura’s fingers were so sure, so careful, so soft and delicate and nice that she forgot for a second why Maura was touching her. Just that she was touching her. Until she touched what felt like a live wire near Jane’s shoulder, causing her to yelp again.

“Hmmm,” Maura frowned. “Can you lift your arm?”

Of course she could lift her arm. Of course she—

She couldn’t lift her arm.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

Maura didn’t chide her about her language. This couldn’t be good.

“It’s most likely muscle strain caused by sleeping in an unnatural position. Though I’d prefer if you got an MRI—“

“It’s a sore muscle, Maur, I’m not going to the hospital because I slept weird.”

To her infinite credit, Maura didn’t tease or gloat. Of course she didn’t, she never did; it was one of the million things about her that Jane loved.

Was that so hard?

Fuck off, for real.

“I just need some Icy Hot or something, it’ll be—“ her assurance turned to a sharp hiss when she tried to shrug. “Fuck.”

“I’ll let Lieutenant Korsak know you’ll be working from home today,” Maura said decisively. Jane tried to leap up in protest, but only managed a strangled groan before she flopped back onto the couch.

“I can’t stay home, Maura. I have a murder to solve.”

“Well,” Maura said thoughtfully. “I can certainly check in with Lieutenant Korsak when I arrive, to see if there’s anything I can bring home for you at lunch. And I’m sure you’ve got some useful work to do on your laptop. Besides, you need muscle rest. And hydration. That means water, Jane.”

Jane stewed for a moment. She hated being laid up, almost as much as she hated the idea of Maura collecting her homework from Korsak because she pulled a muscle sleeping over.

She could just see Korsak’s eyes lighting up before Maura clarified that Jane had slept on the couch.

She better clarify that I slept on the couch.

But it was true, she had a lot of digging to do. She needed to go through all the background the new guys had turned up. Find out more about Blanton Cronie, see if the contract negotiations had gotten any press. And she still had to set up all those interviews. Maybe she could FaceTime the pool boy.

And there was the tiny little problem of her not being able to lift her arm without feeling like she might black out from pain. She couldn’t even get dressed, let alone drive anywhere. Let alone look like a tough, competent homicide detective.

“Why are you even awake?” she demanded, settling for petulance. “It’s like four in the morning.”

“It’s a quarter to six,” Maura said, bustling around the kitchen.

“Since when are you so perky at a quarter to six?”

Jane heard the muted thump of a cabinet being opened and closed. The faucet turning on and off. But no response from Maura.

“Maur?”

Maura moved back into the living room, a glass of water and a couple of pills in her hand. She looked like she’d just remembered she’d forgotten to send her grandma a thank-you note for the five dollars in her birthday card. Or maybe that had been Jane. Every year.

“Mother,” Maura whispered.

“What? I can’t hear you,” Jane teased.

Maura sighed, half a pout. Jane loved that too.

“I can’t sleep when Mother is here,” she said, moving closer so she didn’t have to raise her voice. “I’ve never been able to. Ever since I left home. When she stays, I’m too anxious to sleep deeply. Here,” she said quickly, thrusting the water and pills at Jane. “Naproxen will help relieve the pain. But only take these, no more.”

Jane looked at her incredulously as she took the glass. “She’s not the boogeyman, Maur.”

“I know that, Jane. But you know our relationship. I suppose I’m worried that she’ll want something and I won’t be prepared.”

“She’s not the Queen, either,” Jane said, tossing the pills in her mouth, wincing as she swallowed. “It pains me to say it, but Constance is a little cooler than you give her credit for. I think she’d be fine if you got a good night’s sleep. Call me crazy, but she might even prefer it.”

“I certainly would,” a soft voice came from the staircase. Constance smiled at them. “Good morning.” She noticed Jane’s awkward position, the half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. “Oh dear,” she frowned. “Are you all right, Jane?”

“I knew the tufting would result in irregular spinal support,” Maura fretted, rushing to greet her mother.

Constance was fully dressed, her overnight bag in her hand. Maura noticed it at once.

“Mother?”

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ve had a perfectly lovely time, considering the tragic circumstances of my visit. But you’re both so busy, and I hate to be an imposition.”

Jane wasn’t quite startled enough by Constance’s abrupt departure to miss her you’re both so busy.

You’re both so busy. Like you live here, too.

“But Mother—“

“Constance, I need to be able to—“

Constance waved away their protests. “I, too, have quite a lot of work to do in the city. I’m going to the gallery to meet with Jocasta this morning; of course we must begin planning memorials, retrospectives, all the tributes. Perhaps more pertinently, she was in charge of Kight’s personal papers, including their will. I thought it would be prudent if we were to look at it privately, before its existence is widely remembered or publicized, and communicate any relevant information to you directly, Jane.”

Jane frowned. She didn’t like Constance getting even more involved than she already was, but the idea wasn’t the worst she’d heard.

“Kight was always very clear that their last testament be read by either their primary assistant or myself first, before it moved to the attorneys,” she explained. “The legal executor is aware of this stipulation, which is, I imagine, why he hasn’t been in contact yet.”

“Robert Vanallen?”

“Oh no,” Constance said. “John Gray Heilmann, Kight’s personal lawyer. Vanallen was employed exclusively to oversee any work with the publisher, thank God.”

Jane’s ears perked up. “Thank God? Kight didn’t like him?”

“Didn’t like, didn’t trust. The man’s a brute and a philistine, but Blanton Cronie is another beast entirely, and alas, Kight had to make the undesirable choice to ensure the longevity of their vision.” She let out a bitter little laugh. “How ironic.”

“Okay, I’m going to look into all of this. Do you think you can get me the personal attorney’s information?” Constance nodded. “And the will, can you make sure to read it on camera? Not, like, aloud or anything, but if we have a time-stamped record of the two of you unsealing it, that could come in handy later.”

“Should any unscrupulous persons attest we somehow altered its contents.”

“Uh,” Jane said. “Yeah, that.”

Maura had been standing silently, her fingers knit together, biting her lip. “But why do you have your bag?” she asked softly, brow dark with worry, like it was somehow her fault.

Her distressed expression made Jane’s own demeanor cool a little. As many points as Constance had been earning lately, Jane was reminded once again that she was starting from a pretty deep deficit.

“I . . .” Constance faltered, took a steadying breath. “I’m so upset that I’ve brought danger into your life,” she said, grasping Maura’s hand. Her voice was small, vulnerable. It kind of freaked Jane out. “Maura, darling, you may not believe me yet, but as your mother, all I want is for you to be safe. Safe and happy. I truly adore spending time with you, but not when my presence endangers you and the people you . . . care about,” she finished, her eyes flicking to Jane.

“But that’s why you’re here,” Maura said, not noticing the look, or the way Jane quickly looked away in response. “So we can protect you.”

“Protecting me could mean something . . . unimaginable happening to you, or to Jane, or Angela. If I were somehow responsible for that, I . . I don’t know . . .” her voice cracked, her eyes bright with tears.

Jane was definitely freaked out. But she respected Constance’s reasoning; she’d seen Maura too close to the thing she couldn’t even name in her head too many times herself. If it were Jane who needed protecting, her first ironclad demand would be keeping Maura as far away as possible, with protection of her own.

You did plan on staying a few days already. And you said it yourself, someone has to protect Maura. And you like doing that already, so, win-win?

“My suite at the Fairmont is available, so I’ll be staying there,” Constance said, clearing her throat. “For as long as I’m wanted or required. Not that I don’t trust Jane’s prowess as a defender, but a large, well-known hotel does seem like quite a secure option. And of course we’ll see each other as often as you can bear my company.” She gave Maura a small, hopeful smile.

Maura, too, had tears in her eyes. Jane was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation; not even six-thirty in the morning and she was contorted in agony on an expensive Judas of a sofa, the two Isles women standing before her, one in a bathrobe and the other in a traveling suit, both of them on the verge of crying.

“Of course, Mother,” she whispered. “I’m sorry if I—“

“Now, now, Maura dear,” Constance said briskly. “No apologizing. But please apologize to Angela for me. Of course I’ll be delighted to see her again, as well. And won’t it be nice to have only one mother rattling around the place? I’m sure you two will have a much better time by yourselves.”

That last part was just for Jane. She knew it. Wanted to run screaming into the too-early morning, if only she could run. Or scream.

That’s a point to Connie, right?

“I—“ Jane stammered when she realized both women were looking at her expectantly, though their expectations were wildly different.

“You’re staying, aren’t you, Jane?” Constance asked, and her feigned innocence was pure Angela. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, the two of them getting so cozy.

“Of course,” Maura answered for her. “You certainly can’t go anywhere today, and Mother is right, I would feel better if you were here. Safer,” she corrected hastily. “Not that I’m anticipating any danger,” she said, glancing at Constance, “but it does make the most sense, both logically and practically.”

“There you have it!” Constance said brightly. “All sorted. I’ll just call the car; Maura, I’m in my usual suite; perhaps we can have dinner early next week? Jane, I’ll contact you regarding Kight’s documents this afternoon.”

“That sounds great, thank you. And if you find anything that looks like it could cause more, uh, problems, we’ll talk about some increased security options. Deal?”

“Deal,” Constance smiled, holding her hand out. Jane grasped it gingerly, both to coddle her neck and because she realized she’d never shaken Constance’s hand before and didn’t quite know what to expect.

To her surprise, Constance’s grip was firm, confident. She gave Jane one decisive shake.

“All right,” she said, brushing at the hems of her sleeves. “Maura, would you mind terribly calling over to the Foundation and having Jackie pick me up a few things until I can have my luggage sent down from the retreat? She’ll know what to get.”

Jane wanted to ask Constance why she couldn’t call Jackie herself, but realized from the eager look on Maura’s face that this was how they demonstrated affection. She supposed it wasn’t all that different from her ma calling her to tell her to call Frankie to find out if he was coming to Sunday dinner. A useless little task that meant you were important, reliable, even if the request was completely unnecessary.

“Of course, Mother. Shall I make sure the hotel has some bottles of the Domaine d’Auvenay Grand Cru available in your suite?”

“That would be so kind,” Constance smiled.

Jane didn’t get it. Well, she got it. But she also absolutely did not get it. But Maura seemed happy, so . . . cool?

Constance’s phone chimed. “Ah, there’s the car. Thank you again for this impromptu visit, sweetheart.” She gave Maura a hesitant little hug; Jane gave her a point for initiating the contact. “And thank you for everything you’re doing for Kight. Both of you.” She looked at Jane.

Jane gave her a weak smile, the painkillers not quite living up to their name yet.

“Maura, I know you’ll take good care of Jane,” Constance said, giving her a light air kiss on the cheek. “Keep our girl in fighting shape.”

Jane wanted to crumble into the couch cushions like a stale cookie. “Thanks,” she said, not sure herself if she sounded offended or embarrassingly pleased. “But I’m really—“ she tried to stand, her back shrieking at her. She felt a hot prickle of nausea, felt herself go wobbly.

Before she could slump back to the sofa, Maura was at her side, catching her waist, gently lowering her down.

“Are you all right?” Her face was all tender concern. “Do you feel nauseous?”

“A little,” Jane mumbled, blushing furiously.

Great.

“You may have pinched a nerve,” Maura frowned, running her fingertips along Jane’s neck again. “You’ll absolutely need to rest, preferably lying down.”

Constance cleared her throat lightly.

“‘S fine,” Jane mumbled. “Say goodbye to your mom.”

Maura frowned again. “Don’t move.”

“Not a problem,” she joked weakly. Closed her eyes as Maura and Constance moved toward the door, listened to their soft murmuring, the smooth click of the door opening and closing, the heavy thunk of the deadbolt, tried to shift just a tiny bit, so she didn’t have that corner of the cushion poking at her—

“Fucking hell,” she yelped. Her neck and shoulder felt like they were on fire.

“Jane!” Maura cried, rushing back over to her. “I told you not to move!”

“Well, I moved,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Is the naproxen working at all?”

“Does it look like it’s working?” She grimaced, though not from the pain. “Sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. But we do need to get you up the stairs and into an actual bed.”

The idea of an actual bed was tempting, but the idea of moving made her brain sound the alarm.

“There’s no way you’re staying on that couch. You need rest, alternating ice and heat, and ideally a hot bath.” She held up her hand as Jane started to open her mouth. “And since I know you’ll be non-compliant, not to mention unable to adequately care for yourself until your muscles sufficiently relax to encourage your nerve to release, I’m afraid you’ll have a babysitter while I’m at work.”

“No, Maura, come on!” she whined. “I’ll be good, I swear.”

“Upstairs, Jane.” She held out her hands expectantly.

Jane sighed theatrically, then again, sincerely, as she tried to figure out the best way to stand up.

Just give it the ol’ one-two-three, Rizzoli, don’t be a baby.

She took a deep breath. “Okay, one, two—“

Before she got to three, she was standing, her good arm draped around Maura’s shoulders.

“How do I always forget you’re so freakishly strong?”

“It’s not freakish, Jane,” she scolded. “It’s yoga. Which we will be doing this evening; there are several poses that will be quite beneficial for your injury.”

Jane hated yoga.

But do you hate Maura in her yoga clothes? 

Shut up.

She groaned a little as they went up the stairs, each step sending a painful twinge up her neck. At the top she shifted to the left; was surprised when Maura guided her the other way, into her own bedroom.

“Are you . . . uh, sure?” Jane mumbled as Maura led her to the bed, still made, only a small indentation in the fluffy duvet from where Maura had lain awake all night.

“Of course,” Maura said easily. “The mattress in the guest room is fine, but this one is better. And you won’t have to go so far to get to the bathroom.”

Everything Maura said was factual, but it wasn’t necessarily the truth. Jane scanned her chest—for hives—but Maura’s skin remained undisturbed, if only on a technicality.

Undisturbed, and smooth, and soft, and—

Shut the—

“Can you stand on your own while I turn down the bed?”

Jane wanted to scoff, but she wasn’t honestly sure.

“Just lean against the wall, it’ll only be a second. Are your pajamas comfortable?”

Jane glanced down at her usual tank top and the loose pants she’d worn since she’d slept in the living room. “Just fine.”

What else was she supposed to say? No, I want you to help me change?

She felt the blush creeping up her stiff neck.

“All right,” Maura said, saving Jane from her own imagination. “Let’s get you into bed.” She carefully supported Jane’s waist again, helping her slowly onto the bed. “I’ll going to support your back as you lay down; the head is significantly heavier than it seems.”

As Maura lowered her, she had a brief, mortifying flash of Maura doing exactly this but for a whole different reason.

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, hoping the blush had stopped its journey north, but not betting on it. Maybe Maura would just think it was from the pinched nerve, somehow.

Once she was settled in the bed, she breathed a sigh of relief. It had definitely been worth the journey up the stairs. She felt like she was melting into the mattress. Maybe the Aleve was finally starting to work.

“Better?” Maura asked, her tone soft and sweet as she pulled the blankets up.

You have no idea, she thought as Maura fussed with the bedding, letting her hand glance across Jane’s collarbone. “Much, she said, smiling gratefully. “Thanks, Maura. How lucky am I to have a doctor for a best friend, huh?”

Maybe it was the pain mixed with the relief mixed with how she’d only gotten six hours of sleep after a maternal marathon, but she swore the look on Maura’s face said we could be more than that. It only lasted a second, so brief Jane might have imagined it, if not for how quickly Maura spun away, heading toward her closet.

“I have to get ready for work,” she said. “Would it disturb you too much if I took a quick shower?”

The hell it would.

“It’s your house,” she said, her voice carefully neutral, practically disinterested. And anyway, the bed was just as comfortable as it always was, and it was so warm and soft, and she really was so tired, and she did need to rest her muscles, so . . .

The next thing she knew, Maura was bent over her, whispering her name. Her hair was neatly pinned back, her skin smelled clean and sweet. Jane was only half-awake, vaguely aware of wanting her to stay right there forever, so she could look at her and feel the warmth of her skin and breathe in that sweet scent for the rest of her life.

“Mmmph?” she said instead.

“I’m going to work now,” Maura murmured. “There’s water on the nightstand, please drink it all. I need you to scoot up for me so I can put this heating pad under your shoulder, it’ll turn off automatically in 30 minutes. Your mother is downstairs—“

Jane grumbled as she shifted, Maura slipping the pad into place.

“—under strict instructions not to disturb you until at least eleven. If you need her, your phone is here.”

“You’re the best,” she mumbled groggily. It was so dreamy, this whole moment; was she dreaming? Maura was out-of-focus, hazy, her eyes gold and green, she smelled so nice, faint perfume but mostly the smell of her clean skin, her cheek so close it would be nothing to lean up and kiss it, just to see how soft it was.

Instead, Maura pulled back. Jane was vaguely aware that this was probably good, even though it had felt so perfect, her being so close, so tender. Of course, that was why; even half-asleep and in dull, throbbing discomfort, she could manage to be so scared of how perfect Maura was, how perfect she made Jane feel, that every missed opportunity—opportunity? when did it become an opportunity?—felt more like a relief.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Maura said quietly. “Get some rest, please.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jane murmured, nearly there already. So near that she almost missed Maura’s cool hand on her forehead, smoothing along her temples, the soft pressure lulling her back to sleep.

What she did miss, almost certainly, was Maura bending down to press a swift kiss to the top of her head before slipping quietly out of the dark room.

Later, she’d be sure that part had been a dream.

 

 

Notes:

1. what happened to Papa Isles? I don't really care, Constance doesn't really care, good enough
2. just gonna keep making Jane's internal narrator less and less reliable

Chapter 9: An Afternoon Cannoli To Keep Your Strength Up

Summary:

more snoozy fluff but we're going somewhere I promise

When her eyes cracked open again at the sound of the bedroom door opening, Jane winced, steeled herself for her mother’s parade of I-told-you-sos and several minutes of anxious puttering and prodding.

Instead, she saw Maura’s slight frame duck quickly into her closet, and felt a swell of relief.

“Hey,” she called, her voice rough and crackling. She tried to sit up, but was immediately reminded of why she was where she was. “Ow.”

“Is it any better?” Maura asked softly, rushing to her side.

“About the same,” Jane muttered. “But I feel more human, thanks for calling in for me.”

“Lieutenant Korsak sends his best wishes for your speedy recovery and says he’ll see you on Monday,” Maura said. “He sent a few things home, and he emailed about some interviews that have been set up for you next week.”

Jane offered a weak thumbs-up as Maura disappeared back into her closet.

“I hope your mother didn’t disturb you,” she called, her voice muffled by couture. “I told her it was fine for her to go in to work.”

“But who’s gonna take care of me?” Jane whined pathetically. She tried to sound jokey and melodramatic but missed; rolled her eyes at herself. She had always been terrible at being sick. Shot in the line of duty? No big deal, put me back in, Coach. A seasonal cold? Suddenly she was a helpless infant, fussy and miserable. She knew it, hated it, but she couldn’t help it.

“I am,” Maura said, re-emerging in a tank top under a long, soft cardigan and flowing drawstring pants. “I was at work and deduced that my professional performance was being affected by my lack of sleep. I didn’t have a lot on my schedule, and it’s Friday, so I felt it most beneficial to take the rest of the day off to catch up on rest. Did you know it’s actually possible to recover a sleep deficit as long as the lost hours are—“

“The more talking the bigger the deficit,” Jane mumbled.

Maura sighed. “Can you sit up? I’d like to examine the area.”

I bet—

No. Stop it.

“I’ll try,” she said. Took a deep breath, pushed herself up with her good arm, wincing as she tweaked her neck a little, but she managed it.

Maura tutted again. Jane sighed dramatically, but secretly loved it. She liked to think of herself as tough, capable, independent, but being fussed over always made her feel better. Whether it was her Ma insisting she have an afternoon cannoli—to keep her strength up, she said—while they watched The Price is Right together, Jane swaddled like a newborn baby on the couch, a box of tissues wedged next to her, the thermometer eternally poking out of her mouth, or Maura, now, flitting around the room, raising the blinds, adjusting Jane’s pillows, offering a meaningful glance at the untouched glass of water on the bedside table before sitting lightly on the bed next to her, running her cool fingers along Jane’s neck, Jane trying really, really hard not to lean into the touch.

“Ow,” she said softly as Maura’s fingertips grazed over the sore spot. “What time is it?”

“It’s eleven-thirty,” Maura murmured, frowning as Jane winced again. “You should be awake for a while so you don’t disrupt your sleep cycle too much. And this muscle tension hasn’t reduced as significantly as I’d like; you need a hot bath.”

“Don’t wanna take a bath,” Jane grumbled petulantly. Six years old. Being sick always made her six years old.

“Doctor’s orders, Jane.“

Jane grumbled again. It wasn’t the bath, though she didn’t really love a bath, even though Maura’s tub was huge and spotless and had jets and oils and salts and a massaging neck pillow. And it wasn’t the doctor’s orders; that part made her feel a little fluttery, despite the ache in her neck. She just hated liking being coddled. That was it.

It’s definitely not about being naked in her bathroom when she’s just on the other side of the door. Definitely not that.

 She shivered involuntarily. Maura dropped her hand, and she shivered at the abrupt loss of contact, too.

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

She could never hurt you.

“Uh,” Jane said. “No. Not at all.”

Maura gave her a curious look. “I’ll start your bath. Do you need help taking your clothes off?”

This time she couldn’t suppress the blush as it bloomed hot over her whole body all at once. “No,” she said quickly, too loud. “I got it.”

“All right,” Maura said, still eyeing her in that odd little way. “I’ll leave some fresh pajamas for you.”

 She vanished into the bathroom. Jane heard the faint squeak of the faucet, the muted roar of water filling the bathtub. Caught the warm scent of lavender and peppermint.

“Time to get up,” Maura said brightly as she re-emerged. Jane swung her legs over the side of the bed, tentatively pushed herself to a standing position.

No nausea. That was good, right? And she didn’t feel like she was going to fall over, just that if she didn’t hold her head in the exact right spot she might shatter like glass. No problem.

“Okay?” Maura asked, at her side again, ready to support her. Jane felt like swooning, but not from the pain.

“Okay,” she said, giving her a crooked grin.

“I want you to do some light stretching before you get into the tub. I’ll be right back, I’m going to make you some tea.”

And Jane was alone again, really, really hoping she could actually get her shirt off by herself. At least she’d foregone the sports bra, saved herself cutting it in half. With her teeth, if necessary.

She tried a few stretches, babying her neck. Made an effort to do yoga breathing—which we’ll be doing tonight—so she didn’t make it worse. She knew any aggravation of her injury would result in Maura insisting on taking her for an MRI, and the embarrassment would be more than she could handle.

She tried rotating her shoulder a few times, wincing and hissing through her teeth. Was it better? It had to be better, right? Maybe she wouldn’t have to—

“Go on. Get in.” Maura was back, two steaming teacups in her hand. Jane was absurdly grateful that she’d made two; since her detective brain had started waking up, she kept reminding herself her that she was the one who was supposed to be doing the protecting, here. Two cups of tea meant they both required a little care, not just her.

Jane hobbled into the bathroom, Maura close behind. She set the teacup on the little ledge next to the bathtub; both warm, steaming, fragrant.

“Bubbles?!” Jane exclaimed excitedly, her eyes lighting up at the piles of foam floating placidly on the surface.

Maura smiled. “I thought you might need a little extra incentive.”

God I love you.

“Just let me get you something to change into,” Maura said, her voice suddenly a little strained, like she’d heard Jane’s thoughts.

She can’t hear them, right? Of course not. Just because you have a deep connection doesn’t mean telepathy is suddenly real. At least it better not be, huh?

 Once the door was shut and Jane had wrangled her clothes off, she sank into the water, letting out an involuntary sigh of relief as she felt the strain in her neck start to relax almost immediately.

Maura was right. Again. She sighed as she closed her eyes, let herself sink up to her chin.

All she wants to do is take care of you. And all you want to do is take care of her. Where’s the problem?

 “The problem is she doesn’t like me like that,” she mumbled, slipping under the water, her long-simmering anxiety finally bubbling up to the surface with a soft pop.

She drew you a bubble bath after she called out of work early to watch over you.

 “She’s a ridiculously nice person. Also she also needed a nap because she made herself crazy over her mother being here.”

She could’ve gone to bed early.

 “She’s just tired. She stayed up all night. Leave me alone.”

“Jane?” Maura’s voice through the door sounded worried. “Is everything all right in there? Do you need help?”

“I’m fine!” she yelped, grimacing as she splashed water onto the floor. “Sorry, just . . . talking to myself.”

“Hmm. Well, studies have shown that talking to yourself out loud can—”

“Almost done,” she interrupted loudly. “Didn’t you need to take a nap?”

Maura was silent for a moment.

Busted.

“I’m waiting until you’re done, so I know you’ve gotten in and out of the tub safely. Bathtub-related accidents—”

“—are probably a huge problem for a lot of people, yeah, but I promise I know how to get out of a bath.”

“I’d like to wash my face as well,” Maura said, and Jane was almost positive she sounded just the tiniest bit smug. Stupid last word.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Please don’t rush, I just wanted to check on you.”


“It’s fine,” Jane called, flipping the drain plug with her big toe. “I’m getting all pruny anyway.”

She eased out of the bathtub—being extra-careful, not wanting to give Maura the satisfaction—and wrapped one of the thick, fluffy towels around herself, pulling it to her nose for just a second. Clean, sort of sweet. Like Maura. Like home.

“I made it out in one piece, Doctor,” she called, only a little bit snarky. “Just need to get dressed.”

She was pulling on the tank top—soft, luxurious, like the one she’d worn the other night, but this one a dark charcoal gray—when she realized she could move her arm. Sort of. Better, anyway. It was definitely easier to put this one on than it had been to take the other one off.

She slipped on the shorts she found folded neatly with the tank top, a pair of long drawstring pants, like the ones Maura had on. Everything she was wearing was what Maura had on, except it was a little more her. Remembered some joke she’d heard about lesbians back when she was in Vice—one of the more appropriate ones, anyway—something about dressing the same.

At least it’s way too late for the U-Haul thing.

Shut up.

She ruffled her hair, shrugging as it did whatever it wanted, sloshed her damp towel through the puddle on the floor, hoped it’d be fine if she just hung it back on the hook. Clicked the door open, Maura sitting placidly on the bed, Jane’s side—your side??—rumpled as she’d left it, Maura’s half turned down neatly.

“Come on,” she said, patting the mattress. “Keep me company.”

Jane gulped.

“I thought you needed to sleep and I needed to stay awake,” she said, half-anxious already. Sleeping was one thing, but being all cuddled and cozy and close and awake was another thing altogether, now that it was love-love.

“We both need to rest. You should stay awake, but I don’t necessarily need to sleep, I just need to lie down. Though it’s very likely I’ll drift off—“ her words were punctuated by an abrupt yawn—“which I hope you won’t take personally.”

“Of course not,” Jane mumbled, distracted by the way Maura’s chest lifted as she yawned, the way her head tipped back, exposing her throat. She crossed over to the bed, easing herself in again.

“Did the bath help?’ Maura yawned again. “With your neck?”

“Yeah,” Jane said, trying to stifle a yawn of her own. “It feels a lot better.”

“Good.” Maura pushed herself up, headed toward the bathroom, but didn’t shut the door. She tugged her smooth ponytail down, shaking her hair out in front of the mirror. “It may just be a moderate strain of your lavicular scapulae.”

“Not my lavender spatula,” Jane gasped in mock horror.

“Your shoulder muscle, Jane,” Maura shook her head with good-natured exasperation. “If you’d pinched a nerve, you’d likely still be feeling significant pain and have a much more restricted range of motion.”

Jane stared as Maura swept all her golden hair up into a loose knot, slipped on a headband, methodically washed her face. Sure, sometimes Maura’s habits looked the tiniest bit neurotic, at least they had to Jane, at first, but once she’d figured out the basic rituals, she found herself calmed by their consistency, how smooth and efficient Maura was.

You’re also staring at Maura’s face. That doesn’t hurt.

I mean, obviously. Try harder.

 Once Maura had patted her skin dry and tugged off her headband, she pulled the loose knot free, letting her hair spill around her shoulders.

Jane gulped again.

Maura shrugged off her cardigan, hanging it neatly just inside her closet. Yawned again and padded to the bed, slipping under the covers.

“You’re sure your neck is feeling better?” she asked, laying on her side, facing Jane. Her eyes were soft and sleepy, her hair threatening to spill in front of them. 

“Yeah,” Jane said, mirroring her pose, though she had to hold her head up to keep her neck from protesting. “Probably just my lavender spatula.”

Maura sighed. “I don’t know why you refuse to make a serious attempt at repeating words, Jane. They’re hardly difficult most of the time, and I know you know most of them anyway.”

Jane gave a half-shrug. “Just to bother you, I guess. I’m sorry if it really bothers you; I can stop. I can try to stop,” she amended.

“It used to really bother me,” Maura said, letting her eyelids droop. “I was teased so often as a child. But then I realized your teasing wasn’t unkind, rather a sort of non-violent hazing ritual.”

“I’m not a fraternity, Maur,” Jane scowled. “You’re supposed to tease the people you—uh, like,” she caught herself just in time. “Shows you care.”

“You must care about me a lot, then,” Maura murmured, her voice already foggy and far away. The lock of hair that had been threatening to fall gave way as Maura shifted slightly.

Jane couldn’t stop herself from reaching out and smoothing it away, letting her fingertips brush over the delicate shell of Maura’s ear as she gently tucked it in place.

“Mmmm,” Maura hummed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jane whispered. “Go to sleep.”

“Wake me in ninety-seven minutes,” Maura mumbled, her breath slow and even.

“Ninety-seven minutes,” Jane repeated softly. “You got it.”

When she woke Maura up, she’d ask why exactly ninety-seven. But until then, she’d be perfectly happy to count each one.

 

---

 

Ninety-seven minutes later, Jane peered at Maura, who was sound asleep next to her.

She’d spent the last hour and a half scrolling through her phone—some forensics reports, an update on background from one of the new guys, three interviews scheduled for early next week, starting with Robert Vanallen, Sheridan’s contract attorney for Blanton Cronie, Monday at 8am sharp.

Like he was expecting her. He probably was, though if he was planning to help or hinder, she’d have to wait and see.

She wanted to be sitting at a table, using a real computer. She was getting a little antsy with all the laying around, but as she watched Maura breathe slowly next to her, she decided it could be a lot worse.

She was on the verge of waking her when Maura shifted, mumbled, rolled over.

“Time to wake up,” Jane said. “Sorry, it’s been almost a hundred minutes.”

“My dream was more involved than I’d expected,” Maura mumbled, swiping ineffectively at the hair in her face.

Jane looked at her incredulously for a moment, then sighed, shook her head. “You even schedule your dreams?”

“It’s easy,” Maura said, sitting up with a slight groan. “The average time to enter a REM cycle is approximately ninety minutes, with the first period of REM sleep lasting between four and six minutes. Dreams get longer the longer you sleep.”

“Huh,” Jane said. “So, ninety-seven minutes.”

“The ideal length of time for a short restorative sleep, at least in regards to brain function. I did a sleep study while I was in medical school, so I’d have a better sense of when one might be appropriate for a patient. The results were fascinating.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“I was in France,” Maura said without prelude. Jane blinked. “In my dream. It was a version of my boarding school, though I was an adult. You were there,” she added, yawning behind her hand.

“Did I speak French?” Jane propped her head up on her hand.

“Possibly. I have difficulty discerning between languages when I dream. We were walking in the arbor behind the dormitories and it started to snow.”

Jane sat up too, her neck still tender. She rubbed at it gingerly. “Sounds nice.”

“It was, at first. But then I looked over and you were gone, and it was suddenly dark, and the snow was very deep. I couldn’t find you.” Her voice was laced with sadness, just a hint of fear. Jane couldn’t help reaching out and covering Maura’s hand with her own. “Then I looked up at the windows, and the light in my old room was on, and I knew it was you, but I could see that the doors were frozen shut.”

“I’m sorry I left you in the snow,” Jane said, a little uncertain. She understood bad dreams, waking up irrationally angry or frightened, but she couldn’t help feeling oddly culpable anyway.

“I don’t think you did,” Maura said, her tone oblique. “I think you waited for me as long as you could.”

Jane felt a little wave of her own sadness, pushed along by an even bigger wave of guilt. She wasn’t a genius, but in this case, it didn’t take a genius to understand a genius’s dreams. But the thing she didn’t understand is why it hadn’t been the other way around. Why it wasn’t her trapped in the snow.

“I promise I’ll never abandon you in a blizzard,” she said, putting her hand over her heart, trying to lighten the mood.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Maura smiled, but it looked . . . wistful?

Does it?

You could help me out here, you know.

 “Have you learned anything interesting about the case?” Maura asked, her tone abruptly back to its usual brightness. She grabbed her cardigan from its hook in the closet, sat cross-legged on the bed. She looked rosy, warm, her eyes clear and alert.

“Uh, yeah. I think so. Korsak sent over some forensics results from the scene, maybe a hit on one of the vacuum cleaners. And I have to meet with the attorney on Monday, 8am sharp.” She rolled her eyes. “Assholes.”

“Language,” Maura said automatically.

Jane rolled her eyes again. “So what will you do with the rest of your day, Dr. Isles?”

“First,” she said, “lunch.”

 

 

Notes:

my fav thing about writing Maura Isles is getting to include lots of trivia, which my brain possesses an endless capacity for

Chapter 10: Bisnonna Lidia's Spicy Chicken Soup

Summary:

finally figured out how to scooch things along!!! this one has plot AND fluff AND moms

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, save a pre-dinner visit from Angela, demanding to know how Jane was feeling, if she’d been obeying Maura’s instructions, if Constance was all right, how terrible all this was, how she was disappointed she’d left but understood why, as a mother, she had to. She’d squeezed both of them tightly, pinched their cheeks, politely refused a glass of wine, relented when Maura had moved to put the glass away. To her credit she’d departed soon after, though not before a stern reminder about not missing Sunday dinner, waving off Jane’s grumble that Sunday dinner would be happening in the room they were currently standing in.

Constance hadn’t called her yet about Sheridan’s will, and Jane was getting just the tiniest bit anxious. Was about to pull up her number when a text pinged through.

       Nothing terribly unexpected in the will, though BC is bound to be disappointed. At dinner with friends of K’s; we shall discuss more soon.

And then, a second later,

       Angela has invited me to dinner on Sunday, I do hope that’s all right.

Jane smiled while rolling her eyes. Her cool formality, even via text message, was both aggravating and kind of charming, the more she got used to it. It seemed more and more like Maura had learned American English as a second language after whatever refined, idiosyncratic dialect her mother spoke, the way she sometimes fell into Constance’s elaborate cadences.

But she was glad Constance would be coming to dinner; it was good cover for sharing any new information. More than that, her first instinct had been to think yeah, obviously, it’s family dinner. Like Constance already belonged, somehow. Like they were all a family, weird and neurotic and loud and inexplicably comfortable with each other. It was kind of gross, how sappy it was, but she was startled by how much she found herself wanting it. Wanting this family, even Constance, mostly because it gave Maura the family she’d always longed for. Sure, she had Jane and Ma and Frankie—

NOT Tommy—

—and not Tommy, but her own mother being included was clearly something that thrilled her, which thrilled Jane.

       Of course, glad you’re coming. I’ll make sure Ma goes easy on the butter. Thanks for checking in, glad everything’s ok.

“Was that Mother?” Maura asked as the text whooshed away. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Jane said, standing up from the couch, eyeing it suspiciously as she did so. “She said there’s nothing weird about the will, but Blanton Cronie will be disappointed.”

“Hmm,” Maura murmured, clearing away their teacups. It was well after dark, and Maura had been stifling her yawns for the past several minutes. “Perhaps Kight was aware of their condition after all,” she said, stretching her arms over her head as she returned, Jane turning quickly away as her breasts swelled against her tank top, exposing the little teaspoon of skin above her waistband. They’d done some yoga, just a little, and Jane was annoyed it made her neck feel better, and secretly, shamefully disappointed Maura hadn’t changed into tighter pants.

“Maybe,” Jane said, catching Maura’s yawn. “She’s coming to dinner on Sunday, we’ll talk about it then.”

Maura blanched. “She’s coming to dinner on Sunday?”

Jane sighed. “Yeah, of course she is.” Where the of course came from she wasn’t quite sure, but suspected it was a lifetime of being bent to her mother’s will, so she was never surprised when it happened to someone else. “It’s fine, Ma will be there, and Frankie, and I dunno, whoever else she can lure into coming. And you said you wanted to spend more time with her anyway.”

“I know,” Maura said, closing her eyes and breathing through her nose. “I just have an innate reactive response; I understand it’s irrational, but—”

“I’ve spent time with Constance, I think it’s perfectly rational,” Jane deadpanned. Maura frowned. “I’m kidding, Maur. Mostly.”

“It seems as though the two of you are getting along rather well,” Maura ventured. “It’s . . . a relief, to be honest.”

“Yeah, she’s not so bad any more. I gotta give her credit for trying, you know? I mean, I don’t have to. But she’s your mom, so I do.”

Maura smiled at her, drowsy and sweet. “Thank you, Jane. That means a lot to me.”

Jane shrugged, since it was easier than finding more words.

“I’m very tired,” Maura yawned again. “I’m going to bed, are you going to stay up?”

“Nah,” Jane shook her head. “Gotta rest the muscles, right?”

“Right,” Maura nodded sleepily. “Though I’m very pleased by how significantly it’s improved from this morning.” She stood at the bottom of the stairs, like she was waiting. For Jane. Who followed her, because, well, Maura was waiting, and that seemed like the obvious thing to do.

At the top of the stairs, she hesitated. Last time she’d gone left and Maura had tugged her to the right. But that was because she was injured, and the mattress was better—which Jane wasn’t entirely sure was true, or at least, not enough to notice—but she was mostly fine now, so she could just as easily sleep in the—

“Go brush your teeth,” Maura said, catching her elbow lightly, directing her toward the master bedroom. “I’ll be right in.”

“Uh,” Jane stammered, “yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t any logical, practical reason for Jane to sleep in Maura’s bed tonight, not really. But it just seemed to be . . . . correct. Expected. What Maura wanted.

You want it too. To sleep next to her just because you want to. Because she wants you to.

 Jane couldn’t help her grin as she crossed to the bathroom, shut the door behind her with a satisfying, familiar click.

 

 

---

 

 

Saturday passed quickly in a haze of documents, reports, and technical jargon Jane wished Maura was around to explain.

She’d gone back to her apartment, ostensibly to get some clean clothes, even though she hadn’t actually ended up pulling anything from her duffel bag during her stay. She’d promised Maura she’d be fine, that she didn’t have to reschedule her salon appointment, that she could use the five hours to actually try to get some work done on the case. Maura had encouraged her to stay at the house, but Jane had begged off.

It was easier to work when not everything smelled like Maura.

So she’d spent the day at her chilly, slightly-stale apartment absorbing information, trying to develop a fuller picture. The new guys had ended up getting a pretty solid interview from the pool boy who’d found the body—Randall Tyler—and his boyfriend, the financier. She’d listened to their recorded conversation, remaining convinced that they hadn’t had anything to do with the murder.

Tyler had sobbed when talking about Sheridan, how Sheridan had given him his first modeling job, how he owed them everything, including an introduction to his boyfriend of nearly a decade. Claimed he called his boyfriend’s sister-in-law at the Post because she’d known Sheridan too, which made Jane roll her eyes, but in the scheme of things, it had turned out to be pretty harmless.

The boyfriend, Myron Handel, had been more reserved, but it was clear that he’d been shocked and saddened by the death. Had immediately frozen Sheridan’s trust and other accounts, had set up alerts if anyone tried to access them. Neither of them had any firm opinions on who might have done it, but Jane wanted to talk to them again herself anyway; give it a few days, let things percolate in case something bubbled to the surface.

Jane found herself also paying close attention to how the new guys conducted the interview, wincing a few times at a clumsy question or awkward attempt to steer the conversation, but overall, she wasn’t unimpressed. They’d both been respectful of the subjects, one of them clearly taking the good-cop role, his compassion audible and sincere. He’d seemed to absorb Sheridan’s identity easily, never slipping up on the pronouns. It had become a good litmus test, she decided, regardless of anyone’s personal feelings.

The forensics reports were denser, more frustrating. The techs had found two likely-human hairs in one of the vacuum cleaner canisters, clearly distinct from Sheridan’s, though more thorough testing wouldn’t happen for at least a week. At least they had been found in the vacuum that matched the brush marks at the scene, making it more likely that the hairs could be connected to the murder.

Blood-splatter analysis suggested Sheridan had been initially attacked on the stairs, probably from behind. The report gave credence to the sword theory, since the blood was found in long, neat swoops, the edges of the trails clean and rounded. Sheridan had been pushed up the stairs, and died in their bedroom.

Jane frowned.

If someone was pushing a heavily-bleeding person up the stairs, how could they possibly have avoided getting blood all over themselves? And, maybe more importantly, how could they have avoided stepping in it on the way up?

She flicked through the scene photos, squinting at the stairs. It struck her that the blood was somehow too neat, almost artful, as though the killer had cleaned up any smears, anything untidy. It was looking more and more likely that the killer had worn some sort of protective suit, but there were no footprints, from Sheridan or the killer. Just those long, arcing threads of blood.

She shivered. Glanced at the clock. Nearly 8pm.

She looked at her phone; a missed call from her mother, one from Frankie—both probably about Sunday dinner—and two texts from Maura, sent eight minutes apart.

       I hope your day has been productive.

       Are you coming back home tonight?

 Jane swallowed hard as the words swam in front of her. Are you coming back home tonight?

Are you coming home?

 She sat at her creaky little desk for a few beats, staring at her phone. Of course she was going back; she still had to protect Maura, after all, that was the idea, anyway. But the other idea, of going home, made her feel hot and fuzzy, the blood in her veins a little too thick.

Go on, Rizzoli. Go home tonight.

When she got back, Maura gave her the kind of smile that always meant she’d made the right choice. And when she got to the top of the stairs when it was time to go to sleep, she didn’t even hesitate.

 

 

---

 

 

Waking up next to Maura was just as nice as it ever was; maybe nicer because it wasn’t at the mercy of an alarm clock.

The morning was spent cleaning, which Jane grumbled her way through, since everything was always clean already, and nobody would notice the corner of the baseboard had a tiny bit of dust on it.

“You just noticed,” Maura pointed out, jabbing at the corner with a damp cloth.

“Yeah, well,” Jane sighed, “I’m a detective, it’s my job to notice everything.”

“And I’m a medical examiner, and my mother is an artist, and your mother is . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “The worst of them all. But you know none of us would ever say anything, right?”

Maura stared at her in horror. “That just means there’s something wrong that everyone is noticing and not telling me about,” she squeaked. “How dare you, Jane.”

“Don’t you pay someone to do this?” she muttered, changing the subject.

“Yes, but don’t you find satisfaction in a job well done?” Maura grunted cheerfully as she swabbed at a stubborn spot on the mantel.

Jane just sighed again, stripping off her rubber gloves. “Can I please go get the cannoli now? Ma will be here any minute to start the soup, and I hate chopping vegetables.”

Jane had convinced her Ma to make her bisnonna Lidia’s spicy chicken soup instead of gnocchi—though, knowing Angela, both would make it to the table. At least she’d tried to provide options for Constance, not to mention a couple days of sitting around plus two rounds of gnocchi in less than a week would make her feel logy and gross. And anyway, Lidia’s soup was one of her favorites, and Frankie’s, and her Ma hardly ever made it.

Maura eyed her skeptically. “And how long is getting cannoli going to take?”

“Dunno,” Jane shrugged, grinning mischievously. “Sunday afternoon at Mike’s Bakery? Beautiful day like this? Gonna be a lot of tourists. Could be hours.”

Maura gave her that adorable exasperated look, one hand on her cocked hip as she puffed a strand of hair away from her face.

Jane wanted to kiss her.

“Please don’t let it take hours, Jane. As much as I enjoy spending time with your mother . . .” she trailed off meaningfully.

“Point taken,” Jane sighed. “Okay, what about one hour, at least that way I’ll miss the onions.”

“Only if you also bring back flowers,” Maura said. Jane choked on the water she’d just poured herself, nearly dropping the glass. “For the table.”

You thought she was asking you to bring her flowers. Which you were planning on anyway, weren’t you. ‘For the table,’ even.

Shut up.

“Yeah,” she said, coughing out the last of the water. “No problem.”

“Go to Winston Flowers on Newbury,” Maura called as Jane pulled on her jacket, still taking care with her neck. It felt better, but better safe than sorry, especially when she had a murder to solve. “I have an account there, and they have the orchids Mother likes.”

And those fancy roses you like.

Jane couldn’t remember what they were called, only that Maura had once said they were her favorite. At least she could point to them in the store.

“Got it,” she said, flipping open the deadbolt. “I’ll be back in an hour, I promise.”

She fished her keys out of her pocket, locked the deadbolt from the outside. It had been easy to forget, in the cozy haze of the last few days, that she was supposed to be there for a reason, that Maura could be in danger. She scanned the quiet street, satisfied that nothing was out of place before getting in the car.

An hour and twenty minutes later she struggled back up to the front door, laden with purchases. Two dozen cannoli dangled from her arm, the plastic bag swinging as she tried to wrangle her keys out of her coat. Her other arm was wrapped around a large bouquet, the right roses and orchids and some other weird waxy flat things and a few stalks that were just bare branches, which didn’t seem right, but Jane had been assured were exquisite. Given how much they’d cost, even though Maura had called ahead and insisted the purchase be put on her account, they better be.

Someone must have heard her rustling, the door swinging open. Maura gasped, though Jane couldn’t quite see her face through the leaves.

“Jane, this is exquisite!” she breathed, taking the vase that had come with the bouquet.

So the sales clerk had been right. Whatever.

“Those are the roses you like, right?” she asked awkwardly, feeling a slight burn at the back of her neck.

Maura breathed deeply. “Kahala roses,” she sighed happily. “You remembered.”

“Jane!” her mother shouted from the kitchen. “Did you get the cannoli?”

“Yes, Ma,” she shouted back. “Two dozen.”

“Good, because Frankie and Connie are coming, and I invited Lieutenant Korsak, but no work at the dinner table, you know the rules.”

“I know,” she huffed, setting the bag with the cannoli on the counter, eyes closing as she inhaled. “Lidia’s soup is the best. Thanks, Ma.”

“It’s my soup too,” her mother said, shaking the spoon at her. “I didn’t make it as spicy, though; I don’t know what Connie likes.”

“Mother has quite an adventurous palate,” Maura said. “Though I do agree, spice can be so subjective.”

“Maura agrees,” Angela said. “What took you so long?”

“There had to be a million people out there, Ma,” she groaned, easing into one of the tall chairs at the island. “It’s like the Pats are playing a home game, instead of being in—ugh—Pittsburgh.” She made a sour face.

“The weather is supposed to change quite rapidly in the next few days,” Maura said, unpacking the cannoli. “A cold front coming in from the Northeast, so it’s likely the last opportunity for autumn leaves.”

“See? Tourists. I told you,” Jane said, snatching a pastry as Maura swatted at her hand. “When’s everybody coming over?”

“Your brother will be here in an hour to help set up. I told Connie and Vince four o’clock.”

Vince? Ew, Jane mouthed to Maura, who giggled.

“What are you two giggling about?” Angela demanded, though she didn’t turn away from the cutting board.

“Nothing, Ma,” Jane snorted.

“Maura, you’re a good girl, is Jane being uncouth over there?”

Maura blushed bright pink. “Not at all, Angela,” she said, trying to suppress a fresh round of giggles. “She’s being entirely appropriate.”

Angela spun around, her eyebrow raised. Her laser-sharp stare swiveled between the two of them. “Hmm,” she huffed. “You two be good. Jane, you make yourself useful and measure out the flour.”

“I thought you weren’t making gnocchi, Ma,” she sighed.

“I know we’re having Lidia’s soup, but I just can’t not make gnocchi on Sunday,” Angela said patiently, as though Jane were somehow thick. “Your ancestors would kill me. Now get the eggs.”

Dinner was long, warm, noisy, and comfortable, as it always was. Korsak had called off at the last minute, claiming a volunteer shift had opened at the animal shelter, though Jane suspected it was more likely that a certain pretty vet tech happened to also be working at the same time, so it was just the family.

Frankie and Constance had never met before; he was the perfectly well-behaved little brother, all ma’am and Mrs. Isles until she, clearly taken with the patented Rizzoli charm, patted his hand and insisted he call her Constance. Angela had given a smug little smile; both because two of her children had now met with Connie’s approval, and because Connie had only given him permission to use her full name. Connie was Angela’s friend. Constance was Maura’s mother. These were the rules.

Constance had, in violation of Angela’s other rule—though in fairness, she didn’t actually know about it—filled Jane in on the generalities of Sheridan’s last will and testament over coffee and cannoli. Sheridan had named Constance executive of any remaining estate, which she seemed to have expected, and had set up some sort of plan to turn their home into a public art space that Jane didn’t quite understand but sounded right up Constance’s alley. “So I’ll be staying in Boston a bit longer than expected after all,” she’d said lightly, Maura’s face betraying her excitement at the idea.

The most important thing was the revelation that Sheridan knew they were sick, and had made an updated version of their will out only a month before, with the expectation of dying from chromium poisoning. They were very explicit that should they die prior to the resolution of the conflict with their publisher, all negotiations should immediately cease and the contract should be canceled, leaving temporary responsibility for Sheridan’s massive catalogue up to John Gray Heilmann, his personal attorney, and Constance, along with anyone Constance felt capable of the task.

“Of course I asked Jocasta,” Constance murmured. “She’s spent almost a decade as Kight’s executive assistant and primary gallery manager, as well as his closest regular companion. She accepted, of course, though I imagine this will cause quite a few problems with Blanton, as I mentioned briefly.”

“Have you contacted the lawyer? Heilmann?”

Constance nodded. “I’ll be meeting with him tomorrow afternoon, unless you prefer we wait until you can join us?”

“No, that’s all right,” Jane said. “I’m meeting with the other lawyer in the morning, and one a day is enough for me.”

“Vanallen,” Constance said, her grimace plainly expressing her feelings on the man.

“Yeah. I got a little background, but is there anything I should know before I go in?”

Constance thought for a moment. “As you know, Kight disliked him personally, and only employed him due to his despicable wizardry with contract law. I rarely dealt with him myself, as I shared Kight’s opinion of him. I find it unlikely that you’ll get anything from him, particularly if he’s somehow involved with the murder. You know, Jane,” she said, grabbing Jane’s wrist, the grip once again surprisingly strong. “I’ve been trying to think of how I’d feel if someone told me Vanallen murdered Kight himself, and I just can’t imagine any scenario in which I’d be surprised.”

Jane shivered. “That’s, uh, that’s good to know. Yeah, I’m not expecting a lot, but if I can get out of there without him demanding a warrant, it’ll be something.”

“Be careful, Jane,” Constance said seriously. “If he and Andrés are somehow behind this, it’s imperative that you maintain the upper hand. They’re both quite influential and I have no doubt that they’d utilize any means necessary to maintain their distance from this crime.”

“You sound like my lieutenant,” Jane said, not sure if she admired it or not, but leaning that way.

Constance’s grip tightened. “I’m not only concerned about you, Jane,” she said softly, just between the two of them. “I trust you to protect my daughter. She trusts you to protect her. She trusts you with her life, in more ways than one. Do you understand?”

Her voice wasn’t threatening, just urgent, serious, but with that omnipresent undercurrent of you’re both being terribly obtuse, aren’t you that Jane was, frankly, getting a little tired of. But still, as Jane met Constance’s steady ice-blue gaze, she found herself wanting to reassure her, to prove she deserved that trust.

“Yes ma’am,” she said, nodding firmly. “I absolutely understand.”

She glanced at Maura, who’d been deep in conversation with Frankie about one of the new lab techs and whether or not he had a shot. Maura looked up at that moment, gave her a soft smile.

“Good,” Constance had said brightly, releasing her. “Now, Angela, this has been an absolute delight—you must send me the recipe for that soup—but I’m afraid I must be heading back. Frankie, it was lovely to meet you.”

Frankie ducked his head, gave her a little wave. “You too, Miz Isles. Uh, Constance,” he said, giving that puppyish grin he only used when he really wanted to impress someone important, usually his girlfriend’s parents.

Constance made her graceful exit after promising Angela they’d get coffee soon, and giving Maura a less-tentative hug than Jane had seen yet.

“Remember,” Constance murmured as she hugged Jane as well. “Take good care of our beautiful girl, Jane.”

“I will,” she mumbled. It wasn’t just motherly concern, it was Constance . . . giving her blessing, it felt like. Is that what that felt like? Jane had no idea. But it kinda felt like that.

“I know you will, darling,” Constance winked at her, before vanishing through the door, leaving behind a faint breath of expensive-smelling perfume.

“I gotta go too,” Frankie said, hauling himself up. “Love you, Ma. Thanks for making bisnonna’s soup, nobody does it like you do.” He leaned in, kissing Angela on the cheek. “See you later, Jane.” He cuffed her lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, shit, was that your bad side? Sorry,” he said, giving her a shrug.

“Prick,” Jane muttered, grinning. “Get home safe, asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too. Uh, ‘night, Maura,” he said, stammering a little as she appeared next to Jane. Maura just sighed, shook her head with an indulgent smile.

“Goodnight, Frankie, thank you for a lovely evening.”

“I should be thankin’ you,” he said, a little bashfully. “Uh, see ya.”

Jane got his bashfulness. She absolutely got it. Maura positively glowed after spending time with Jane’s family, and tonight seemed extra-special. She gave Angela a warm hug before Angela could get to her first, murmuring something in her ear that made her ma grin.

“Goodnight, honey,” Angela rasped, kissing Maura on the cheek. “And you too, bambina,” she said, pulling Jane in for a hug and kiss of her own. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“It’s fine, Ma,” she whined, rubbing at her cheek. “Thanks for dinner, you’re the best.”

“And don’t you forget it,” her mother warned, giving her another wet kiss on the cheek before heading to the guest house.

Once they were alone, Jane felt that familiar little tingle of awkwardness, a sort of bewildering expectation, like she was supposed to do something, but nobody had told her what. Maura looked at her and something seemed a little strange about her gaze, too; it was like they were both somehow waiting for something, with no idea of what it might be.

“Do you want to watch something?” Maura asked. Jane shook her head. Dinner had been nice, but it had been long, and it was always a little exhausting, spending that much time with her family. “Do you want to go to bed?” Jane nodded.

“Me too,” Maura said, though she seemed hesitant, almost shy.

Jane cleared her throat. “I’ll just grab my pajamas,” she said. She’d put her duffel bag in the guest room for some reason; it seemed safer, almost, like a reminder that she could go sleep by herself at any point, if whatever this new, kind of scary thing that seemed to be growing between her and Maura evaporated. Not that she wanted it to, but . . . just in case.

“Okay,” Maura said. “I’ll just be in the bathroom, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah,” Jane said.

The tension just kept growing, and it was ridiculous, it was so stupid, there wasn’t any reason for it, right? But it kept growing anyway.

“Okay,” Maura said again, before resolutely crossing to the stairs. “Okay.”

Jane waited a few minutes, trying to get her heartbeat under control.

It’s just sleeping. You’ve done it practically every night this week. Shouldn’t it be getting easier, not harder?

 “Shut up,” she mumbled, before switching off the kitchen light and moving softly up the stairs.

Notes:

posting two chaps tonite as a thanksgiving present; v grateful for *you*

Chapter 11: Over. Finished. Kaput.

Summary:

yayyyyyyy

Jane woke to near-total darkness, her bladder uncomfortably full. She glanced blearily at the small alarm clock on Maura’s bedside table. 5:47.

She groaned a little as she debated if it was worth getting out of the warm, cozy bed and going all the way to the bathroom, especially since the alarm would go off in less than an hour, but her discomfort won out. She slid carefully out of the bed, trying not to disturb Maura sleeping peacefully next to her.

She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror again, trying to figure out if it was the expensive lighting that made her look so soft and content, or if it was just that she was sleeping next to the secret love of her life. As she yawned, she was abruptly aware that her mouth was uncomfortably dry and hot like it always was when she woke up; figured she might as well brush her teeth again, since she was in here. Plus it meant she wouldn’t have to do it in an hour.

Ablutions complete, she crept back to the bed. Maura had rolled over, facing her, but her eyes were still closed, breath still slow and even. Her face was faintly visible in the dim light from the clock, and Jane let herself stare a little before relaxing back into drowsiness.

She was nearly asleep again when Maura shifted closer.

“Did you just brush your teeth?” she murmured, so close that her breath drifted across Jane’s skin.

“Mmm.”

“Cheater,” she mumbled, moving somehow even closer; Jane could practically feel Maura’s lips on her jaw, her body soft and warm against Jane’s.

Well, she was sure awake now.

“Best way to win,” she whispered into Maura’s hair.

Are you flirting? Right now? In her bed, in the dark, right after you brushed your teeth? Is this real? Did you actually wake up? No. You’re still asleep. This is a dream.

Maura shifted against her just a little, letting out a soft, sleepy sigh that sent goosebumps rippling across Jane’s whole body. She’d tilted her face up, her breath drifting across Jane’s cheek, the corner of her mouth, she was so close—

Maura murmured again, slipped her tongue out to wet her lips, so close to Jane that she swore she felt it flick against her own skin, and something inside her just . . . snapped.

It would be so easy to tilt her head that fraction of an inch. Maybe too easy.

And it was.

For the first few seconds all Jane could perceive was a roaring static as her pulse thundered in her ears. And then—

She was doing it. She was kissing Maura. Her lips were impossibly soft, pliant against Jane’s, and Jane was abruptly torn between complete bliss and overwhelming terror. 

Is she kissing you back? Does she want this? Or is she just in shock, is she so horrified that she can’t react?

Jane pulled back abruptly, her blood both red-hot and ice-cold.

“Jane,” Maura whispered after what felt like an eternity in which she’d died and gone to hell. “Please . . . please don’t stop.”

Maura’s fingers drifted tentatively up Jane’s arm, curling around her bicep, trying to pull her back.

“Please,” she whispered again, and Jane was done. Over. Finished. Kaput.

She swallowed hard, and leaned in again.

This time when their lips met, Maura let out a soft little whimper that made Jane’s insides both lurch and melt. She slipped her hand into Jane’s hair, twisting it around her fingers as she lightly sucked on Jane’s bottom lip, tracing her tongue along the sensitive flesh.

She was a really good kisser.

You knew she would be.

Jane heard herself groan against Maura’s mouth. Felt Maura waste no time slipping her tongue between Jane’s parted lips.

Jane shivered at the first brush of Maura’s tongue in her mouth. Soft, warm, wet. Delicate, even, as she stroked gently, tracing Jane’s teeth. Jane had always been ambivalent about french kissing; the men she’d done it with had usually been rough, aggressive, their tongues thick and sloppy, like they were trying to prove something. But Maura was different.

Obviously.

Look, this isn’t just about her being a woman, or your feelings, okay? She’s a good kisser. Okay, maybe part of it is because maybe it turns out you don’t hate kissing girls. And yeah maybe being in love with her makes it even better, so what?

Jane reached up, cupping Maura’s face in her hand. Stroked her thumb along Maura’s jaw as she let her own tongue slide into Maura’s mouth.

Oh fuck.

She was so turned on she thought she might explode as Maura sighed and whimpered and shifted against her, fingers twining and tugging lightly at her hair. She squeezed her thighs together, half-embarrassed,  trying to quell the throb between her legs. She wasn’t sure how, though; her body seemed hell-bent on escalating the sensation, while her brain screamed at her to slow down.

Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this—

The screech of the alarm caused them both to jump, pulling apart in an instant.

How has it already been half an hour? Two minutes, tops.

But a glance at the clock showed it really was 6:30; they’d been tangled together for thirty minutes, yet it felt like the blink of an eye.

Maura rolled over and smacked at the clock. The sharp buzz stopped, leaving a too-loud silence in its absence.

“Um,” Jane said, blushing so hard she felt like she was glowing in the dark.

As if on cue, the blinds began to raise, letting the thin early-morning light filter in.

Maura was flushed, tousled, her eyes bright and glittering. Jane had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Is your neck all right?” Maura asked, almost shy.

“Um,” Jane said again, wishing her mouth would connect with her brain. Usually the problem was the other way around, but she had been struck dumb. Totally useless.

Maura’s expression darkened just slightly. “Are you—“

“I’m great,” Jane said, forcing the words out, forcing her stupid brain to say something. What she really wanted was to kiss Maura again, over and over, for the rest of her life, probably. “I’m . . .”

I love you.

Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it

Maura smiled brilliantly. “Me too,” she murmured.

Jane knew she hadn’t said the quiet part loud this time, but she couldn’t help feeling like Maura was answering her thoughts.

Or you just want her to be.

“Oh!” Maura cried suddenly, mercifully shattering Jane’s incipient slide into panic. “Your meeting! You have to get ready, I have just the thing.”

And before Jane could protest that she still had a whole duffel bag of perfectly fine work clothes, Maura was in her closet, rifling through the racks.

A second later she emerged, carrying a garment bag Jane recognized. “Emergency outfit number two?” she joked weakly, her voice rough and thick. Maura was standing at the foot of the bed in her silky little slip, one thin strap fallen off her shoulder, her hair wild and soft and golden against her pale skin. Her lips swollen and kiss-bruised. Jane felt a swell of pride. And a new wave of hot arousal that she really, really needed to get under control.

I did that. I made her look like that.

“The burgundy,” Maura nodded. “Don’t worry, it’s a pantsuit.”

Jane had been pretty sure she couldn’t possibly love this woman any more, but it turned out she absolutely could.

Maura slid the outfit out of the garment bag. It was a slim, chic suit; the skinny trousers tapered at the ankle, the single-button jacket featuring a deep v-neck and narrow lapels. “It’s meant to be worn without a blouse,” Maura said, and Jane felt herself clench again, thinking about Maura picking something like that for her, Maura imagining her wearing it. “But that isn’t entirely appropriate for a meeting of this kind, so I got you one of those too.”

“Can I wear a bra this time?” Jane joked, or thought she joked, until Maura looked at her with an expression that was both shocked and horrified.

“No bra, got it.” She tried to play it cool, even giving Maura a brief, mortifying thumbs-up.

Very cool, Jane. Very slick.

Maura didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she ignored it. “Your body type is ideally suited to couture,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that were that.

Jane’s face burned a little.

“Thanks?”

“Come on, Jane, you only have an hour before you have to leave, and we have to do your hair and makeup.”

Jane grumbled. She hated hair and makeup, especially when there were other things she’d much rather spend an hour doing, but she was about to go meet with one of the most powerful lawyers on the East Coast, and looking the part was just as important with those kinds of people, as she was tired of being reminded of.

“I’ll go make some coffee. You get dressed,” Maura said firmly, slipping on her short robe before disappearing through the door.

When Jane was alone, she sat on the bed for a long moment, trying to rearrange her thoughts into some semblance of order.

She’d done it. She’d kissed Maura. And Maura had kissed her back.

Maybe everybody was right the whole time. They were right about you, why wouldn’t they be right about Maura too?

She shook her head. It was just kissing. It didn’t necessarily mean . . .

But the way Maura had kissed her, like she wanted to devour her. The way she’d whispered please.

But also the way she’d jumped up and gotten straight to business. Like it wasn’t the biggest deal in the whole world, like it didn’t rearrange absolutely everything.

Yeah, well, maybe it didn’t for her. Maybe she just felt like kissing you. She’s been under a lot of stress, and she trusts you, and maybe she just needed a little contact therapy.

Maura had told her numerous times about the intrinsic human need for touch, had cited some depressing study about Russian orphans that had only bummed her out. Probably she was just releasing some tension and figured Jane was safe.

Jane was safe, but she supposed Maura didn’t know the whole of why; that she’d let Maura take whatever she wanted from her, as long as it meant they’d be together, somehow. As long as it meant she still had Maura’s trust and affection. And if kissing her meant Maura felt better about anything, well, that was medicine Jane could prescribe.

Maybe she’d let Jane kiss her again. It was totally okay if it was just a biological imperative. Maura had never shied away from physical intimacy as a curative; Jane had suffered through way too many conversations on the physical and psychological benefits of sex to convince herself it had meant anything more than releasing oxymorons or whatever.

She was surprised that it wasn’t that upsetting, the idea that Maura could kiss her like that just to scratch some itch. She knew all about itches that needed scratching. There was something flattering about it, after all. And it had been so nice. Better than nice. It had been perfect, even without Maura reciprocating her deepest feelings.

Maybe she does, though.

Jane pushed the possibility down deep. Not because she didn’t want it more than anything, but because if it wasn’t true she’d rather not know. Not right now, anyway. She didn’t want to spoil this moment by creating an impossible dream narrative based on her own secret wish. She’d already had one secret wish come true; two was pushing it.

“Jane? What are you doing? You’re not even dressed!”

Maura was standing in the doorway holding a steaming cup of coffee.

“Uh,” she said, scrambling out of bed. “Sorry.” She grabbed the outfit and fled into the bathroom.

A beat later, Maura knocked softly at the door. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she called, her voice only a little strangled. She yanked off her tank top and pulled the trousers on, once again marveling at how perfectly they fit. Then the thin cream-colored blouse, the v-neck matching the jacket, but cut more modestly. Slipped the jacket on, running her fingers over the smooth silk.

“Are you sure?” Maura’s voice was small, hesitant. “Would you like to talk about earlier?”

The very last thing Jane wanted was to talk about earlier. Either she’d say something she couldn’t take back, or she’d hear something she couldn’t un-hear, of that much she was certain.

“I’m good,” she squeaked, grimacing at herself. “Just finishing up.”

“Can you plug in the flat iron? I want to straighten your hair, it’ll make you look more authoritative.”

“What, the gun and badge aren’t enough?”

“Jane,” Maura sighed.

Jane fastened the button on the jacket, took a deep breath, ruffled a hand through her wild hair, opened the bathroom door.

Maura stared at her, the faint anxiety in her eyes quickly replaced with frank admiration. “You look . . .”

“Thanks,” she replied hastily, taking the cup from Maura’s hand. “Do I really have to straighten my hair?”

Maura kept gazing at her. “No,” she stammered. “No, it looks . . . um . . . it looks good like that.”

She was flustered.

Jane wanted to kiss her again.

The moment held, growing heavier by the second. Jane couldn’t stop staring at Maura’s mouth.

“I should—“

“Why don’t we—“

This time, it was Maura who broke.

She stepped forward and Jane felt herself falling, the bottom of her stomach dropping out as Maura leaned up and kissed her again, softly this time, sweetly. Lips pressed against lips, Maura’s fingers curling around the lapels of her jacket.

On purpose. Because she wants to kiss you again.

It was just as good this time. Maybe better. Because it meant Maura wanted to kiss her again, too.

Maura pulled away, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re very good at that,” she said, and even though it was almost distressingly matter-of-fact Jane still felt a buzz of pride. And some other stuff that probably wasn’t good for a silk suit. Including the way her coffee was threatening to slosh over the rim of the cup, which she quickly set on the bathroom counter.

“You, uh, you are too,” she said lamely, feeling way too much like the awkward, too-tall fourteen-year-old who had just been assigned pretty, shiny-haired Vanessa Vincenzo as her lab partner.

“I hope it’s all right,” Maura said, her brow furrowing a little. “I mean—“

“I know what you mean,” Jane said hastily, even though she didn’t actually know what Maura meant but was pretty sure she didn’t want to find out, like, right this second. Naturally, her brain supplied a list of catastrophic options anyway.

I mean, I don’t want to lead you on.

I mean, it was nice, but let’s just stay friends.

I mean, I hope it’s all right that I just needed some physical contact and you were right there.

“Are you sure? I’m sorry if it’s thrown off your vibe for your meeting this morning.

“First, it’s throw off your game, and second, no, I mean, uh . . .”

“Oh dear,” Maura all but whispered. Jane could see the worry blooming on her face.

“Hey,” Jane said softly, realizing she wasn’t helping by being a stammering idiot. “I am a little thrown off, but it’s . . . awesome,” she finished with a little shrug. “I kinda feel like I can do anything.” She winced slightly at her words, and at the goofy grin she could feel plastered across her face.

When did you get so corny, Rizzoli?

Maura beamed at her. “You can,” she said, somehow both admiring and faintly seductive, leaning up to kiss her again.

“Good thing I didn’t already do my makeup,” Jane joked after she pulled away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maura frowned, pulling open a narrow drawer lined neatly with shimmering tubes. “Here,” she pulled one out, held it up. Jane grimaced. “Come here, Jane,” she sighed.

Jane had had her lipstick applied by someone else before, but it had almost always been her ma, and it had almost always been before recitals when she was six. It felt strange, offering her mouth like this, felt strange to have Maura’s steady hand applying exactly the right amount of pressure. Tried to imagine the shape of her lips as Maura carefully applied the color.

Wonder what else her hands can apply exactly the right amount of pressure to?

Jesus fucking god in heaven, shut the fuck up

“Blot,” Maura said, pressing her own lips together, watching her expectantly.

Jane performed what she hoped was a passable blot, then blinked in surprise when Maura gave her another swift kiss.

“See?” Maura said triumphantly, dragging her thumb across her lip in a way that was entirely inappropriate for the hour. “No transfer. Now, do your eyes, I have to get dressed.”

She spun neatly on the ball of her foot and practically flitted out of the bathroom, Jane staring after her, slack-jawed.

 

 

---

 

 

She pushed through the heavy glass doors of the downtown high rise that housed Vanallen’s offices. Crossed the shiny marble floor, relishing each sharp click of her heels. Maura had agreed to let her wear her low black boots, the ones she kept in the closet at Maura’s house so they didn’t get last week’s marinara on them.

Her body was still buzzing from the sensation of Maura’s lips against hers. Maura’s tongue in her mouth. Jane’s fingers drifted unconsciously to her lower lip as she waited for the receptionist to confirm her appointment, briefly lost in the memory of Maura sucking gently there.

“Detective Rizzoli?” the receptionist, a beautiful, severe young woman in a dress Maura would absolutely buy for her—

Idiot

“Detective Rizzoli?” the woman said again, slightly impatient. Jane cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Forty-sixth floor. Please take East Bank elevator number three; you’re expected.”

“I better be,” she muttered.

The receptionist gave her a cool, blank look. “Take this,” she said, holding out a keycard on a woven lanyard. “For the elevator.”

She nodded, scooping up the card. “Thanks.”

She’d been in this building before, but never so high up. Vanallen’s offices were near the top, occupying the entire floor. She swiped the keycard against the little black box next to the elevator—no call button—and tapped her foot as she waited.

She had to stop thinking about Maura. She had to think about murder instead.

But thinking about Maura is so much better.

“Stop it,” she muttered as the elevator signaled its arrival with a soft chime, the doors sliding open with a whisper.

When she was halfway up, something lurched inside her.

Her mother had been omnipresent at Maura’s as always, but even more now that there was this whole situation going on, which meant she’d inevitably poked her head into the guest room at some point over the past three days under the guise of making sure Jane wasn’t leaving her dirty clothes on the floor, or some equally flimsy pretext for snooping.

So she knew, she had to know, that Jane wasn’t sleeping in the guest room.

She had to know, but she hadn’t mentioned it. Hadn’t even made one of her innocuous-but-prying little comments. In fact, Jane thought, she’d been excusing herself to go back to the guest house earlier and earlier in the evening.

Fuck.

The elevator came to a gentle stop, doors gliding open to reveal a tastefully sleek office suite paneled in glossy, dark wood. The lighting was soft, recessed.  Not anything she’d pick, but it helped her snap back to reality.

The space felt muted; there were a handful of people at desks arranged throughout the front area, but no couches or seats for people to wait; the client area must be in some other part of the massive offices.

“Detective Rizzoli?” Another receptionist, older but still so polished Jane felt like a disaster, until she remembered her power suit. And her badge. And her gun.

You’re only a disaster inside, Rizzoli, and now is not the time.

Jane nodded, showed the receptionist her badge.

“Right this way,” the woman said coolly, eyeing her with barely-concealed disdain.

She works for a lawyer. Your natural enemy. Nothing personal, just business. But find out her name before you leave. Just in case.

Jane swallowed down her own disdain as she followed the receptionist down a long, thickly-carpeted hall to a set of large double doors. “Mr. Vanallen,” she announced, pushing one open.

It swung silently inward to reveal an enormous corner office, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city. A massive desk anchored one side of the room, faced by two wingback chairs.

Robert Vanallen stood in front of the desk, Tall, fit, handsome in an older, wealthy way. Maura would know who made his suit. Maura had probably gone to private kindergarten with his kids, if he had any.

“Detective Rizzoli,” he said, holding out his hand but not moving toward her. His voice was deep, smooth, a little unctuous. Jane felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Mr. Vanallen, thank you for taking the time.” She crossed to him, but offered only the briefest squeeze before snatching her hand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on her trouser leg.

“Of course. Please, sit.” He indicated one of the chairs.

“That’s all right.” Jane remained standing, watching him carefully. “I’m fine.”

He gave her a tight, knowing smirk. “What can I do for Boston’s finest today? Surely it’s nothing too troublesome.”

They both knew exactly why she was there. They were just doing the little dance.

“I’m investigating the murder of Kight Sheridan, your client.”

“Ah,” Vanallen said, his face falling into a mask of sadness his voice didn’t match. “Of course. Terrible tragedy. I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective; I saw Kight only rarely. Our business was generally conducted over telephone or by courier. Artists,” he shrugged, a faint sneer flitting across his face. “Not always the most convenient clients, but certainly very interesting ones.” He offered a hollow little chuckle.

“Very interesting and very successful, in some cases.”

“Hmm,” Vanallen smirked again. Jane loathed him. “Kight was certainly a desirable client for any firm. I provided a caliber of legal counsel and support commensurate with Mr. Sheridan’s stature, as I do for all my clients.”

Jane made mental note of the Mr. Sheridan. Sure, it could be a casual slip of the tongue, but it struck her as odd that sixteen million dollars couldn’t buy even feigned respect, even for the internationally famous and recently deceased. Or maybe Vanallen was just a dinosaur, but Jane knew his type; sharp-eyed, attentive, and too smart to be dumb. He was feeling her out.

“I’m sure you do just fine,” Jane said, keeping her tone flat. “Do you know of anything that could have motivated this murder? Anything personally, creatively, financially?”

She locked her gaze on Vanallen, his slate-gray eyes cool and flinty, his gaze just as calculating, as suspicious as her own. “As I said, Detective . . .?”

“Rizzoli,” she said, repressing her irritation as hard as she possibly could. There was zero chance he didn’t know her name; hell, he’d probably had one of his BPD brass buddies pull her jacket.

“—Detective Rizzoli, I’m afraid I won’t be much help; attorney-client privilege, as you must certainly know, being such a clever young detective, has no expiration date. Only the client can revoke it, and, alas.” He gave her that same disingenuous frown.

Something about the way Vanallen said clever young detective rubbed her the wrong way. First of all, she was north of forty, but beyond that she had the unsettling sense that she was being threatened so subtly she couldn’t be entirely sure of it herself.

Her hands felt clammy. Her mouth was dry. She’d only felt this way a handful of times in her life. Constance’s words echoed in her mind. Didn’t like, didn’t trust. A brute and a philistine.

She rubbed unconsciously at her scarred palms.

“So,” Vanallen said, clapping his hands together, “if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I’m quite busy, and I’m sorry you had to come all the way up here just to be reminded of the basics of the legal system.”

His tone was light, but Jane could see the cold intelligence behind his eyes, could hear the edge in his voice. He hadn’t said the word warrant, but it was there, floating between them. She vaguely recalled something about attorney-client privilege exceptions from a previous case, but didn’t want to tip him off any more than he already was. Especially if she got it wrong.

“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Vanallen,” Jane said, giving him a tight, perfunctory smile. “Thank you again for your time.”

She was possessed by the sudden urge to not turn her back to this man, but she stuffed it down, moved toward the door. She was just about to leave when she noticed something on a bookcase on the other side of the room.

“Épée or sabre, Counselor?”

Vanallen frowned, and this time he meant it. This time it was Jane who smirked.

“You fence, yeah? The mask, I mean.” She waved in the direction of the clearly-antique mesh mask displayed on a wooden stand. It was illuminated by a small pin-spot lamp built into the shelf above.

“You know the sport?” Vanallen’s voice wavered between suspicion and surprise.

Jane hated his smug face, his creepy stare, his snide attitude. Also that he was, if not a murderer himself, almost certainly tied up in this killing one way or another.

“I’m familiar. Mostly with épée dueling. But this looks like a sabre mask, am I right?”

She had no idea if she was right. At least not until Vanallen stammered, blinked, gulped a little.

“A gift. From a client.”

“Uh-huh,” Jane said. “And I’m sure you can’t tell me which client.”

“Now you’re catching on, Detective,” Vanallen replied, slick veneer firmly back in place. But she’d rattled him. Only for a second, but she’d rattled him. She had to find out who the mask had come from. If Vanallen was, himself, a fencer. If he had an unusually sharp dueling weapon hanging around somewhere.

Maura might know if he fences. Maybe he goes to her club, or maybe someone he knows does.

Yeah, good idea, definitely get her more involved in a multimillion-dollar murder plot.

“If you don’t mind?” Vanallen cut in, gesturing toward the door. “Patricia will validate your parking.”

Jane smirked again. “I’m investigating the brutal homicide of one of the world’s most renowned artists, Mr. Vanallen; I park where I want. And anyway, you’ve already given me all the validation I need.”

She felt a little thrill of triumph as his face soured. The line had the desired effect, even if it wasn’t entirely true. She’d expected stonewalling and that’s exactly what she’d gotten, but she also now had a very pressing reason to push for the inevitable warrant.

Of course, she didn’t have anything with which to get the warrant. Yet.

She met the disdainful Patricia just outside the inner office door, where she supposed the woman had been standing the whole time.

“I don’t need my parking validated,” she said a little louder than was necessary once they’d reached Patricia’s desk. “Boston homicide.”

She noted the reactions from the employees scattered around the room. A few heads popped up, looked at her curiously. One man in the far corner kept his head low, his shoulders hunched. Jane scanned his desk for a nameplate. Bradley Johns.

“Have a nice day,” Patricia said, her tone indicating she wouldn’t mind if the elevator cable snapped on the way back down.

“Yeah, you too,” Jane muttered as she swiped the keycard again. The doors whooshed open immediately. Maybe a private elevator? Though she also didn’t doubt Patricia’s powers to hold it through her whole meeting, just to get her out as quickly as possible. She doubted the receptionist was involved; just loyal to her boss.

As she descended, she tried to work out an angle to get a warrant for any information related to Vanallen’s interactions with Blanton Cronie. She had no real evidence, just a gut feeling and an antique fencing mask, but she’d done more with less.

He was involved, though. She knew it.

As she pushed back out into the chilly morning air, she really wished she’d brought a heavier jacket. She’d stop by her apartment on the way to the precinct, change into something warmer. Something not obviously from Maura’s closet. Even though it smelled like Maura.

Even though she was annoyed that she liked it.

 

Chapter 12: No Room For Magical Thinking

Summary:

things! happening!

Jane Rizzoli was not, as a rule, a superstitious person. Sure, she’d inherited some of her mother’s preferred gestures and habits—she crossed herself at train tracks, she knocked wood—but those weren’t based on any deeply-held belief, they were just ingrained, automatic responses. Besides, being a detective left no room for magical thinking.

She had a gut, though. That was different.

As she walked into her apartment in her burgundy silk suit, her gut did that thing. That lurching thing.

Her door had been firmly locked, knob and deadbolt. Nothing appeared out of place. But something felt . . . off. The air felt different. Like someone else had been breathing it while she was gone. She slid her hand down her hip, cursed silently when she remembered her gun was tucked in her bag. She slipped quietly around the perimeter of her apartment, adrenaline sparkling through her body as she cleared each room.

When she was satisfied no intruder remained, she took a deep breath, began scanning for anything that might have been moved even a fraction of an inch. The kitchen appeared undisturbed, down to the dirty dishes in the sink and rotting bananas on the counter, which she guiltily dumped in the trash. Same with the living room, everything just as she’d left it.

She sighed. Was it just paranoia? Maybe everything was on high alert because she’d kissed Maura, which felt stupid to think, but kind of made sense. Everything felt a little . . . more right now. It’s not like colors were brighter and birds were singing or anything—

Except it’s exactly like that.

“Shut up,” she muttered as she headed into her bedroom.

As she was hanging up Emergency Outfit Number Two on the same hook as the sleek navy sheath, her gut lurched again.

The top of her hamper. Something about that.

She stared at her dirty clothes as though they were about to crack and start talking, trying to figure out what was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The blue bra.

She hated the blue bra; it had some weird, complicated strap system that dug into her back. She’d worn it last week as a last resort after remembering she’d once again forgotten to do laundry. Had yanked it off and tossed it precariously on top of the pile, its dark sapphire winking at her from the corner of the room.

But now it was on the floor.

Could she have done it? Knocked it off the mountain of dirty clothes while she was shuffling around?

She recalled how she’d specifically noticed it the last time she was here; how she’d glanced at it and immediately thought of Maura in her long blue robe, almost the same color.

Her blood froze. Someone had been here. Yesterday, most likely. Or last night, or early this morning.

She inspected the hamper. Nothing else looked rifled through; the towering heap of clothing still holding itself together through some miracle of physics. So it probably hadn’t been some kind of sex pest, at least.

She eyed the closet door, shut tightly. Pulled it open with a swift yank, as though she expected the boogeyman to come tumbling out, startled and protesting.

Nothing. The closet looked the same; clothes hung haphazardly from the rack, piles of shoes, the top shelf a soft riot of sweaters and sentimental old sports jerseys.

Her eyes swept up to the top corner, a thick shape partially hidden under a couple ringer tees. Sheridan’s book.

Jane didn’t know why she wanted to make sure the book was still there. But her gut told her to.

She didn’t reach for it, briefly worried she’d flip back to Page 67, just to see; didn’t want to add any distractions to her already-whirling brain.

Who had been here? What had they been looking for?

Her gut was shouting that it had something to do with Sheridan’s murder, with which her brain readily concurred, but what? She didn’t have any evidence stored at her apartment, obviously; hell, she’d barely been at her apartment.

Such a clever young detective.

She shivered. Her gut churned its assent.

Vanallen had known since Friday that Jane would be coming in this morning. He probably even knew she was staying at Maura’s. Men like that, with that much power, didn’t get that way by being noble and pure of heart. Having her tailed, having someone break into her place, would be par for the course, and she knew it.

She fumbled for her phone, suddenly needing to hear Maura’s voice.

Nothing.

She took a deep breath. It was only 9:30, it was Monday morning. Maura was at work, probably elbow-deep in some poor stranger’s worst nightmare.

Still, she called Korsak next.

“What’s up, Rizzoli?” he gruffed.

“Did Maura come in already?”

“Dunno,” he said, and she could hear his shrug. “Just got here.”

“Can, uh, can you find out?”

She could also hear the squeak of his desk chair as he sat upright. “Yeah, sure. Everything okay, Jane?”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s just not answering her phone.”

“Stand by,” he said, followed by the crackling rustle of his hand covering the phone, the distorted murmur of his voice, a brief pause.

“Yeah, Broward from Narcotics saw her come in, go down to the morgue. I haven’t seen her come back up. You want me to have her call you if she does?”

“Nah,” Jane said, a little too emphatically. Just in case Vanallen had left anything behind in her apartment. “I just had a quick question for her, but it can wait. I’m coming in now.”

“Okay,” Korsak said, and Jane was grateful for the hint of concern in his voice. “You sure you don’t want me to send someone down to check?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

There was a brief pause. “Everything go okay with the lawyer this morning?”

“Great,” she said with that same forced casualness. “We can talk about it when I get in.”

“I read you, Detective,” Korsak said, all seasoned cop. “Drive safe.”

“Will do.”

She slid the phone into her jacket pocket. Bit her lip. Really wished she’d gotten those security cameras when they were on sale last year; made a mental note to order some.

She considered gluing a hair across the front door like she was a Hardy Boy, but shook her head. If someone had been there, it was unlikely they’d come back. They’d either found what they wanted or bugged what they wanted already.

She was just about to leave when she remembered her emergency outfits. Her gut told her to get them, bring them back, though that was less about potential danger and more about being responsible, and making Maura happy.

Mostly about making Maura happy. Especially since Jane knew she might have to tell her about her suspicions, though she really hoped she’d get this all resolved before it came to any more discussion about security measures.

Expensive clothes carefully draped over her arm, she turned out all but one light, and carefully, deliberately locked the door behind her.

 

 

---

 

 

Jane tapped her foot impatiently as the precinct elevator groaned its way to the third floor. Sighed as the doors took their usual eternity to squeal open.

She hadn’t even stopped to get coffee, and was oddly touched when she spotted a paper cup on her desk. It had to be from Maura. She felt a swell of relief.

“Hey, Jane,” Korsak called, not getting up. “The doc just came by and left that for you, you musta gotten ahold of her, huh?”

“Not yet,” she said, taking a deep, fortifying sip. “But I’m glad to know she’s here.”

“Yeah,” Korsak said, leaning forward. “What’s up with that?”

She sighed, settled into her chair. “I think someone broke into my apartment. Yesterday, probably. I was there most of Saturday, so not before then.”

“Why do you think that?” His voice wasn’t doubtful, rather he was abruptly taking her statement, elbows on the desk, face dark and serious. Jane felt another flash of gratitude.

“I walked in this morning after I went to Vanallen’s office and it just felt . . . off, you know?” Korsak nodded. “So I looked around, nothing was missing that I could tell, but some of my, uh, laundry was disturbed.” Couldn’t bring herself to say the word bra out loud.

“You think—“

“Not like that,” she said hastily. “Like someone bumped into the pile.”

Korsak smirked at her. Jane rolled her eyes.

“Maybe if you let me get home at a reasonable hour I could, I dunno, take care of my grown-up responsibilities.”

He snickered a little before clearing his throat, his expression shifting back to seriousness. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah,” she said, rubbing at her palms. “Vanallen.”

Korsak whistled, sat back in his chair. “That’s bad news, Janie.”

“I know. I met the guy.” She shivered, recalling his cold stare, his smug, almost mocking tone. “Refused to talk. Didn’t say ‘warrant,’ but he didn’t have to. But I know he’s involved. Remember how Maura thinks the murder weapon could be a fencing sword?”

Korsak nodded.

“Vanallen’s got an antique fencing mask in his office. I got him to admit he duels with a sabre, the same kind of sword Maura said it could be.”

His face was impassive, waiting for her to continue.

“I rattled him, Korsak. I asked him about it and he froze up, just for a second. And then when I was leaving, I might have told the front office who I was, just to get reactions. Everyone looked up, except one guy.”

“You get his name?”

Jane nodded. “Bradley Johns.”

“I’ll put the new guys on it. Jane,” he said solemnly, leaning forward. “I can’t take this to the Captain, not yet, but you find anything else—anything, Detective—and I’m putting a detail on you, the doc, and the doc’s mom. Got it?”

“Lieu—“

“Got it?” he repeated, looking at her hard. Jane swallowed, something hot sticking in her throat, something cold blooming in her chest.

“Got it,” she said hoarsely.

“Good,” Korsak nodded. He sat back a little. “You go through all that stuff I sent you?”

Jane straightened up, relieved to have something else to dive into. “Yeah, thanks. Any way we can hurry the lab up on those hairs from the vacuum cleaner?”

Korsak snorted. “You wanna go try to convince Martinez to jump us to the head of the line, be my guest.”

Jane flinched. “No thanks.” She flipped through the omnipresent stack of files on her desk. “I listened to the interviews. I still don’t think Tyler or Handel were involved, do you?”

“Nah,” Korsak said. “What did you think of the new guys?”

“Not . . . terrible,” she admitted. “Not great,” she added quickly. “Lots of room to improve.”

“But you think they can improve?”

“Yeah,” Jane shrugged. “I thought what’s-his-name did a good job. The one playing good cop. Not too buddy-buddy, but still got what he needed.”

“Mason,” Korsak nodded. “He’s all right. Smart kid, good with people.” He gave Jane a pointed stare.

Jane scowled at him. He grinned.

“I wanna follow up with Tyler and Handel in a day or two, see if anything’s had time to shake loose. Maybe they forgot Sheridan mentioning a visitor, or something.” Korsak nodded. “Any news on getting Andrés Matins in for questioning? I saw they called him.”

“Heh,” he chortled. “Good luck. Guy’s been impossibly to contact directly. We keep getting his secretary who keeps saying he’s unavailable but will get back to us soon.”

“Did you try telling the secretary we’re the police?” Jane asked dryly. Korsak sighed. “I’ll ask Constance if she has any ideas on how to get in touch with him, preferably before we have to send a couple black-and-whites to pick him up.”

Korsak frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“She’s staying at the Fairmont in the nicest suite they have,” Jane said, remembering she hadn’t told Korsak about the change in sleeping arrangements. 

I—

Don’t you fucking dare.

"More security there than at Maura’s," she added lamely.

“Hmm,” Korsak said. “But you’re still at the doc’s place, yeah?”

Jane scanned his tone carefully, looking for any hint of a snicker, but found only warm concern.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s . . . I gotta keep an eye on her. And my Ma,” she added quickly. “Matins knows Maura’s house, since he dropped Constance off. And there’s no way Vanallen wouldn’t know too; he got someone into my place and I’m a BPD detective, so finding out where a public figure like Maura lives would have to be a piece of cake.”

“You say the word, kid,” Korsak said softly.

“It’s fine,” Jane waved his worry away, though she couldn’t deny she was a little worried herself. “Maura’s got a security system. Cameras and stuff.”

“Guest house too?”

“Yeah,” Jane said. She felt a little awkward as a renewed rush of gratitude spread through her. “Uh,” she said, rubbing at her temples as she fished around on her desk. “The big thing I found out is Sheridan made a new will a month ago, after they found out they were dying from heavy-metal poisoning, so Maura was right about that too. I gotta find out who their doctor was, maybe Maura can get the records, if she hasn’t already. But the main thing is Sheridan made it clear that if they died before the contract dispute was resolved the negotiations should stop and the existing contract should be allowed to expire.”

“The publisher’s not gonna like that,” Korsak said mildly. “You think they knew about the updated will?”

“And had Sheridan killed anyway?” Jane looked at him skeptically. “Either way they lose, and this way comes with murder and conspiracy charges.”

“You got any copies of the old one?”

Jane shook her head. “Constance is meeting with Sheridan’s personal attorney this afternoon; turns out Vanallen was only  hired for anything to do with Blanton Cronie. Which Sheridan preferred; thought the guy was a creep.” She cocked her head. “Can’t say I disagree.”

“Good work, Rizzoli,” Korsak grinned.

“Good to have some leads,” Jane deflected. “Still doesn’t tell me who actually committed the murder, though.”

“What about Vanallen’s sword?” Korsak’s thick Boston accent stumbled over the word, forcing it out as soahd.

Jane shrugged. “He seems more like the kind of guy who pays people to clean up his messes for him.” She frowned. “But it has been bothering me . . .” she drifted off.

“What?”

“This hit was . . . messy, you know? Unprofessional. Obvious.”

“Personal,” Korsak added thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Feels like it. But Vanallen doesn’t seem like the type to get his hands dirty, at least not this dirty.” She glanced at the scene photos, the carefully-curated blood patterns. “And what does he get out of it, anyway? A little more money? A little more prestige? Hard to bounce back from such a public murder, even if it’s not your fault. We’re obviously not the only ones who know how Sheridan felt about Vanallen; people would talk anyway.”

“Something to think about,” Korsak nodded sagely. “Finding a motive does tend to impress a jury.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Good tip.”

“Try to get ahold of Matins,” Korsak said. “Maybe he’s the one with the grudge. Jealous of Sheridan’s professional success, could be. Or the sixteen million dollar investment his company was about to lose out on. Money and ego are both pretty powerful motivators.”

“I know, I know. I’ll call Constance once I get all this stuff sorted out. Maybe this other attorney will be more helpful.”

Korsak snorted. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Thanks for the support, boss,” she muttered as she clicked to open a blank interview form for her brief encounter with Vanallen. She hated paperwork, but at least this one would be short, if not sweet.

Maybe Maura would come up and suggest they get lunch later. That was something.

Maybe Maura would kiss her later.

Jane wasn’t ever a fan of public displays of affection, particularly in this case; it was partly the gay thing, fine—just because she really, really liked kissing Maura didn’t mean she was suddenly ready for everyone to think . . . whatever they’d think—but it was more that it was so new, so fragile, that she wanted to keep it just to herself for a while.

But if Maura leaned up for a kiss on the sidewalk at whatever annoyingly-healthy bistro they’d inevitably end up at, would she pull away?

The hell you would.

Work was definitely off-limits, though. Not because of Maura—hell, she’d love to shut a couple of the less-charming officers from Traffic up with a well-timed confirmation of their off-color jabs; nothing defuses jokes like a confident assertion of the truth, plus she wasn’t blind, she knew what she’d finessed, wouldn’t object to lording it over them just a tiny bit—

Like you had some smooth plan.

They don’t have to know that.

—but work had always been a contact-free zone. She’d even managed to impress it upon her mother, though the results had been . . . mixed.

And anyway, Maura might not have a filter when it came to a lot of things, but Jane trusted her to not spill the beans, not that she would in the first place. Maura was always impeccably professional with her own staff, to the point that more than a few of them were openly terrified of her.

Jane kind of admired it. To be fearfully respected because you were so polite. She was sure Maura would feel terrible about it if she knew, but her lack of ease with social cues meant she’d just keep cowing young morgue techs with courtesy until someone finally worked up the courage to ask her to call them by their first name.

She grinned thinking about it. About how lucky she was.

Her grin faded as she glanced back at her work. Thought about the blue bra on the floor.

She trusts you with her life. In more ways than one.

Jane bit her lip, went back to work.

 

 

---

 

 

It was nearly six when her phone buzzed. Maura had stopped by briefly in the afternoon, apologizing for not being able to get lunch. Jane was positive Maura had given her a little wink to go with the pout that looked just a little too flirtatious to be truly sad. Jane had gulped, stammered, rubbed at the back of her neck. Said it was no problem, that she had a lot of work to do which was, as usual, the annoying truth.

“I’ll see you tonight, then?” Her voice was low. Silky. The same voice that had whispered please don’t stop.

She was doing it on purpose.

“Yeah, uh, definitely,” Jane grinned, feeling like a lovesick teenager again.

Constance had checked in a couple hours later, had said the other attorney, Heilmann, was looking forward to talking to her at her convenience, and had three previous versions of Sheridan’s wills he’d kept over the years, just in case. “As any good lawyer does,” Constance had said airily, and Jane had found herself nodding, like she knew what any good lawyer did.

So she wasn’t really expecting to hear from anyone so close to going home; she flipped her phone over, felt a flash of excitement and anticipation when Maura’s name showed on the screen.

“Hey,” she said, grimacing as her voice cracked a little.

“Jane,” Maura whispered. Her voice was low, soft, frightened.

“What’s going on, are you okay? Maura?” She was immediately attenuated, already standing up, grabbing her jacket.

“Jane, I need you to come home right now. Please.”

“Maura, what’s—”

“I’m all right. But please. Come home as soon as you can.”

“I’m on my way.”

The cold feeling she’d experienced earlier, when Korsak had insisted he’d get her a security detail if one more thing happened, flooded over her again. She raced to the house, not throwing on the lights or sirens, but absolutely ready to flash her badge if a patrol cop pulled her over. Fortunately traffic was with her, and she was at Maura’s less than fifteen minutes later.

“Maura?” she called after unlocking the front door—both knob and deadbolt, she noted, briefly pleased. “Maur, where are you?”

“Jane,” Maura said, rushing over to her, her face drawn and pale. She clutched at Jane’s hand.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

“I got home,” she said, her voice tight. “And when I came in the door I saw . . ." she drifted off, pointing to the kitchen island, her hand trembling.

A glossy rectangle lay on the counter. As Jane got closer, she noticed one edge was rough and jagged, like it had been torn from a book. As for the image itself—

Her heart stopped.

Page 67.

 

 

Notes:

1. obviously Jane would compare herself to a Hardy Boy instead of Nancy Drew. Maura compares herself to Hildegard von Bingen, natch.
2. Korsak’s a lieutenant now. why not???? still sits in the bullpen like a homie, tho, because this is a work of fiction

Chapter 13: Some Intense Bruce Wayne Vibes

Summary:

wasn't gonna post this so quickly but I wrote it in the same go as the last chapter and I hate delayed gratification

“Who did this, Jane?” Maura whispered, her eyes dark and huge.

“I—I’m not sure. But I have a feeling it’s the attorney, Robert Vanallen. Someone he sent, anyway.”

As much as she wanted to shield Maura from the dangers of this investigation, she knew it was too late. Knew immediately that the page left on the kitchen counter had been ripped from her own book, the one at the back of her closet. Whoever had taken it must have bumped into the hamper, not noticed the bra falling out of place, or figured she wouldn’t.

How did they know it was there? How long have they been watching us? Ever since Constance showed up?

“Jane,” Maura whispered again. Her skin was ghostly pale, her brow deeply furrowed. “I—“

“Hey, Jane said, snapping out of her adrenaline-induced trance. She tugged Maura’s wrist, pulling her close. She wrapped her arms around Maura’s thin shoulders, an inopportune thrill running through her as she finally let herself drop a kiss to the top of her head. “I know,” she soothed, murmuring into Maura’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

“Why would someone as—as public as Robert Vanallen do something like this?”

“Because he’s involved in the murder, Maura. He’s a fencer. Uses a sabre.”

Maura stiffened, pulling back. “Are you—how do you know?”

“He has a fencing mask in his office, an antique, I think. Said it was a gift from a client. I bluffed about it being a sabre mask, and he didn’t deny it.”

“There are some slight differences in form and construction between masks due to the differences in dueling styles,” Maura murmured, almost compulsively. “Though even moderately experienced fencers might not know for sure at first glance, particularly if it was an antique design.” She looked up, forehead still creased with worry, but her eyes were brighter, admiring. “That was very clever of you, Jane,” she said softly.

“I’m pretty clever sometimes,” she rasped back, offering a crooked little grin. Shook away the echo of Vanallen’s unsettling clever young detective.

Maura bit her lip, like she was trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say next. “Jane,” she murmured finally, eyes cast demurely down. “This may be an inappropriate request, but I’m quite out of sorts at the moment, and I think it might help calm me down if I, um, if I could . . . kiss you?”

Jane smiled broadly. She’d suspected this was where Maura was going, but that didn’t mean it was absolutely thrilling to hear the words out loud.

“Whatever you need, babe,” Jane said, the endearment slipping out unbidden as she lifted Maura’s chin with her fingertips, relishing in the way her eyes slid closed, her lips parted slightly.

Kissing her felt just as good as it had that morning. And, to her surprise, it calmed her down as well. She’d expected to feel more jittery, wired, but the warm press of Maura’s lips made her breathing slow, her shoulders relax.

Maybe it’s medicine for you, too.

Maura pulled away after a moment, her face softer, less apprehensive. “You know,” she said, “I’ve never especially appreciated being called babe.” She pressed a finger to Jane’s lips before she could make a fumbling apology. “But for some reason, I enjoy the way it sounds when you say it.” She gave her a slow smile, that slightly mischievous one that made Jane’s knees go weak.

“No problem,” she mumbled, a little dazed. She blinked, her glance flicking back to the photograph on the counter. “Uh, so, I hate to spoil the mood, but—“

“I’ll get another room at the Fairmont,” Maura interrupted. “And one for Angela as well. We obviously can’t stay here.”

“You can’t,” Jane agreed. “And thanks for thinking about Ma. But—“

“Absolutely not, Jane.”

“Absolutely not what?” she replied, even though she knew very well absolutely not what.

“You’re not staying here as—as some sort of bait,” Maura cried, hands on her hips. “I’ll tell Lieutenant Korsak myself—“

“Maura,” she said gently, placing her hand on Maura’s elbow. “What’ll you tell Korsak? That someone broke into your house and left behind a naked picture of you that they ripped out of the book I hid in the back of my closet?” 

Maura froze, her face draining of color again.

“What?” her voice was soft, steady, but Jane could see the effort it was taking to keep it that way.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “I was going to tell you, I just . . . hadn’t yet.”

“They got this from your apartment?”

She was doing that cool, quiet thing that meant Jane was in big trouble.

“Uh—“

“When?”

“Yesterday. Or Saturday night. After I came back, uh, here,” she finished, more than a little afraid this wasn’t going to be home for much longer.

“How did you know?”

“I went back to change this morning—which reminds me, my emergency outfits are in the car, but they’re probably wrinkled now.”

“I don’t care about the outfits. How do you know this page came from your copy of the book?”

Jane felt a hot wave of shame. Knew Maura wasn’t implying Jane had gone home to sneak a peek—

You almost did, though. Turns out it might have helped.

—but she was angry that Jane hadn’t told her about her own break-in; though, to be fair, she hadn’t really had time. Or proof.

But now she had to explain the whole thing. That she’d hastily hidden the book under her old BPD softball shirts because she was afraid she’d find herself staring at Page 67 again. That she hadn’t checked the book closely today for that very same reason.

“It felt weird in my apartment when I got there,” she continued quickly. “Just a gut feeling. Nothing was taken—nothing else, I mean—but I noticed some of my laundry had been knocked over by the closet. But everything else looked normal.”

“Clearly it wasn’t,” Maura said, and Jane felt a little flash of anger of her own.

“Yeah, no shit,” she snapped, then winced. “Sorry. I was going to tell you. I swear.”

There was another chilly pause.

“Someone knows this is me.”

Her voice was flat, expressionless. It made Jane shiver.

“And,” she continued, looking at Jane, “they know you know it’s me. That it would be effective in frightening both of us, and by its nature and provenance would have a greater chance of ensuring that we wouldn’t share this with your commanding officer, as it could potentially compromise us both personally and professionally, though for different reasons.”

Jane’s stomach sank. She hadn’t gotten quite that far yet, but Maura was right. Of course she was.

“This is sexual blackmail,” Maura said simply, after a long, tense moment. Her voice was rough, wavering just a little, and Jane could see the tears gathering in her eyes.

She wasn’t sad or scared, though. She was furious. It radiated off her, practically visible.

“Maura—“

“I’ll book the rooms,” she said, her tone icy, clipped. “Please tell your mother.”

 

 

---

 

 

Jane had been in fancy hotels before, but it had almost always been for a case. She knew the circumstances were dire, but couldn’t help gaping in admiration at their room; a smaller set of rooms on the top floor down the hall from Constance’s usual accommodations, which naturally turned out to be the Presidential Suite. Angela was a floor below, in one of the deluxe rooms.

It hadn’t taken much for her mother to acquiesce, her face uncharacteristically grave as Jane had filled her in on the very, very basics, just that someone had broken into both her place and Maura’s. The seriousness of the situation didn’t affect the earful she’d given Jane the entire drive to the hotel, however.

“I told you, Jane,” she’d growled.

“Told me what, Ma? That some friend of Maura’s mother would get murdered in the metro area and we’d have to take a vacation in a four-star hotel?”

“Don’t you sass me,” she’d warned, and her tone had made Jane shrink back into the driver’s seat.

“I can’t believe this,” Angela continued, muttering at the window. “Just once I’d like to see a friend without it being under police supervision.”

Jane had made the profoundly awkward, delicate call to Korsak, letting him know he should run the situation up the ladder. She’d avoided too many specifics, like Maura’s bare breast and Jane’s secret dirty book and uh, by the way, we were making out in her kitchen about twenty minutes ago.

To his credit, Korsak hadn’t pried. Much. He’d definitely taken great pains to establish how many rooms he’d need to get protection for, and who’d be sleeping where, but passed it off as standard procedure, which Jane knew was technically true, but still clocked his faux-surprised little huh when she’d confirmed she was staying in Maura’s suite, a thing she’d felt a surge of relief about when Maura had texted the confirmations, afraid she’d been busted down to bunking with her mother. Emphasized to Korsak that it was a whole suite, leaving out that it only had one bed. He didn’t need to know that.

He had told her he’d need both the book and the torn-out page as evidence, though, and Jane gritted her teeth.

“Don’t worry, Janie, I got better things to spend my time looking at,” he’d said, kindness underpinning the tease in his voice, and Jane had believed him. Knew that while he, like everyone else with eyes, acknowledged Maura’s attractiveness, he tended to think of her as a daughter, like he did Jane. And it didn’t take a decorated police detective to suss out his feelings about the two of them, despite his less-than-enlightened overall perspective. She thought about her mother seeing the pictures of Mariella’s wedding. How it seemed to be easier to accept when it involved someone she already liked.

“It’s just that, uh, it might have, um, a negative impact on, uh, on Maura,” she finally managed to spit out. “Even though it was a long time ago, and it was supposed to be kept anonymous. So it has to have been someone who knew Sheridan, or had access to their original consent forms or contracts.” She was a little breathless when she finished, trying to keep her pulse from racing as she . . . confessed? Close enough.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he’d said, light and reassuring. “This goes straight to the Captain, no stops along the way. I’ll let you know what to expect in a couple hours.”

“Thanks, Korsak,” she said. “Sorry about all this.”

He snorted. “Why should you be sorry? It’s not your fault a bunch of rich assholes couldn’t stand not getting a little bit richer. And you know I, uh, I . . . look out for you, Janie. I always do. And Maura. And Angela, too. Plus Frankie’d come kill me himself if I let his ma or his sister get hurt. You tell him yet?”

“Next call. And nobody’s gonna get hurt,” she added, cheeks hot with embarrassment at Korsak’s words.

“Not at the Fairmont, anyway.” He whistled. “I stayed there once, you know. Stakeout, must be thirty years ago. They put little chocolates on the pillows and everything.”

“I’ll make sure to get you a couple,” Jane said, rolling her eyes.

“You better,” Korsak chuckled. “Hey, can you get the doc to send her security video over to our guys? This time I know we’ll get bumped to the head of the line.”

“Yeah, sure. You gonna send any scene techs out?”

“In the morning. To your place, too.”

“Make sure to send someone from Electronics, I’m pretty sure they bugged both our houses.”

“Jesus, Jane,” Korsak breathed. “You’re really in it, aren’t ya.”

“You know I never do anything halfway,” she sighed.

“Stay safe, Janie,” he said, and it wasn’t a lieutenant cautioning his detective, it was Vince talking to Jane.

“I will,” she said, the blush flaring on her cheeks again. “Thanks.”

“I’ll get back to you soon,” he said, and ended the call.

 

 

---

 

 

Maura sat on the edge of the large, soft bed, bracing herself with both hands, her face a cool, expressionless mask.

“Maur?” Jane said tentatively from the door to the suite’s bedroom. “You want me to come in?”

“I don’t know, Jane,” Maura replied, not looking at her. “I’m extremely angry, which isn’t an emotion I experience often. I’m still trying to figure out how to best manage it.”

“Gotcha,” she said softly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be out here in the other room.”

“All right,” Maura said, and that was that. Jane slinked back into the living area—still a little awed by essentially staying in a one-bedroom apartment—and tried to sit in a plush armchair, but popped back up immediately, pacing in front of the window overlooking the busy commercial street.

Now that they’d relocated, now that Korsak was setting up protection, Jane felt the armor of immediate action begin to fall away, exposing her own raw fury. Maura had called it sexual blackmail, and she’d been right. It didn’t matter that they weren’t having sex. It mattered that someone was trying to manipulate them in the lowest possible way, threatening their jobs, their reputations.

Their relationship.

Jane’s hands balled into fists at her sides. She really wanted to punch something, but not anything in this insanely expensive hotel room, that much was obvious.

Korsak had called a few minutes earlier, right before Jane had checked on Maura. Two plainclothes officers would be stationed at the hotel, one on each floor their party occupied. Two uniforms would loiter around the lobby and street outside. It made Jane feel a little better, but that thin tendril of relief was quickly replaced by another wave of anger at being trapped, watched, just in a different way.

She flopped back into the armchair, sighed heavily. Looked at her phone. A moment later, she stood up again, crossed back to the bedroom.

“You wanna go punch some stuff?” she asked, cocking her head. Maura eyed her skeptically.

“This place has a huge gym. I looked it up. Wanna go sweat some frustration out with me for a little bit?”

Maura frowned, and Jane was sure she was going to refuse, but after a beat, she sighed, shrugged, stood up.

“I’ll have some workout clothes sent up,” she said, reaching for the room phone.

“I was just gonna wear this,” she said, indicating the long shorts and BPD t-shirt she’d stuffed in her bag on Saturday.

“No, Jane,” Maura said sharply. Jane opened her mouth to reply, but Maura held up her hand, already on with the concierge. “Yes, this is Maura Isles. Would you please have two sets of gym clothes sent up? Medium, please. Eight and nine and a half. Thank you so much.”

Jane just gaped at her.

“This is a luxury hotel, Jane,” Maura said patiently. “I could have them install a gym in this room if I wanted. If it’ll keep us safe, I will.”

Maura rarely drew attention to her wealth; it usually seemed to make her as uncomfortable as it did Jane. Sure, she bought fancier things than Jane could even imagine knowing to look for, but she didn’t tend to flaunt her privilege.

She had that look, though, the one she’d only gotten once or twice before, when she’d been forced to get involved in Boston Brahmin social ugliness to defend Jane. The look that said fuck with me and I’ll buy your whole life and sell it to the lowest bidder.

Jane didn’t exactly like it, but she had to admit seeing Maura willing to flex her massive social and financial power to defend her family and friends against people who appeared on the same donor lists as her was kind of . . . hot.

No. Bad Jane.

It was, though. Not the money part, even though Maura was currently giving off some intense Bruce Wayne vibes; it was more that this situation clearly required every available resource, and if you were going up against people whose last names were on museum wings and university buildings, wasn’t it better to have yours on entire city blocks?

If Jane squinted, she could see the Isles Foundation headquarters from here. She was pretty sure, anyway.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Jane glanced through the peephole, her hand holding the security bar down. A bland-looking man stood on the other side of the door, his expression vaguely bored. He held up his badge.

Jane cracked the door open. “Pass it through, please,” she said. A leather badge holder slipped around the door. Officer Paul Cantor. “Thanks,” she said, opening the door more fully.

“Detective Rizzoli,” Officer Cantor tilted his head down, half a nod. “I’ll be assigned to your floor for the evening rotation. Officer Washington is downstairs. Your Captain should have sent you our cell numbers.”

Jane nodded. “You got names and descriptions?”

“Robert Vanallen. Bradley Johns. Andrés Matins. White males, two between 5’10” and 6’, one approximately 5’8”. I have recent photos, you wanna see ‘em?”

“No, that’s great,” Jane said, comforted by Cantor’s blunt professionalism.

“Here you go,” he said, thrusting a box at her, the lid open, contents clearly examined. “You planning on going somewhere?”

“Uh, just to the gym, on the roof.”

Cantor eyed her.

“Thirty minutes,” she said. “Come on, please?”

He held eye contact just a bit longer. “Thirty minutes. I’ll let Mrs. Isles know to keep her door locked, no visitors. I’ll be going with you, at least to make sure the area is clear.”

“Sounds good,” she said, giving him a grateful smile before closing the door, even though it didn’t sound good at all. It sounded miserable, having a babysitter. But, she thought, as Maura brightened a little at the delivery, it was worth it.

“I don’t think they have any boxing equipment,” Maura said, sliding a pair of new tennis shoes out of the box. “But I’m sure they’d be happy to install some for you.”

“No,” Jane said quickly. “Please don’t have them build a boxing gym just because we’ll be here for a week.”

Maura glanced up at her, face impassive.

“Maybe less?”

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Put these on, we’ll run together.” She handed Jane a stack of folded garments, set her own pair of shoes on top.

Jane ducked into the bathroom, changed quickly. When she emerged, Maura was dressed, tying her shoes.

“Ready?”

Maura stood, gave her a nod. “Ready,” she said.

When they reached the door, Maura paused, laced her fingers through Jane’s.

When Jane glanced at her, Maura leaned up, capturing her mouth, her tongue demanding entrance. Jane acquiesced immediately, snaking her arms around Maura’s waist.

The kiss was hot, hungry, half-desperate. Maura whimpered slightly against Jane’s mouth and she felt her knees buckle. Before she could respond, Maura pulled away.

“Come on,” she said, her cheeks flushed pink. “We’ll do a 5k.”

She pulled the door open, nodding politely to Officer Cantor. Jane followed behind, already breathless.

 

 

---

 

 

When they returned thirty-three minutes later, Jane was drained and exhausted, yet buzzing with a weird kind of energy, fizzy and anxious. It was nine-thirty, plenty late enough to go to bed, but the idea held no appeal for Jane. Or, rather, not the right kind.

“Did that help?” Maura asked, daintily dabbing the sweat from her neck with a small towel. Jane couldn’t help but stare as a droplet started at her hairline, rolling smoothly down her neck, settling at the hollow of her throat. “Jane?”

“Uh,” she said quickly, “yeah, it—it did. Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

She needed to get away from Maura and her clean sweat and her glowing skin and her flushed cheeks. Just for a couple of minutes.

“Of course,” Maura murmured, looking at Jane from under her eyelashes. “I’ll go after you.”

Jane swallowed hard. “Sure,” she croaked.

“I brought you some pajamas, if you want,” Maura said, disappearing into the bedroom.

“Thanks,” she managed.

Took a deep breath.

“Are you all right?” Maura asked, concerned, as she returned with Jane’s pajamas, neatly folded.

“I’m fine,” Jane said, her voice catching. She cleared her throat. “Fine.”

“Are you sure?” Maura asked softly, resting her fingertips on Jane’s bare arm, goosebumps rising immediately.

“It’s been a weird few days,” Jane said. At least it was true, if not the whole truth.

Maura bit her lip. “It has.”

They stood like that for a few fluttery heartbeats before Jane broke away.

“Be right back,” she said weakly, before all but fleeing into the bathroom.

She showered quickly, as promised. Spent the whole time anxious about what would happen when she got out.

Jane might have been oblivious about Maura’s feelings in some respects, but the sexual tension between them was so thick even she couldn’t miss it. The way Maura had kissed her before they’d gone to the rooftop gym. The way Jane hadn’t been able to stop glancing at Maura’s chest as she ran on the treadmill next to hers. And that last little moment, when Jane had been briefly overwhelmed by the desire to yank Maura’s clothes off.

It’s not that she wasn’t increasingly desperate to do it. Just that she really hadn’t imagined the first time being in a hotel suite while they were being threatened by a cartel of Boston’s most notable citizens, Maura’s mother down the hall and Jane’s downstairs. What if it didn’t work out, what if they went back home when this was over and it was different, uncomfortable and strange?

What if she was, like, truly terrible at it?

Jane shook her head, turned the water off. It was too soon anyway, really. They’d kissed for the first time barely fifteen hours ago. They couldn’t go this fast, it wasn’t right.

Though the more Jane thought about it, the less she was convinced that was true. Maura seemed just as wound up as she was. Had been the one to kiss her, hard and urgent.

And it’s not like you haven’t been dancing around it for-fucking-ever.

She put on the pajamas Maura had brought her, yet another version of the luxuriously soft shorts and tank top she’d worn previously. Just how many of them did she have hidden away?

Maura was waiting when she opened the door. Jane watched her pupils dilate as she leaned close, breathing in the scent of Jane’s clean skin. It should have been uncomfortable, that kind of blatant intimacy—it had always made her uncomfortable before, at least—but something about it caused a rush of heat between her legs.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Maura said, seeming to resist the urge to lick the moisture off her skin, Jane resisting the urge to invite her to.

“Okay,” Jane stammered. Once she heard the water start again, she went to the bedroom and collapsed weakly on the bed, arm thrown over her eyes.

You gonna do this, Rizzoli? For real?

She lay there, motionless, not sure if she was paralyzed with anxiety or if it was just arousal making her feel so heavy and warm, until she heard the water shut off again, then sat up abruptly.

Stood when Maura came into the room, wearing her little slip and matching robe, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“Jane,” she said softly, that same devouring look in her eye.

Jane couldn’t speak. She gave a jerky little nod, and Maura moved closer, not quite touching her, but so near Jane could feel the heat radiating from her body.

“Would you like to have sex with me?”

It should have been embarrassing. Ridiculous. To be asked so directly, no awkward, euphemistic negotiation. It should have been, but instead it was the hottest thing Jane had ever heard. She swallowed, or tried to, something sticking in her throat.

Maura smiled crookedly, her eyes sparkling, shining almost copper in the low light from the bedside lamp.

She nodded again.

“Are you sure, Jane?” Maura asked, her voice much steadier than Jane supposed her own was, if she could talk, which she couldn’t.

She nodded a third time.

“I need you to tell me,” Maura said sweetly, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Jane’s ear, letting her thumb drift over the apple of her cheek.

Jane swallowed hard again, cleared her throat. “I’m sure.”

Chapter 14: For Your Edification And Reference

Summary:

should probably put the kids to bed for this one

“Are you sure, Jane?” Maura asked, her voice much steadier than Jane supposed her own was, if she could talk, which she couldn’t.

She nodded.

“I need you to tell me,” Maura said sweetly, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Jane’s ear, letting her thumb drift over the apple of her cheek.

Jane cleared her throat. “I’m sure,” she croaked, all the air she’d managed to scrape together vacating her body in a single puff as Maura leaned up to slowly trace Jane’s lips with her tongue.

Jane’s knees started to buckle, making her sag against Maura, who deftly circled her waist, supporting her and guiding her toward the bed without breaking their kiss.

Jane couldn’t force a single rational thought through her brain as Maura gently helped lower them to the mattress together, gracefully straddling her, fingers threaded through her hair. All she knew was yes, yes, yes.

Sure, she’d thought about pretty much exactly this enough times; her fingers fumbling at her waistband, cursing buttons and zippers in an effort to relieve the heavy ache between her legs, imagining Maura’s soft, sure touch in the secrecy of the dark, exactly like the one that was really, actually, literally happening. But that didn’t mean her brain was currently capable of generating anything more than a dense fuzz of want, and a faint disappointment about not being able to catalogue every single second.

“Will you let me,” Maura breathed hot and wet against Jane’s throat. “Will you let me, Jane?”

Jane had no idea what permission Maura was looking for, so she gripped Maura’s waist, sliding her hands firmly up her rib cage, stopping just short of the soft swell of Maura’s breasts.

She wasn’t sure what made her stop; Maura was swiveling her hips on Jane’s lap, her head thrown back, long neck bared, her hands tight on Jane’s shoulders. She was into it. Right? She seemed into it. Right now, anyway, when Jane had a reasonably good idea of what she was doing.

Page 67 flashed before her eyes again. Maura’s description of the session bubbled up through the haze of lust; wanting to feel free, confident, wanting to be unbridled in her appetites, to demand what she desired. To not be afraid of it, intimidated by it.

And you think you can do that too? With the most beautiful woman on Earth? Who knows exactly what she wants? What if you’re absolutely terrible at this? What if she doesn’t like it?

And then the other, worse thing.

What if it turns out what she wants isn’t you?

Jane felt like a bucket of water had been dumped on her. That thought was the one that scared her so much she’d worked desperately for years to avoid so much as sneaking an idle daydream about holding Maura’s hand. Had pushed what she knew she wanted down so far that she was prepared to live the rest of her life being only kind of happy with whatever man decided to not be a total jackass, if it meant she still had Maura’s trust and affection.

But now here she was, so close to having what she knew she wanted, and she was battling the overwhelming urge to run. Because what if—

“Jane?” Maura sat back on her heels, worry creeping into her features as she ran her hand down Jane’s arm.

“Maura, I—“ she stammered, pulling away slightly.

Maura stilled her hand immediately, slipping off her lap so quickly Jane wasn’t sure how she’d done it. Her face was grave, eyes dark and serious.

“Are you all right, Jane? Did I do something wrong? We can—“

“No,” Jane cut off Maura’s incipient spiral. “You, uh, you’re . . . you’re perfect, Maura.”

“Then what?” Maura ignored Jane’s compliment in favor of concern, which made Jane feel both embarrassed and utterly, idiotically in love.

“That’s what,” Jane mumbled, desperately hoping Maura would understand her telepathically or through osmosis or something; anything other than having to actually say words out loud.

Maura frowned, bit her lip. Twisted her fingers together.

“You’re perfect, Maura,” Jane breathed, forcing the words out. “You’re kind and sweet and attentive and a legit genius and I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself in a mirror, but—“

“Jane, please,” Maura said, almost annoyed, and Jane was acutely aware of how close she was to totally fucking this whole development, but in the wrong way.

“WhatifI’mawfulandyouhateitandthenyouhateme,” Jane exhaled rapidly, squeezing her eyes shut.

When she cracked one open, Maura’s expression held for a moment before visible relief washed over her, pulling her mouth into a wide smile. She reached for Jane again. “I already love it,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her voice low and liquid. “You’re incredible. And I could never, ever hate you, Jane, I’d hoped you’d know that by now. This isn’t going to change how I feel about you in any way. I promise.”

Jane scanned Maura’s chest for hives. Only an expanse of silky pale skin, flushed with arousal. She gulped.

“I promise, Jane,” Maura repeated, squeezing her hand.

“I—I know, Maura. Me either. I promise. It’s just that this isn’t, uh, quite how I imagined our first time.”

“Jane,” Maura’s voice dropped to a low, honeyed purr. “I realized quite a while ago that all I wanted for our first time was for it to happen as soon as possible.”

“Jesus,” she whispered hoarsely as she felt part of her anxiety dissipate. Now all she was worried about was being a lousy lay. Great.

And of course, Maura saw that too.

“What else is bothering you?” she asked, her tone both sweet and huskily flirtatious, a strange combination that nevertheless made Jane feel weak. “Are you concerned about your performance?”

There was no tease or judgment in Maura’s voice. Jane nodded sheepishly.

“That’s all right.” Maura sat next to her and smiled that slow, syrupy smile again, the one that caused Jane to buzz. “While I know this is your first time with another woman”—Jane grimaced a little, making Maura smirk—“I have no doubt that you will be able to more than adequately satisfy my needs.”

Jane rolled her eyes. Just a tiny bit. She couldn’t help it.

Maura noticed, offering a coy little pout. She tugged Jane down on the bed so that their bodies were just brushing against each other, Jane hovering slightly above her, wild black curls sweeping across the exposed skin of her chest. She slid her hand around the back of Jane’s neck, tugging her closer, but bypassed her lips, settling her mouth next to Jane’s ear.

“I know you’ll make me come, Jane,” she breathed. Jane groaned, her hips jerking toward Maura’s, who pulled her body slightly away.

“I know you will,” she murmured again, “but I only want you to when you’re comfortable and confident.”

“But—“

“And while I’m looking forward to that,” Maura continued, licking delicately at the shell of Jane’s ear, trailing hot kisses down her throat, “I think it would be both practical and informative if I were to give you a demonstration of how I prefer to be touched.”

All the moisture in Jane’s body was currently pooling between her thighs, making it difficult for her to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She nodded dumbly, Maura’s smirk reinforcing her acquiescence.

“You stay there,” Maura commanded, pushing lightly against Jane’s sternum.

She nodded again as Maura slid away from her, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and turning to face Jane, running her fingertips along the sash of her short robe.

Jane couldn’t be entirely sure, but she was pretty sure, that at some point earlier in the evening she had, in fact, died, and had somehow ended up in the wrong place, given her history of sins both venal and mortal.

Maura deftly slipped the robe off her shoulders and caught the thin straps of her nightgown in the same graceful motion, revealing all that smooth skin, and then—Jane not sure she was ready, even though she knew it was coming—the firm swell of her breasts with their taut pink nipples.

Jane put another mark in the died, in heaven column.

She adjusted herself on the bed so that she was propped up on her elbow, face cupped in her hand. Maura let the nightgown slide to the ground, stepping daintily out of it before running her hands up and down her body, eyes sliding closed as her fingertips brushed over her breasts.

“Gmmph,” Jane said, not even close to a word, and Maura gave her a sly, crooked grin. Her blood felt thick, hot, heavy; her thighs slipped against each other despite the barrier of her tight shorts. As Maura slipped back onto the bed several inches away from her, completely naked, she felt a powerful jolt of arousal, so strong her eyelids fluttered.

“Shut up,” she muttered when Maura giggled at her reaction, but the musical little sound only amplified the fire in her belly.

“Do you want me to describe what I’m doing?” Maura asked, her tone both seductive and sincere. “How it feels? For your edification and reference, of course.”

“Of course,” Jane echoed absently, already laser-focused on Maura’s fingertips, which were drifting down the plane of her stomach.

“While I enjoy a wide range of stimuli,” Maura began, her voice already slightly breathy, “I generally prefer to start slowly. It allows time for—for pleasure chemicals to build up in the—ah—bloodstream.”

“Noted,” Jane gasped. Her fingers flexed against the bedsheets, unconsciously mimicking Maura’s movements.

“In this case,” Maura continued, her voice breaking as she gently stroked along the curve of her hipbone, whole body wriggling as she traced along the bare skin, “the concentrations are already quite high.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm,” Maura murmured. She lifted her other hand, let it play along her throat, whimpering softly as she dragged her fingertips along her collarbone.

“What are you, uh, thinking about?” Jane managed to choke out.

“You,” Maura breathed, and Jane groaned, squeezed her thighs together.

“What, uh . . . what am I doing?”

“This,” she sighed, the tip of her tongue wetting her parted lips as she drifted her hand over her breast, cupping it in her palm, letting her thumb toy with her nipple, rubbing it in little circles. The pressure made her moan and squirm, her other hand pressing a little harder at her apex, not slipping in yet, just teasing.

“What else?” Jane’s fingers twitched again, mirroring Maura’s.

“You’re kissing my neck,” she gasped. “Running your tongue up and down.”

“Yeah?”

“Using your teeth.”

Jane hadn’t really ever liked that during sex. Men who’d done it had always gone too hard, overshot the ratio of pain to pleasure, made her feel less like a desirable person and more like a conquest. But when Maura said it, Jane could feel her jaw flexing, her mouth watering, knew instinctually how much pressure would feel good. Could taste the sweat on Maura’s flushed skin. Feel her rapid pulse under her tongue.

A low growl escaped her, and Maura whimpered in response before letting out a sharp little ah as she finally slid her fingers into the wetness between her legs.

Jane swore she could feel it against her skin, the liquid heat, the petal-softness.

“Am I doing that too?”

“No,” Maura whimpered as she began to drag her fingers slowly up and down. “I’m doing this, for you. Just for you. I want you—oh god—I want you to see what you do to me.”

“It’s fucking incredible,” Jane whispered. “You’re so beautiful, Maura. So beautiful.”

She felt the arm propping her up start to waver, on the verge of buckling. Shifted her position so that she was stretched out next to Maura, one arm resting on her pillow, arcing over her head, fingers gently twining through golden hair, a light, exploratory tug making Maura cry out and push her fingers more fully between her legs, hips canting off the mattress.

“Oh god, Jane,” she breathed, her chest flushed pink as it rose and fell rapidly. “I want—“

“What, baby?” Jane whispered, the word slipping out as she moved close to Maura’s ear, letting the tip of her nose nuzzle along the delicate curve. Growled against the soft skin at the nape of her neck when Maura let out a long, shuddering breath.

“I’m imagining you inside me,” she gasped. “Like this.”

Jane thought her brain might explode as she watched Maura slide two fingers into herself, her abdomen contracting in pleasure. Her broken cry made Jane’s eyelids flutter again, the smell of her soap and sweat and arousal mixing together, fogging Jane’s brain with a renewed wave of lust. She wondered, as she felt little shocks of pleasure ripple through her, if she wasn’t experiencing the longest, most drawn-out orgasm of her life just from watching Maura, smelling her, hearing her.

Dead, in heaven: one million points.

“Jane,” Maura moaned as she pushed into herself again, her other hand twisting and pulling at her hard nipples, and even though Jane knew this was something she was meant to observe, she found herself with her mouth firmly attached to Maura’s neck, tongue flicking along her skin, following her rapid, thudding pulse.

“Oh fuck,” Maura gasped as Jane bit lightly at the tendons in her neck, then soothed the spot with her tongue. Jane smirked at the profanity, which was another thing sexier than she’d imagined, and Maura seemed to feel that too, her hips bucking up off the bed.

Feeling bolder, and significantly more desperate to touch the writhing, moaning woman next to her, to wring every ounce of pleasure out of her, Jane lifted her free hand and traced her thumb over Maura’s lips, her own hips surging forward when they parted instantly, sucking Jane’s thumb into her mouth.

I died. Absolutely. No question. I died, and Maura’s mouth is heaven. Shut down the polls, folks.

Jane groaned against Maura’s neck as her thumb was drawn into the heat of Maura’s mouth, the strong pulse of her soft, velvety tongue on the pad of her thumb, the ridges rippling along her palate, the incredible suction; hot, wet, rhythmic. 

“Is that what I feel like inside you?” she rumbled into Maura’s ear, surprised by her own boldness; the other woman moaning again, working her hand harder and faster, fucking herself just like her mouth was fucking Jane’s thumb. “You feel so good, Maura.”

Maura whimpered. Jane withdrew her thumb, wet and warm. “You feel so fucking good,” she said again as she drifted it down Maura’s chest, over her sternum, then gently nudged Maura’s hand away from her breast.

Jane couldn’t hold back a low, hungry groan as her palm brushed against the impossibly soft skin. She cupped the smooth flesh in her hand, remembering how many times she’d imagined exactly this moment, how much better it was in reality.

“Jesus,” she whispered against Maura’s lips, licking into her open mouth as she gasped, her thumb, still slick with Maura’s spit, ghosting over the hard nipple, just teasing, reveling in the way Maura whimpered and arched into her touch. “How do you feel, baby?”

“Feels . . . so good, Jane, oh god . . . yes, p—please touch me, oh, oh yes, Ja—“

The word cut off with a loud cry as Jane bit down on Maura’s lower lip while simultaneously pinching her nipple. The hand between her legs thrust so deeply her knees flew up, and Jane took the opportunity to nudge Maura’s leg between her own, just holding her in place, her center open to Jane for the first time. She felt another hot surge of arousal at the sight; Maura’s slick wetness, her soft folds not foreign to Jane—anatomically, anyway—but seeing her like this, two fingers rhythmically plunging into her own tight heat, was some kind of epiphany.

“Yes, Jane, please, oh god, just like—“ she moaned against Jane’s ear, eliciting another firm pinch and another shudder from Jane as she watched a gush of wetness surge against Maura’s fingers, bottoming out hard, deep, before withdrawing again, shiny with the new, copious arousal. The soft liquid sound of Maura pleasuring herself was Jane’s new favorite thing. Right after Maura’s hot, desperate panting against her ear.

“Use both hands,” Jane rasped, surprising herself again. This had all started because she’d been too nervous about her lack of experience to feel comfortable participating, but now all she wanted was for Maura to come for her, just for her.

Maura didn’t hesitate, dropping her free hand to her swollen clit, gasping as she began to work it in tight little circles in time with the fingers thrusting in and out. “Oh god,” she gasped again. “J-Jane, I’m going to—“

She didn’t finish the thought. Or rather, she did by tensing her whole body, pressing hard against Jane as she began to shake and mewl into her neck, lips and teeth and tongue working blindly against Jane’s skin as she came, crying out harshly and bucking her hips, liquid dripping down her thighs.

Jane couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as she released Maura’s breast to cup her center. All she could do was obey the overwhelming urge to feel Maura come against her fingers, to feel the hard pulses of her clit, the contractions as she squeezed tight around herself. Maura gasped at the touch, whining and writhing, the hand that had been working her clit flying up to grasp Jane’s neck, fingers slick and hot. Their mouths pressed together, tongues pushing and stroking and licking against each other, tracing teeth and lips, Maura not in control of her body, pressing her open mouth to Jane’s cheek, her temple, her chin, breathing sharp and ragged as she came down.

Jane knew from her own experience that direct contact on Maura’s clit would probably be too much right after her orgasm, but she could tell instinctively that Maura wasn’t spent yet, and she herself was so close, so close, all she needed was a little more.

She slid her fingers along Maura’s impossibly soft folds, relishing the sharp little jerks of Maura’s hips, then slipped her hand around Maura’s wrist, leading her in a slow, gentle rhythm in and out.

“Jesus,” she muttered again, burying her face in Maura’s neck.

Maura’s breath came in sharp little puffs, her hips rocking with their combined effort.

“Jane,” she gasped with effort, “will you—“

This time Jane didn’t let her finish, gently tugging on Maura’s wrist, shivering when Maura did as her fingers withdrew. Jane took a deep breath and slowly, gently, slid one finger inside her.

Maura’s deep moan, combined with the indescribable sensation of being inside her, finally, made Jane’s eyes roll back once again, her body thrusting blindly against Maura’s, the fabric of her tank top brushing against Maura’s nipples, making the other woman cry out and surge against her, forcing her deeper.

“More Jane, please,” she panted into her ear, one arm wrapped around Jane’s waist, the other snaking around her neck, fingers weaving through her hair; it was as though she were desperate to pull Jane inside her skin, a desperation Jane absolutely understood. Maura’s breath hitched. “Please.”

Jane was now positive of two things: the dead-in-heaven thing, and that she was definitely coming in slow motion, for longer than she ever had before. Maybe longer than anyone ever had.

The pleasure was rippling through her, hot and black at the corners of her vision. Still, she had enough presence of mind to obey, slipping another finger inside, the tight heat making her swoon, the steady rhythm making Maura tremble hard against her, her leg nudging between Jane’s, Jane rolling against the pressure, meeting the rhythm of Maura’s thrusts, her underwear so heavy with her own slick arousal she could barely discern the fabric as she began to ride Maura’s toned thigh in earnest, Maura’s tight grip around her hips encouraging her to go deeper, harder, faster, flexing and twisting her fingers like she’s been doing this her whole life, oh god Jane right there, yes, yes, please, just like that, don’t stop, please don’t stop, Jane pushing a third finger inside her without even thinking about it.

Her body was operating on autopilot, they both were, thrusting and grinding and panting and then Jane felt the most amazing pressure; Maura’s body clamping tightly around her fingers, Maura whimpering and shivering and coming again in her arms, coming around her, for her, and suddenly Jane felt like a thousand volts of electricity were shooting directly from her own clit, flashing around her body, making the top of her head feel like it was about to explode, so strong she thought she might pass out.

Don’t you fucking dare pass out while you’re coming inside her.

The thought was so abrupt and unexpected that Jane nearly slipped right off the peak of sensation but after a fraction of a second the idea clicked in.

You’re coming inside her.

It made her feel indescribably powerful, reaching her own pleasure with her fingers curled deep inside the woman next to her, whose body still fluttered and rippled around her as the aftershocks shivered through.

Finally she came down, chest heaving as she caught her breath, strands of hair sweat-stuck to her face, her neck. She leaned in and kissed Maura softly, tenderly as she gently withdrew her fingers, Maura giving a faint low groan as Jane pulled out.

She was trying to think of what she should say when Maura shifted so their bodies were pressed together, sliding her hand around the back of Jane’s neck again, her thumb caressing Jane’s cheek as she looked deep into her eyes. Maura’s expression was drowsy, sated, her eyes both soft and sparkling, full of something Jane hadn’t quite ever seen before, something that made her want to throw a parade and also throw herself off a cliff. Something so good and pure that she imagined it must be what hard drugs were like, but also something she wasn’t sure she was worthy of receiving, wasn’t sure she was ready for.

She should definitely say something. But what? A dumb joke would ease the tension, right?

Do you want the tension to be eased?

She thought briefly about Kight Sheridan’s book, about being offered the moment before true intimacy and having to decide if the fleeting physical pleasure would be worth the irreversible clarity of the moment that followed. She hadn’t really understood that when she’d read it, especially the part about irreversible clarity, but the look in Maura’s eyes was blissful and terrifying and she got it, she absolutely got it, and knew it was because she’d never before in her life felt what Maura’s gaze was making her feel, she finally, actually understood what true intimacy really was, and that alone was enough to make her terrified of losing it, not even considering the very real danger they were in. It was clear. And irreversible.

She was on the edge of a cliff all right, not sure if she was wearing a parachute or an empty backpack.

But did she want to avoid the terror when it also meant erasing the bliss? Kind of. Maybe. No? She wasn’t quite sure. Or she was, but she was scared of that, too.

“Jane?” Maura’s voice was soft, shaded with layers Jane felt like she could suddenly comprehend. Satisfaction and happiness and contentment and anxiety and fear and doubt. Maybe Maura was experiencing the same awkward, profound thing she was? Maybe Sheridan was right?

Stupid art. Stupid feelings. Stupid Jane.

“I love you,” Jane said before she could stop herself; before she even anticipated she might need to. Sucked in a breath and bit her lip hard, blushing deep scarlet.

Maura’s face didn’t change. Not even the faintest twitch of her orbiting octopus or her mass spectrometer.

Should’ve made a dumb joke, dumbass.

“Jane,” Maura said again, even softer, and now her eyes were filled with tears—

Rizzoli, you stupid fuck—

—but as Jane forced herself to not look away she saw the satisfaction and happiness and contentment that were there before, but the fear and the doubt were gone, replaced by something else, something that made Jane feel like she was soaring.

“I love you, Jane,” Maura whispered as she pressed their lips together. “I love you.”

Jane was suddenly determined not to be dead, heaven or not. She had a whole life left, and she’d finally figured out her purpose.

“Thank god,” she mumbled against Maura’s mouth. “Because if that was the only time I got to do that . . .”

“I think we’d both spend the rest of our lives deeply dissatisfied,” Maura finished, pressing her lips to Jane’s again, but sweetly, almost chastely. Jane let the quietly-thrilling promise of the rest of our lives ripple through her, then relaxed into the embrace, the cocktail of unpronounceable hormones washing over her as she buried her face in Maura’s hair.

“So,” Jane murmured a moment later, “that means it was good?” She tried to sound casual, teasing, not abruptly on the brink of post-coital anxiety.

“Mmm,” Maura hummed, pressing a little more tightly against Jane. “Objectively—“

“Oh no,” Jane muttered.

“You asked, knowing I keep detailed records.”

Jane frowned, just a little, but Maura caught it.

“Jane,” she sighed, though it was more amused than annoyed. “Despite this being our first time together, and your first time with a woman, I would describe this as one of my top three sexual encounters, and possibly the most satisfying overall erotic experience of my life thus far.”

“Hmm.”

“However,” Maura continued, her fingers twisting a lock of Jane’s hair, “it’s my hope that I can archive my past experiences in order to devote my research exclusively to one subject.”

“How are you so sexy and yet so dorky at the same time?”

“Would you like to engage in a long-term study on maximizing intimate and erotic pleasure and gratification with me or not, Jane?”

“You putting it that way honestly kinda makes me want to say not, Maur,” she teased, lacing their fingers together, still slightly sticky. The sensation elicited a sharp little twinge of pleasure in her belly.

“Well, what would you call it, Detective?” Maura’s voice was low, sultry and playful. Jane blushed again, she could feel it in her toes.

“I dunno,” she demurred, afraid she’d blurt out something even more embarrassing, like marry me. “Maybe something a little less like a science experiment.”

“Not an experiment, a long-term study. No hypothesized or expected outcomes, just diligent application of research and ongoing findings in service of the experience and of knowledge itself.”

“Your only subject, huh?” Jane lifted her eyebrow.

“Of course it would be an equitable pursuit,” Maura said. “Your investigative skills and drive to find more and better answers combined with my detailed knowledge of human anatomy and sexuality would make us an ideal partnership for research of this nature.”

“So you’re saying you want to have sex for science.”

“For science,” Maura repeated, nodding solemnly. “And because every time I think about you, this happens.”

She guided their joined hands down between their bodies, shivering as she directed Jane’s long fingers into the new arousal growing there.

Jane swallowed hard, letting her fingers slide along Maura’s sex, abruptly wanting to have her again. Page 67 flashed before her eyes once more and Jane finally got that too; she wanted to take Maura, to make her moan and whimper and beg her for more. It made her feel powerful. Desirable. Sexy. But it was because Maura was giving that to her, letting her take it, wanting it, wanting her.

“Every time?” she whispered as she gently stroked her thumb over Maura’s clit.

“Every time,” Maura panted, slowly swiveling her hips. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Jane. Thought about you touching me. About the ways I want to touch you.”

“Like what?” Jane rasped, kissing down Maura’s neck, pausing at the scattering of freckles that had started this whole thing, before finally—finally—lowering her mouth to Maura’s breast, dragging a long, slow lick across her nipple.

You wanted to lick it off her. You wanted to feel that power, to have it given to you.

Maura gasped and cried out Jane’s name, trembling as Jane continued her explorations, trying to focus on what Maura was saying, but her skin was even softer than she’d imagined and she wanted to taste every inch of it.

“I—I want to run my fingers over every part of you. To—ah, yes, keep doing—to feel you everywhere. To be inside you as you come h-harder than you ever have in your—your life,” she panted, eyes sliding closed as she arched into Jane’s touch.

“That’s already a pretty tall order,” Jane teased as she caught a nipple lightly between her teeth, but she was recalling that powerful sensation of coming while buried deep inside Maura’s quivering body, and felt the glittery little flutter of anticipation gathering inside.

“Haven’t—ah—haven’t even touched you yet,” Maura managed through her rapid breaths.

“And it was still the best I’ve ever had.”

Maura’s eyes widened, her irises thin and dark, dark gold, pupils so blown out with lust the color was hardly visible. “Jane,” she groaned, getting the jump on her and rolling them so that Jane was pressed to the mattress, Maura kneeling between her legs.

“Maura, what—“

“Don’t talk, just let me,” Maura growled, her voice more commanding than Jane had ever heard it. She’d do anything for that voice, she already knew it. She gave a little moan of affirmation.

When she felt the relief of her sodden shorts being tugged off, replaced by a hot, insistent pressure she almost didn’t recognize, she had a moment of panic; she’d always had a difficult time getting anything out of this particular act, all the rough, aimless rasping around; obviously this was already different, but—

Oh god oh fuck

Maura’s mouth was warm, soft, wet, and so, so good at what it was doing. Jane found herself fighting it for a second as she’d always been a little squeamish about it; she thought fleetingly about the men who’d done it, an eternity of tongues thrusting like all she wanted was another, smaller dick inside her, but Maura was deft, attentive, and, as Jane looked down at the golden hair bobbing rhythmically between her legs, fingers gripped possessively around her thighs, so incredibly hot that Jane felt herself starting to build and shiver so fast she would’ve been embarrassed if only it didn’t feel so fucking good.

She slid a leg around Maura’s shoulder and whined with pleasure when it changed the angle, Maura probing at her entrance but not pushing in, just teasing. She reached down and grasped at Maura’s hair; tugging a little harder than she’d meant to when Maura’s tongue flicked across her clit just right. She winced, loosened her grip, but Maura’s deep groan against her caused such a powerful jolt of arousal that she pulled again, eliciting another whimpering moan and what felt like Maura sucking her whole sex into her mouth, a sensation that made fireworks explode behind her eyes.

“Jesus, Maura,” she panted, hips rolling against Maura’s nimble tongue, Maura’s murmur of pleasure giving her another little boost. “Gonna—I’m—I’m—oh fuck—“

She cried out Maura’s name, rasping and ragged, as her orgasm slammed into her, a neutron bomb vaporizing her consciousness. All she saw was white light, all she felt was a pleasure so intense it was almost—almost—unbearable.

It’s okay now, she thought, right before she blacked out.

 

Notes:

I wasn't gonna post this one so soon either but my birthday is in two days so really it's an early birthday present to me, from me

Chapter 15: The Best Eggs Florentine In Boston

Summary:

what, you thought I'd abandon you??? without more kissing parts???? without solving the murder?????? without more Power Moms?????????

When Jane woke up the next morning her body felt pleasantly sore, still buzzing a little from last night.

Last night. Last night you told Maura you love her, and she said it back.

Jane grinned.

The other stuff wasn’t bad either.

She felt herself blush remembering it. And then she felt something else, something probably inconvenient for the early hour, but she’d caught a breath of Maura’s scent as she slept next to her, and how was she supposed to help it?

She bit her lip, stifling a faint whimper as she squeezed her thighs together. She wasn’t generally interested in morning sex; she was usually sleepy, cranky, out-of-sorts. But this morning . . .

“Hmmmph,” Maura murmured, rolling over to face her. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Jane whispered, grinning again.

God, get it together.

“Did you sleep well?” Maura’s voice was soft, drowsy. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, her cheeks flushed and rosy.

“Yeah,” Jane mumbled, suddenly a little embarrassed about how good she felt. “Really well.”

“Mm, me too.”

She snuggled closer, sliding one arm around Jane’s waist, slim fingers toying with the hem of her tank top, brushing almost imperceptibly against her skin. Jane shivered at the light touch, goosebumps rising across her whole body. Maura made a soft little sound, pressed her lips to Jane’s bare shoulder.

Maybe Jane wasn’t the only one feeling those feelings. She didn’t want to push her luck, though; instead let Maura take whatever lead she wanted.

Maura nosed along the slope of Jane’s shoulder, trailing little kisses as she went. Jane shifted, her pulse fluttering, her breath getting shallower and shallower as Maura continued her lazy exploration.

“You smell nice,” she said, breathing deeply behind Jane’s ear. Jane just whimpered. She could feel Maura’s smirk against her skin, gasped when Maura’s tongue flicked against her neck. “You taste nice, too.”

Jane swallowed hard. She couldn’t get her mouth to work right.

“I’ll be right back,” Maura said, pulling away from her. “Stay here, please.”

“Uh-huh,” she managed, watching as Maura slid out of the bed, naked, her long hair spilling down her back.

She was even more beautiful in the early-morning light than Jane could rationally comprehend.

A few minutes later she came back into the bedroom, sliding under the blankets. She smelled like mint and fancy hand soap.

“Cheater,” Jane grinned, while simultaneously reaching her hand out to touch the soft skin of her hip, her hand shaking a little, like she still wasn’t sure she was actually allowed.

Maura gave her a catlike grin. “I believe it was you who told me it was the best way to win, and I admit, you’re correct.”

Before Jane could gloat, Maura’s mouth was on hers, soft and warm and freshly-brushed. She sucked Jane’s lower lip into her mouth, making Jane groan and squeeze at Maura’s hip, fingernails digging just slightly into the firm flesh of her backside.

Maura whimpered into her mouth, and Jane felt a dizzying wave of arousal wash over her. Jane tightened her grip, pulling Maura flush against her, their hips beginning to fall into a languid rhythm.

“I love you,” Maura murmured, her breath hot against Jane’s ear. She rumbled wordlessly low in her chest, slipped her fingers around Maura’s thigh, shivered at the wetness she encountered. Pulled her closer at Maura’s sharp ah, tugging Maura on top of her, urging her thighs apart so that Maura was straddling her, their chests rubbing together. Jane gasped at the faint scratch of Maura’s nipples against hers, hips bucking up, causing Maura to groan, grinding down against Jane’s fingers.

“Like this,” Maura breathed. She urged Jane’s hand away, lifting herself gracefully so that she was riding Jane’s hips. Jane gulped as Maura guided her hand back between her legs, fingertips brushing against her already-pulsing clit.

Jane’s breath was ragged, hitching in her chest as Maura’s hips began to rock against hers, her hands dropping to Jane’s chest, cupping her breasts, pinching at her nipples any time Jane did something she particularly liked.

“Just like that,” she panted as Jane let her slippery clit slide between two fingers. “Just like that.”

Jane grinned as Maura’s eyes slid closed, as she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. She grinned even wider as Maura failed to contain herself, shouting Jane’s name when Jane slid two fingers inside her.

“Jesus,” Maura hissed, lifting up on her knees before sinking back down, letting out a strangled gasp as Jane’s palm rubbed against her throbbing clit. She braced herself, arms on either side of Jane’s head, breasts swinging tantalizingly close, nearly brushing Jane’s lips. Maura cried out again as Jane captured a nipple between her teeth, groaning around the hard peak as Maura ground down against her hand, hips rocking faster and harder.

“That’s it,” Jane murmured. “Just like that. Tell me how it feels, baby.”

Maura’s arms gave out and she collapsed next to Jane’s ear, her shuddering breaths making her own arousal build so quickly her thighs began to tremble.

“It feels so good, Jane,” Maura moaned. “You make me feel so-so—uh, uh, oh god, Jane, you make me—“

Jane shifted her hips so her knuckles brushed against her own clit as she stroked in and out, the pressure of Maura’s hips bearing down as she began to stiffen and quiver causing the first sparks to ricochet through her own body.

“I love you,” she whispered, and Maura immediately gasped, clutching at her shoulders as she came, her high, fluttering whimpers in Jane’s ear sending her flying too.

Jane’s eyes slid closed as she wrapped her free arm around Maura, holding her close to her chest as they both came down, relishing the way she could feel Maura’s heart beating against her own skin.

After a few moments, Jane slid her fingers out, Maura shivering softly.

“Good morning,” Jane murmured, blushing a little. “Uh, that was . . .”

“Mmm, wonderful,” Maura murmured, rolling over and stretching her arms above her head, Jane staring unabashedly at the way her breasts lifted and swelled. She swallowed hard, then shifted toward the edge of the bed.

“I gotta, uh . . .”

“Yes, of course,” Maura said, sitting up. “It’s extremely important to urinate after sex, particularly—”

“Be right back,” Jane said quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Maura’s lips, effectively stopping her from going into way too much detail about urethras this early in the morning. She slipped out of the bed, rubbing at her hip.

“Are you all right?” Maura asked, frowning a little. “Are you hurt?”

Jane grinned, scratched at her neck. “Just, uh, a little out of practice.”

Maura returned her smile, a coy little twinkle in her eye. She nibbled on her lower lip.

“What?”

“If this is you out of practice, I must admit the prospect of you at peak performance is . . . very intriguing.”

Jane smirked. “Intriguing from a research perspective, you mean?”

“Naturally,” Maura said, giving her a wide-eyed look. “What did you think I meant?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Jane rasped, giving her a saucy smirk as she disappeared through the bedroom door.

“Don’t take too long,” Maura called, and Jane was about to offer a flirty response when Maura added “it really is risky to delay post-coital flushing. So to speak.”

“Ughh, Maura,” she whined, letting the bathroom door close with a punctuating  thunk.

 She peed and washed her hands quickly, was debating how fast she could shower without it becoming detrimental to Maura’s health when there was a brisk rap at the bathroom door.

“It’s just me, Jane,” Maura called. Jane rolled her eyes.

“Who else would it be, babe?” she sighed, opening the door a crack.

“I could give you several rather unpleasant options,” Maura threatened. Jane wasn’t sure she was being especially playful, either. She thought about the stone-faced Officer Cantor, the bulge of his sidearm not completely masked by his denim jacket.

“It’s fine,” Jane muttered as Maura pushed past her, making a beeline for the toilet. Jane blushed, turning away, somehow getting caught between the door and the frame.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Maura asked, reaching for the toilet paper. “It’s perfectly normal.”

“I know,” Jane squeaked, coughing. “I know,” she repeated normally. “It’s just, uh . . .”

“Surprisingly intimate?” Maura asked, flushing.

“Uh,” Jane said, pausing for a beat before realizing Maura was right. It wasn’t just squeamishness about bodily functions, though Jane was certainly no stranger to that; it was more that Maura was so casual, so comfortable, so easy around her.

Of course, growing up in a house with two brothers and one bathroom on a good day meant Jane had always valued the sacred privacy of the locked door.

“Do you want to take a quick shower? Maura was behind her, dropping a kiss to her shoulder. “While I don’t see any reason anyone would be particularly attenuated to the scent of our sexual—“

“I swear to god, if you say ‘fluids’—“

Maura’s face gathered into an adorable pout. “What would you say, then?”

“I’d just take a shower instead of analyzing why,” Jane grumbled, reaching around behind them to give Maura’s ass a little pinch.

“Jane!” Maura gasped, swatting her hand away.

“Come on, babe,” she grinned. “Fluids.”

 

 

---

 

 

They had just finished getting dressed—ten minutes behind schedule, Maura had lamented, until Jane had given an exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows, causing Maura to flush a deep pink—

Maybe you don’t hate pink so much, either?—

—when there was another knock, this time on the main suite door. Maura stiffened at the in-suite kitchen countertop where she was applying her makeup—the bathroom’s counter not big enough to accommodate her mirrored ring light—and Jane gave her a reassuring peck on the cheek.

“Probably just the new officer checking in,” she shrugged, though she held down the security bar as she looked through the peephole anyway.

She groaned.

Angela’s face was pressed alarmingly close to the glass.

“You can’t see in that way, Ma,” she called.

“Well open the door already,” her mother called back.

Maura giggled. Jane shot her a glare. She sighed as she flipped the security bar and unlocked the door. It was barely open when Angela muscled her way in, Constance hanging slightly behind, an abashed look on her face.

“Sorry for the intrusion, dear,” she said, offering a wan little smile.

“Mother?” Maura called. “Oh! Come in!”

“Yeah,” Jane echoed flatly, indicating her own mother, already bustling around the suite, oohing at the view. “Come on in.”

“Janie, this is gorgeous,” her mother breathed, running her fingertips over the thick curtains. “I mean, my room’s nothing to sneeze at,” she added, nodding at Maura, who smiled graciously. “This is too much, honey,” Angela tutted as she placed her own kiss on Maura’s cheek, though Jane knew it was absolutely not too much for her mother, sincerely grateful as she was.

“Angela suggested we all have breakfast together,” Constance ventured, setting her purse on the small kitchenette counter. “If that sounds appealing.”

“This restaurant they have here, Janie?” Angela called from the picture window overlooking the city. “Best eggs Florentine in Boston, the internet says.”

“Do you even like eggs Florentine, Ma?”

“It’s Italian, of course I do,” her mother snapped. “Come on, come on, they’re holding a table for us downstairs.”

“Can I at least put my shoes on?” Jane cried, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s early, Ma, gimme a break, huh?”

“You don’t look tired to me,” her mother said guilelessly, or what Jane knew to be a perfect impression of it. “In fact, you both look very rested.”

She gave Jane a prim little smile. Jane had never wished a hotel room window could open so she could fling herself out of it more.

“Thank you, Angela, I slept very well,” Maura piped up sweetly. “Jane and I got some exercise last night, and it worked exceptionally well to relax us both.”

Jane glanced around the room for something strong enough to just smash the window out.

“Oh, that explains this, then,” her mother said, holding up a sports bra with one finger. “Jane, you can’t even clean up after yourself in a fancy hotel?”

“That’s what fancy hotels are for, Ma,” she choked, remembering the way Maura’s sweat had smelled, tasted, felt slicked against her own skin. “So someone else can pick up after you.”

Angela just sighed. “How do you put up with her?” she asked, shaking her head at Maura.

“Well,” Maura said thoughtfully, “she’s very good at—“

“Breakfast,” Jane announced loudly. “Can’t let that table get away. Constance?” She held out her elbow. Constance gave her a slightly bewildered look but took it gracefully, letting Jane lead her out the door.

She paused when she saw a strange man sitting in the armchair near the elevators. He stood, nodding curtly.

“Officer Lewis Howell,” he said, showing her his badge. “Officer Jennifer Lanford is downstairs. I’ll be accompanying you to the restaurant, where the two uniforms will take over. Nobody is to leave the building without clearance, okay?”

“Got it,” Jane sighed.

“Hey,” Howell said, giving her another, softer nod. “You’re a legend, Detective Rizzoli. You probably don’t remember, but I was there during the Kercher shootout. My partner got hit. He’s okay, but only because your team took the guy down.”

“Yeah,” Jane said uncomfortably. “Yeah, I remember. How’s he doing? Peterson, right?”

“Kyle Peterson,” Howell said. “Still on desk, but he’s got an opportunity to transfer to counterterrorism, online stuff. We—we uh, we couldn’t be partners anymore. After.”

Jane winced. She hated this kind of thing; it happened mostly with younger officers who bought into the hype around her big cases. It always made her feel squirrelly and embarrassed, but the way Howell talked about the breakup of their partnership made her heart wrench a little.

A brief flash of Korsak’s face hovering over hers. Fire in her hands. Tears hot and ugly on her cheeks.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s hard. But it’ll be better that way. For both of you.”

The elevator chimed softly, its doors gliding open.

“Thanks,” he said, straightening up a little.  “Thanks, Detective. Have a good day, now.” He held the door open as Angela and Maura hurried down the hall.

The restaurant was hushed, warm and dimly-lit. A young waiter in a black button-down shirt swooped over the moment they approached the door.

“Mrs. Isles,” he said as he bowed slightly towards Constance, his tone just a hair away from obsequious. Jane was tempted to run him off, but she spotted what she assumed was their table. More importantly, she spotted the steaming silver carafe in the center.

“Coffee,” she breathed, making a beeline for the table.

“If you’ll just . . .” the waiter faltered as he looked after her. “Uh, yes, right this way.”

“Thank you,” Maura said politely. Constance gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Jane was torn between her innate dislike of how the wealthy treated service workers and grateful relief that Constance’s coolness made it clear that they were not to be disturbed again.

“I pre-ordered, I do hope that’s all right. Maura, dear, I got you a spinach and egg-white omelet with truffle Gruyère, I recall you used to like those.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Maura said, her expression filled with happy surprise. “I do like them.”

“Jane, you strike me as more of a bacon-and-eggs person,” Constance smiled. She winked conspiratorially. “So am I.”

“I never would’ve guessed,” Jane said, distracted by the coffee Maura placed in front of her. “Thanks, Constance.”

“And for Angela, the best eggs Florentine in Boston. Ah, here it is.” 

As if on cue, two other servers glided into view, setting down their plates and vanishing as silently as they’d appeared.

“Did you know,” Maura said as Angela sighed with delight at her exquisite breakfast, “eggs Florentine dates back to the Renaissance. It’s believed to have been developed when Catherine de Medici introduced spinach to French cuisine after marrying Prince Henry of France. She was from Florence, hence the name. In fact, her contribution was so great that even today when “Florentine” is used in la cuisine française it means the dish contains spinach.”

“Isn’t that fascinating, Jane?” Angela elbowed her.

“Fascinating,” Jane sputtered as she choked on her coffee.

“So,” Constance said, clearing her throat. “What do you two have planned for the day?”

“Oh, nothing particularly unusual,” Maura said. “A few . . . investigations,” she mumbled, looking down at her omelet. Jane had convinced her years ago that nobody really wanted to hear about autopsies at the breakfast table—or the lunch table, or the dinner table—so Maura had agreed, half-grudgingly, to the euphemism.

“But the work is so interesting,” she’d protested after a particularly brutal conflict between a bisected abdomen and a meatball spucky Jane was still annoyed she hadn’t been able to finish.

“You see what I’m trying to eat?” Jane had demanded, red sauce staining her fingers. “All I can think of is some dead guy’s transcendent signal.”

“His transected sigmoid, Jane,” Maura had sighed.

“All I can think about is guts, Maur,” she’d whined, and her sullenness about the loss of her spucky had made Maura sigh good-naturedly and relent, even though Jane could tell even now she was desperate to talk about flesh-eating larva over egg whites.

“And you, Jane? Anything interesting about the case?”

“Nothing since last night,” she said, acutely aware of the blush that crept up her spine as she said the words last night. She reached for her water glass, taking an awkward swig, choking and wheezing as it went down the wrong pipe.

Angela began thumping on her back at once, drawing the attention of nearly everyone else in the restaurant. “Stop it, Ma,” she managed to croak. “It’s fine.”

“You okay?” Her mother eyed her suspiciously. “Why you acting so weird?”

“I’m not acting weird, Ma, lay off.”

Her tone seemed to convince her mother, or at least get her to drop it for the moment.

“Well,” Constance continued diplomatically, “if you have the time and inclination, I’m sure John would be pleased to meet with you. Kight’s personal attorney.”

“Heilmann, right. Yeah, I don’t have much specific on my schedule, and I’d really like to talk with him. Unless we find Andrés Matins first.”

Constance blanched slightly at the mention of his name. “You haven’t located him?”

“Not yet,” Jane said. “But we’ve got a lot of people looking, and if we don’t find him today we’ll start bringing in the people we can reach, see if they’re feeling more helpful in a police station.”

“Ah,” Constance said obliquely.

“It’s all right,” Jane said, gentling her tone. “We’ll find him. And then we’ll get this whole thing figured out, and everything can go back to normal.”

The second the words left her mouth, Jane was struck by the absurdity of that idea. Back to normal.

Normal like none of this ever happened?

No, I meant—

Normal like you’re still pretending you’re not in love with Maura?

No, I meant—

Normal like Constance’s friend isn’t still dead?

No, I meant—

“I didn’t mean that,” she mumbled, unable to look Constance in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, dear,” Constance said softly, placing her hand on Jane’s elbow. “I understand.” Her voice was strained.

“I’m gonna solve this,” Jane said, looking up at her. “I promise.”

Constance blinked back her tears and swallowed delicately. “I’ve got John’s information just here,” she said crisply, reaching for her purse.

“Is everything all right, Mother? Jane?”

Jane realized her moment with Constance had been witnessed by both Maura and her mother, both of whom had concerned looks on their faces.

“Everything is perfectly all right, darling,” Constance murmured. “I’m just connecting  Jane with Kight’s attorney; I do hope he’ll provide some additional information that will help.”

“Eat your food before it gets cold,” Angela said, deftly changing the subject. “Look at those beautiful eggs, just like in a magazine.”

Jane wished her mother would stop talking often enough that she occasionally forgot that Angela could shift any conversation away from the edge through sheer force of will. She gave her a grateful half-smile, then turned her attention back to her breakfast.

 

 

---

 

 

As Jane and Maura headed out of the hotel parking garage in Maura’s Prius, her attention latched onto the black town car that pulled away from the curb two vehicles behind them. It wasn’t especially unusual to see a town car near the Fairmont, but there was something about the way it slipped so smoothly into traffic, as though it had been waiting for them. It had clearly been idling, given how easily it pulled from the curb, but she hadn’t seen anyone get in or out in the time it had taken for them to leave the garage and pass the town car.

Jane knew it was unlikely, that it was probably just a coincidence, but she still kept an unwavering eye on the car as it followed at a slight distance, staying on their route until it made a right turn just two blocks from the precinct. It disappeared too quickly for Jane to catch a glimpse of the plate, and the heavily-tinted windows obscured whoever was inside. She craned her neck back, hoping for something identifying.

She couldn’t be positive, but she was pretty sure there was a green chalk stripe on the rear driver’s side tire; a relic of Parking Enforcement. It wasn’t much help; half the cars in the city bore some reminder of their time parked on a metered street, but it was better than nothing.

“What are you looking at? Did you see something?” Maura’s voice was lightly confused as she pulled into the BPD garage, the striped pole arm lifting.

“Nothing,” Jane said, a cold, sucking feeling opening in the pit of her stomach as the lie spilled easily out. “Just a weird-looking dog.”

“Oh,” Maura said, pulling into her parking space. As Jane moved to get out of the car, Maura caught her wrist, tugging her back gently. She leaned forward and Jane felt herself acquiesce to the kiss immediately, no-touching rule be damned.

It’s the parking garage. Is that even technically “at work”?

“I love you,” Maura whispered, pressing another light kiss to Jane’s lips. “Have a positive and productive day.”

“Uh, you too,” Jane said. “I love you.”

“It’s still so thrilling,” Maura smiled. “To say and to hear.”

“Yeah,” Jane grinned. “It really is.”

“It’s a very good thing you agreed to participate in my study, isn’t it?” Maura said cheerily as she slipped out of the car.

“Hey, I thought it was our study,” Jane frowned, sliding herself out too.

“Of course,” Maura said. “I’ll be thinking about our next exploratory research project all day.”

Jane gulped, her mouth abruptly dry. “How,” she whispered hoarsely, frozen in place as Maura strode confidently toward the elevators. “How do you do that?”

“I’ll show you later,” Maura called lightly as she stepped onto the elevator, letting the doors slide shut with a wink. “You snooze, you lose, Detective.”

“Impossible woman,” Jane muttered, while simultaneously remembering her naked.

She’d take the stairs up to the office. At least it’d explain the flush.

 

 

Chapter 16: I Wanted To Be The Next Frank Lloyd Wright

Summary:

plot and lots of it

John Gray Heilmann’s office was dramatically opposed to Robert Vanallen’s gleaming high-rise in every possible way. It was a single large room above an upscale nail salon in the North End, crowded with files, boxes, and scuffed antique furniture. Jane could tell at once that the disorganization was carefully curated, even deliberate; the walls were lined with ornately-framed degrees and certificates from the fanciest schools Jane had ever heard of and some she hadn’t, so this guy was clearly no slouch. Maybe he just worked better in chaos. Jane totally got that.

Heilmann himself matched his office. He looked more like an English professor than an attorney; he wore a sweater under his corduroy sport coat, his swept-back silver hair brushing his shoulders. He smiled and stood from his crowded desk when Jane pushed through the office door.

“Detective Rizzoli,” he said warmly, offering his hand. His grip was firm, friendly. Jane kept her guard up, but she could tell immediately he’d be easier to deal with than Vanallen.

“Mr. Heilmann,” Jane nodded.

“Please, call me John.” He indicated the battered upholstered chair across the desk; Jane sat, despite her usual habit of remaining standing. Her gut told her Heilmann was trustworthy. “Forgive the mess; I usually meet with people, rather than them coming to me.”

“John,” she echoed. “It’s fine. I’m sure Mrs. Isles let you know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” he sighed, shaking his head. “It’s just terrible. A terrible loss.”

Jane scanned his face. His sadness seemed sincere.

“Did you know Sheridan well? Constance said you were their personal attorney.”

“Oh, for decades,” Heilmann said. “Kight and I met in college, must have been forty, fifty years ago now. I was originally going to be an architect; we had a drafting class together. As you can see,” he chuckled, “it wasn’t in the cards. Turns out I have a terrible mind for blueprints but an acceptably useful one for the law. Kight always said it made sense, since both were based on concepts of foundation.”

“Okay,” Jane said, by now accustomed to Sheridan’s acquaintances and their complicated ways of expressing ideas.

“But of course you’re not here about our friendship,” Heilmann said graciously, sliding a folder across the desk. “I’ve made copies of all the iterations of Kight’s wills over the years. As you can see, the first three are fairly standard, updated every ten years.”

“Uh,” Jane said, flipping through the thick stacks of pages.

“Please feel free to take them with you,” he smiled. “As you can imagine, someone as notable as my client would have quite a lot to settle. But as an overview, the plan was always to turn the creative estate over to Constance Isles, or, if she was unable, whoever had served as Kight’s primary assistant for more than ten years; in this case, Jocasta Georgiou, who will instead assume full control of the gallery. I myself have been asked to oversee the legal aspects of the new CMYK Foundation, should I choose, and am gladly continuing my employment.”

“And Blanton Cronie?”

Heilmann gave a bitter little smile. “Ah, the evil empire. Yes. Prior to this current detente, Kight wished for the contract to follow more or less the industry standard; Blanton would have owned the catalogue for another copyright period of seven years, at which point the bulk of the estate would revert to the foundation Mrs. Isles was tasked with running. Blanton would maintain reprinting rights for physical media, though non-exclusively. Basically, the plan was to leave the publisher with what they’d originally produced—the specific volumes, for example—for reprinting, but no more new or amended licenses, and the original images would belong to the foundation once the relevant copyrights expired, unless Mrs. Isles was in an advantageous position to renegotiate and chose to do so.”

“Okay,” Jane nodded slowly, trying to put it together.

“It’s ludicrously complex,” Heilmann shrugged. “But that’s part of the idea of copyright law. Or all law, I suppose. Always have an avenue to win through sheer confusion.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Jane muttered. “And you were Sheridan’s only other attorney, aside from Robert Vanallen?”

“The only one on retainer,” Heilmann nodded. “And as of the last few years, Kight was my only client.”

Jane frowned. “Seems like a pretty cushy gig.”

Heilmann laughed. “I can see why you’d think that. But you’d be surprised how many lawsuits pop up when you’re a world-renowned artist. Most of them frivolous,” he added quickly. “Accusations of plagiarism or obscenity, mostly, though there are of course instances of Kight’s subjects raising claims about payment, or usage, or revoking consent. Our consent and release forms are ironclad, naturally, so almost all of those cases are thrown out, though Kight honored a number of requests for images to be pulled from circulation over the years.”

Jane bit her lip as she took in the information. “Any notable lawsuits you might remember? Anyone particularly upset?”

“Someone always is,” Heilmann sighed. “Generally people are looking for additional money when images are republished. But it’s very clear that any compensation was exclusive to the first use only. And a large number of the subjects were volunteers, anyway; Kight felt payment cheapened the work. Ironic,” he smiled gently. “And of course all the commercial work and the editorials, but all that paperwork was managed by the various clients, not us. We have copies, naturally.”

“Okay,” Jane nodded. “I’d appreciate your sending along anything suspicious, anyone who tried to sue more than once, any unusual accusations, anyone who sticks out.”

“Of course,” Heilmann said.

“So,” she said, shifting in her seat. “The final will.”

“Yes.” Heilmann tented his fingers under his chin.

“Sheridan knew they were dying.”

“Yes,” Heilmann said again, his voice soft and far away. “None of us were shocked, given Kight’s life spent in the darkroom, not to mention their health was very clearly compromised, especially over the past year. Though of course we were all still devastated.”

“All?” She sat forward. “Who knew about the diagnosis? I’ll need the names of everyone you can think of.”

“Well, I did, obviously, as well as Constance and Jocasta.”

Jane wondered for a moment about why Constance hadn’t mentioned it. Of course, it hadn’t mattered, in the end.

“. . . and Raul, Kight’s longtime fabricator, though he’s been in Costa Rica for the past three years. I can give you his information if you’d like. I can say he broke down in tears when he found out; his and Kight’s relationship was . . . unique.”

“Sleeping together?”

Heilmann shrugged. “Kight wasn’t particularly sexual, which may be surprising considering their work. They always viewed sex and eroticism as something objective, more as a lens than an end in itself.”

Jane felt a little surge of that dizzying, precipitous thrill she’d felt when Maura had looked into her eyes that first night. Swallowed hard, forced herself to focus.

“So . . . not sleeping together.”

“No,” Heilmann agreed, “but still, a deeply intimate relationship.”

“Okay. Anyone else?”

Heilmann shook his head. “Kight’s inner circle was very small. It had to be, given the cutthroat nature of the industry. Not that I’m saying anyone expected this horrible outcome,” he added. “But like many other endeavors, the easiest way to the top is on the backs of the people in front of you. Those that go the farthest tend to play things closest to the chest.”

“So there’s no way Blanton Cronie would have had any idea Sheridan was ill.”

“Not that I can think of. Though of course . . .” he drifted off meaningfully. Jane recognized that look. The look that said I want to tell you, but I don’t know if I should.

“Of course what?” Jane prodded gently.

Heilmann sighed. “This may sound ridiculous, but, well, Kight’s attorney for Blanton, Robert Vanallen, is . . . not the most scrupulous of men. I have no doubt such news would have been of great interest to him. He may have been representing Kight’s publishing estate, but he was primarily out for himself, as many of my colleagues are. Comes with the territory,” he shrugged.

“But you’re not?”

He gave her a sour look. “I wanted to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright, Detective Rizzoli. I went into law because I discovered an aptitude and appreciation for its complexity and rigor, not for professional glory. I was in the right place at the right time, mostly. Kight and I were friends, they were loyal to me, brought me with them the whole way. I was able to use that endorsement to build a practice helping a lot of other artists, often pro bono. It’s been a fulfilling career, despite its inherent evil,” he chuckled. “So no, I wouldn’t count myself among the likes of Robert Vanallen.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, respecting his commitment, despite her inherent hatred of lawyers. “So, you think it’s possible he could have known about the diagnosis?”

“If he did, it was only through less-than-legitimate means, and I can’t imagine how it would have benefited him, given Kight’s directives regarding the contract dispute. Though I certainly wouldn’t be surprised, considering his . . . reach.”

Jane thought about the blue bra on her bedroom floor. Page 67 placed just so on Maura’s countertop.

“I’ve dealt with Robert quite a lot over the years, as you can imagine,” he went on. “And I’m sure you’re aware of Kight’s feelings about him.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard they weren’t exactly friends.”

“Oh, Kight despised him. Thought he was the worst kind of person, no art in his soul. Which certainly isn’t required for someone like that, but for Kight, it was the difference between light and dark.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Speaking of Robert,” his voice shifted suddenly, now effortfully casual, “did you tell him we were meeting?”

Jane frowned. “Why would I do that?”

He frowned in return. “Why indeed. Well, he knew about it when his office called over this morning, sniffing for the will. Which is of course relevant to his interests with Blanton Cronie, no surprise there, but I did find it interesting that he knew a Detective Rizzoli was on my calendar for this afternoon.”

“Very interesting,” Jane murmured, trying to suppress the faint shiver running up her spine.

“Detective Rizzoli,” Heilmann said softly, leaning forward. “I’m sure you’re aware of the potential issues that may arise when dealing with someone like Robert Vanallen.”

“I am,” Jane said.

“And if you’ve gotten on his radar, I would encourage you to be very, very careful.”

She just looked at him.

“I suspect we both know how Robert knew you’d be here today,” he said, still in that same soft, cautious tone. “And I suspect we all have an idea as to why he’s taken such an interest in the death of his client.”

Jane felt cold all over.

“May I ask you a frank question, Detective?”

Jane nodded.

“Do you think Robert Vanallen was involved in Kight’s murder?”

Jane swallowed. “We’re working on a number of possibilities at the moment,” she said automatically. The safe default.

“But this may be one of them.”

Jane kept her face cool, neutral.

“Well, hypothetically, if you did have reason to suspect my esteemed colleague,”—he gave a brief, sardonic sneer—“I might suggest looking into one of Blanton’s board members as well. A man named—“

“Andrés Matins,” Jane finished for him.

“Ah,” he said, settling back in his chair. “Of course you’d be aware of Andrés.”

“Aware is all I am,” Jane grumbled. “You wouldn’t happen to have a way of getting in touch with him, would you? Our officers haven’t had any luck tracking him down.”

“The Escape Artist,” he smirked. “Andrés was always more gifted at being notable than he was at his chosen pursuit. Though one could argue being notable was his chosen pursuit."

“Not a fan?”

Heilmann winked at her. “He’s very talented when it comes to creating an aura of exclusivity, and part of that is being infuriatingly impossible to reach. I don’t know if he even has a cell phone.”

“Convenient,” Jane muttered. “So why would you say I should look into him?”

He sighed. “Everyone knew about their creative disagreements. Of course Andrés always followed the money and fame, and one can hardly fault him for that, but the more he got, the harder he worked to keep it. Became more ruthless, more aggressive in his insistence that it was his way or the highway, so to speak. Particularly being on the board at Blanton. You don’t have to know much about art to understand the magnitude of the pivot he was pushing the company to make.”

“Constance said something about, uh, ‘the digital shift’?”

Heilmann nodded. “He announced a new company plan to focus on digital works, a radical move away from print. They’d still publish and license physical media, but only very few, select, high-end volumes—hundreds to thousands of dollars each. Everything else—literally—would be online, digital, whatever. The primary reason for this, I gather, though not the public one, is that acquiring and pushing digital rights would technically give Blanton ownership of every possible iteration of every one of its holdings. Any size or resolution or basic digital edit they will technically, legally own, even if it doesn’t yet exist, because they own the pixels themselves. The artist has very little power in a scenario like that, let alone its more dystopian implications.”

“Wow,” Jane breathed. Heilmann was right; she didn’t know much about art, but even she could tell it was a big change, probably way worse than she currently grasped. “Sheridan couldn’t have been the only person upset about it.”

“Far from the only, but certainly the most visible. And the most important, financially. Andrés was relying on the continuation of the contract to finance the transition, but now . . .” he shrugged, wiggled his fingers. “Poof.”

“And you’re sure he didn’t know about the illness?”

Heilmann paused for a moment, thinking. “Kight certainly wouldn’t have told him. They’d known each other as long as Kight and I had, even longer; they both went to the same private arts academy, and of course their careers aligned quite a bit, though Kight was unquestionably the bigger success. They certainly knew each other, but nobody would say they were friends.”

“Any bad blood? You say they weren’t friends, but was there anything more? Professional jealousy? Personal problems?”

He shrugged. “Kight thought Andrés was a striver; a lot of our generation did. Of course, he managed to do just fine on acumen alone.” He rolled his eyes. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t know specifics; as I said, Kight was very private, even among their friends. And very outwardly calm, composed. Unruffled. If they were upset, it would be difficult to see. Anything I knew, Kight told me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Jane sat back, trying to organize the new information, trying to hide her mounting frustration that most of it was the same as the old information.

“Detective Rizzoli, I sense I’m not being of much help, and I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you who did this, not just share my strong suspicions.”

Jane gave him a crooked smile. “It’s all right, Mr—uh, John,” she corrected herself. “The wills are really important, thank you for making them available so quickly.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “And please, let me caution you again about Robert Vanallen.”

She frowned. “Why do you seem so sure he’d kill his own client to help out the company he was negotiating against? Wouldn’t that be, y’know, detrimental to his business?”

He shrugged. “Attorneys at Robert’s level see contracts like this one as, if not quite just-another-Tuesday, at least nothing special. It was certainly a prestigious account, but Kight was hardly his wealthiest client. But as to why he’d do something like this? To risk the personal fallout for some obscure gain?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’ll tell you, Detective.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Not understanding a motive doesn’t change my belief that he was involved. It sounds lurid, I know, but you’ll find more than one person who believes that man would murder his own mother if he knew he could get away with it. Just because he felt like it.”

“That’s very, uh . . .” Jane drifted off, unsure how to respond. Her gut was firmly on Heilmann’s wavelength; she’d met Vanallen, and he’d scared her. Just a little. That coldness in his eyes, one she’d seen before.

She realized Heilmann had started talking again, tried to act as though she hadn’t just found herself back at the brink of her own personal nightmare. She rubbed at her palms.

“. . . certainly not the most convenient, but unfortunately, a necessity these days.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “what was that?”

“I’m sorry?” Heilmann looked a bit startled, like he hadn’t noticed Jane’s lapse in attention.

They stared blankly at each other for a moment.

Something was itching at the back of her brain; something small, shapeless, but there. Something Heilmann had said. Or, rather, something Vanallen had said. Our business was conducted by telephone or courier. Not the most convenient, but certainly interesting.

“How often did Vanallen communicate with Sheridan directly?” she asked abruptly, sitting forward again. “Contentious legal matter like this, must have been pretty frequently.”

Heilmann’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps once a month over the past year. More regularly in the last few months, maybe every two weeks or so?”

“And how did they get in contact? Was it over the phone, by courier, through assistants?”

He eyed her curiously. “He went to the house. Kight’s health was rapidly declining, so—“

He stopped cold.

“. . . so they insisted Robert come to the house himself,” he continued slowly, piecing his realization together, “instead of going into the office, or trying to negotiate couriers. Kight’s immune system had been weakened, and with everything going on, we all thought it safest if visitors were limited and essential. Oh god.”

His face paled. Jane’s stomach clenched as all the alarms sounded at once in her brain.

“He knew,” Heilmann muttered. “He knew Kight was ill. Just looking at them it was clear something was seriously wrong, not to mention we were starting to see indications of cognitive decline. Nothing too obvious, but trying to discuss complex legal issues . . .”

Jane didn’t respond. Just watched his face, a mixture of shock, anger, and resignation.

She got it. Of fucking course Vanallen had found out. She made a mental note to see if anyone on Sheridan’s medical team had any connection to the firm. Someone who might feel the desire or obligation to let something like that slip.

“But I still don’t understand what that means.” Heilmann’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Why? What could any of them have to gain?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out, Mr. Heilmann,” Jane said, standing up and holding out her hand for him to shake. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” She slung her bag over her shoulder, fished out a card. “This is my cell,” she said, handing it to him. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call right away.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Detective Rizzoli. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, but—“

Jane waved him off. “I get that a lot. Thanks again.”

She swept the copies of Sheridan’s wills off the desk and turned to go, was twisting the knob, when she remembered the other question, the one that had been simmering at the back of her mind.

“Oh, uh, just one more thing.”

“Of course,” Heilmann smiled. “Anything you need.”

“Sheridan’s consent forms. Where are they?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I had them digitized several years ago, and I keep them on a hard drive here in the office, locked in the safe with the other digital records.” He waved at a large freestanding safe in the corner of the room.

“Are there any physical copies?”

“Yes. I wanted to have them shredded, but Kight was very meticulous about documentation, particularly given the nature of much of the work. Legally they could have been destroyed after a standard period, but the risk of future issues made Kight retain them all, even after we had them scanned. I think they were kept in secured cases at the gallery until the expansion a few years ago, but I’m not sure where they went after that. Maybe the house? Jocasta would know.”

“Who had access to them? Recently, and over the years.”

He sat down and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. “Well. I always did. And the gallery managers and personal assistants; unfortunately quite a few of them from the early days have passed. At one point there was a flood in the old studio, so they were moved with everything else into a warehouse for a few months, a place that used to deal primarily in fine art storage, but that burned down shortly after the new studio was constructed in the late ‘90s. Why do you ask?”

Jane bit her lip. “It’s, uh, relevant to some aspects of this case.”

“Ah,” he said, giving her another keen look. Jane was relieved when he didn’t press. She cleared her throat, gave him a stilted, awkward little wave.

You’re such a weirdo, you know?

“Well, uh, thanks again,” she said, holding up the thick folders filled with Sheridan’s wills.

“Of course,” Heilmann said, standing again as Jane fumbled with the doorknob. “I’m glad I could be of assistance, though again, I’m sorry we met under these circumstances.”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “Me too. Give me a call if you think of anything, and thanks for your time. Bye now.”

She managed to push out the door, into the softly-lit hall. Took a moment to breathe, focus, mentally recount the conversation.

Vanallen knew Sheridan was dying. Had to guess it would impact the contract negotiations. But what did Matins have to do with it? And why kill a person who was going to die anyway?

He’d murder his own mother if he knew he could get away with it.

Jane shivered again. It had to be more than simple opportunity. And what was she supposed to tell Korsak? Oh, by the way, one of the East Coast’s most prestigious lawyers might be a thrill killer who slaughtered his own client for kicks? It sounded ridiculous even in her head.

Does it, though? You know better than that, Detective Rizzoli.

She frowned, rubbed at her palms.

The crime scene was so brutal, was the sticking point. So obvious. Even if Vanallen was a killer in more than just the boardroom, it was hard to believe he’d be so . . . sloppy. So personal. Nobody had said anything about Vanallen’s feelings regarding Sheridan, and Sheridan’s dislike of him seemed to be a reaction to Vanallen’s inherently ugly nature, not a result of some direct conflict.

She ran her fingers through her hair, sighed, stuffed the wills into her bag. She wanted to talk to Maura.

About the case, right?

Yes, about the case. Shut up.

She checked her watch. Three-thirty. Maura was still at work, obviously, and she was too. She needed to catch Korsak up, of course. And maybe—maybe—she’d pull the new guy in. Mason.

It’d earn her some brownie points with Korsak and the Captain, anyway. And maybe he’d be able to help her make the missing connections. Couldn’t hurt to try.

She paused as she passed the storefront below Heilmann’s office, but it wasn’t a manicure she was interested in.

Across the street sat a black town car, engine idling. Not that they were uncommon in this part of the city, adjacent  as it was to both downtown and Beacon Hill, but as Jane squinted, she saw a faded green chalk tag on the rear driver’s side tire.

Before she could move to note the plate, the car slipped smoothly away from the curb, vanishing around the corner.

Fuck.

Chapter 17: So Much For Rule Number One

Jane sat at the elegant mahogany writing desk adjacent to the huge windows. She sighed, shifted so she was facing the city skyline, lights glittering as the night deepened. It was nearly eight, and Maura hadn’t called yet.

She’d spoken to her when she’d gone down to the morgue around six, after her long discussion with Korsak and Mason in the bullpen. Mason had impressed her, had absorbed the new information readily, had helped clarify timelines, motives, intersections. Jane had left feeling energized, more driven than she’d been. She’d practically skipped downstairs, excited to tell Maura about it—

And maybe to see if she’s had any thoughts on what else you might get up to later—

—but had found her in her office, solemn and drawn.

“Maur? Is everything all right?”

“Oh,” Maura said, distracted. “Jane. What time is it?” She glanced at her wall clock. “Oh, I thought it was much earlier.”

“What’s going on? You seem . . . are you okay?”

Maura shook her head, like she was trying to clear away a fog. “I’m fine, Jane,” she said, though her voice was still distant, a little hollow.

Jane frowned, crossed to her, rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t sound fine.”

Maura smiled wanly, glancing up at her. “I’m just . . . this is all so much.”

Jane’s frown deepened. “Maura, did something happen?”

Maura’s brow furrowed. She bit her lip.

“It’s okay, babe,” Jane said softly, reflexively glancing at the door, even though everyone else in the lab had gone home. “Tell me what happened.”

Maura took a deep breath. “I got a call from Pauline Kerrigan, Kight’s private physician. I’d left a message asking her to contact me to discuss the heavy metal poisoning.”

“And?”

“And she told me that information was unavailable. She provided access to all other records, but in such a way that the diagnosis was completely omitted.”

“I though you had access to all medical records.”

“I do,” Maura frowned. “As a relevant medical professional concerned with a patient’s underlying conditions post-mortem, I’m permitted full access under HIPAA. And as a legal representative of the Commonwealth, I have the authority to request any records in the case of a wrongful or suspicious death.”

“So can’t you just, like, demand them?”

“Dr. Kerrigan insisted I provide a court order.”

“So we’ll get one,” Jane shrugged. “No problem. And we’ll arrest the good doctor for obstructing an investigation and violation of . . . something. Easy-peasy.”

“She wanted to tell me.” Maura turned around to face her, expression both angry and frightened. It was a look Jane had seen way too often lately. “She was afraid.”

Jane frowned again. “How do you—“

“I may not have a strong sense of social cues but I can tell when someone is scared, Jane.”

Jane winced. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

Maura’s face softened. “I know,” she said. “But Dr. Kerrigan was afraid to share this information with me. I know she was.”

“Because Vanallen is blackmailing her too,” Jane muttered. She’d already suspected it; either blackmail or personal gain. One more question closer to being answered.

“Without any evidence I couldn’t say for certain. But it does seem very likely.”

Jane squeezed Maura’s shoulder. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Maura smiled softly, sighed. “I’d like to stay a bit longer. There’s something else here, something we can use, I just haven’t found it yet.”

“We can have a subpoena for the medical records first thing in the morning,” Jane said. “And you need a break.”

“I’m fine. I . . . I want to be here. I need to be here. Please,” Maura said softly. “I need to do this. For Kight. And Mother.”

Jane wanted to push back, to convince Maura to go with her, but thought about how important this case was to her, not just because she knew the victim. She was part of it. They both were. Beyond that, she was committed to her work, to justice for the dead. Jane knew all that, loved her even more for it, but she still had the urge to protect her, and she didn’t like her being alone, even in a police station. It had failed before.

And the other, selfish thing: she just wanted Maura. To be able to sit close to her, to touch her, to let down her guard.

“Okay,” Jane said hoarsely, forcing the word out. “But don’t stay too late, and call me when you’re ready so I can come pick you up. I’m going to tell the front desk you’re still here, and to confirm any calls or visitors.”

She expected some kind of protest, that Maura was perfectly capable of getting herself back to the hotel—to which Jane was prepared to remind her they’d taken the Prius in together that morning. And if she insisted on taking a hire car, well, they’d cross that unpleasant bridge when they got to it.

To her surprise, Maura just nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Jane.” And then, softly, “I love you.”

Jane grinned awkwardly, her cheeks warm. “I love you too,” she said quickly, glancing at the door again before swiftly pressing a kiss to her lips.

So much for Rule Number One.

“I won’t be too late, but feel free to eat dinner without me.”

Jane scoffed. “Fat chance. You see the steaks they have on the menu at that restaurant?”

Maura sighed good-naturedly. “Jane . . .”

“It comes with salad,” Jane argued. “Plus they have that fish thing you like. So how about you call me, I’ll call room service, and when we get back, hooray! Surf’n’turf. And wine,” she added.

She felt a little weird about the room service thing, since it was basically her spending Maura’s money, but doubted Maura would even notice. And anyway, she could always sell off one of her signed baseballs to pay for dinner if it meant she got steak. And she got to eat it with Maura.

“All right,” Maura said. “As long as there’s wine. I promise it won’t be too late; I’m sure there’s something here, I just need some time to find it.”

“You will,” Jane grinned. “You always do.”

“Not always,” Maura said, frowning. “Though my closure rate is acceptably high.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge your brilliance, Doctor,” Jane said, kissing her again. She’d meant for it to be a quick peck, but Maura reached up and cupped her cheek, drawing her closer, sucking at her lip, letting her tongue dance lightly over her teeth before pulling away.

“It’s a statistically factual statement,” she murmured, licking at her own lower lip as she tucked hair behind her ear.

Jane gulped, squirmed at the sudden rush of arousal that jolted through her. “I, uh, I gotta go,” she said.

Before I break Rule Number Two, which didn’t even exist until right now.

“Thank you, Jane,” Maura said again.

“Be careful,” Jane said. “Call me soon.”

“I will,” Maura smiled. “You be careful, too.”

“Always am,” Jane said, offering a sloppy salute just before she spun around and crashed face-first into the doorframe. “I’m fine,” she croaked, flashing a thumbs-up.

Maura’s sigh followed her all the way to the elevator.

 

---

 

It was almost eight-thirty when Jane decided to call Maura herself.

“Oh, Jane,” she said, her excitement audible. “Thank you for calling. I completely lost track of time, but I think I found something useful.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Come pick me up and I’ll tell you on the way back.”

Jane felt a flash of frustration that Maura wouldn’t just spill it right then, but she knew talking in person was the safest option. Korsak had assured her nobody had come near either their or Constance’s suites since they’d left that morning, and confirmed that the sweep of their houses had turned up listening devices, including in the guest house, but nothing had been found in any of the hotel rooms.

Jane had stuffed down the surge of icy dread she’d felt when Korsak had disclosed the bugs; one in her living room, one in her bedroom, four at Maura’s, including the bedrooms, and one in the living room of the guest house. Camera footage showed the bugs had been placed at Maura’s when the torn-out page appeared on the counter, but there was no definitive answer on when her own place had been broken into, or how.

Maura’s security cameras had shown a figure—most likely a man, based on height and build—wearing a dark jacket and knit cap entering through the garage into the kitchen, moving quickly and purposefully. The scene techs had discovered scratches inside the lock cylinder on the garage entrance on the far side of the house, unseen by cameras and mostly obscured by the trash bins, indicating the lock had been picked, and by someone who had tools and knowledge. They knew the house as well, heading straight for the bedrooms after carefully placing the torn page on the kitchen island, their face turned away from the security cameras the whole time. They’d left the same way, probably going to the guest house before vanishing through the back.

All in all, it had taken less than four minutes.

Jane hadn’t told Maura the specifics yet; after their conversation in the morgue she’d decided one more temporary dark secret couldn’t hurt. It was only the town car that might matter anyway; the break-in just meant a stern reminder of security measures, namely making sure the silent alarm was always set. And the car could just be two unnerving coincidences, though her gut certainly disagreed.

When she got to the station, Maura was at the front desk, chatting pleasantly with the sergeant on duty. Jane recognized her, Garcia or Gonzales or something. Had always kind of liked her; she was smart and funny. Had always wondered why she hadn’t put in for the Lieutenant’s exams.

But as she strode across the lobby, she felt an embarrassing stab of jealousy at the way the sergeant was smiling at Maura, and the way Maura was smiling back. She knew it was stupid, irrational, but she felt an almost-overpowering urge to walk right up and kiss her, just to make sure Gonzales—Mariana Gonzales, that was it—got the picture.

Don’t be a meathead, Rizzoli. Dial it back.

She took a deep breath, was just about to announce herself, when Gonzalez looked up. “Oh hey, Detective Rizzoli!” she called. “Dr. Isles was just telling me you’re at the Fairmont. I stayed there once for my niece’s quinceañera, I bet it’s more fun when there aren’t six people to a room.”

Jane’s breath caught in her chest.

“Sorry it’s not a regular vacation, huh?” Gonzales continued. “You have a good night, Detective, always nice to see you. Thanks for keeping me company, Doc,” she added, giving Maura a friendly grin and a little wave.

“Goodnight, Sergeant,” Maura said politely as she slid her arm through Jane’s, gave her a warm smile.

Jane froze for a moment before realizing this wasn’t a new behavior for them, not entirely. Jane wasn’t one for touching at work—well, you didn’t used to be—but she’d always allowed Maura more leeway. It was undoubtedly part of what fueled the rumor mill, aside from them both being attractive single women—that she’d bend her well-known distaste for physical contact, but only for the pretty doctor in the basement. And her ma, but that was usually more about sudden, overwhelming force.

Still, her cheeks burned as Gonzales’s farewell echoed in her ears. It took her a moment to be able to focus on what Maura was saying, chattering animatedly as they walked into the cold night air, frost already glittering on the branches.

“Uh,” she stammered. “What? Sorry.”

Maura gave her a curious little glance. “I was saying that we may not need the medical records to fill in a more complete picture of Kight’s prognosis,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat of the Prius parked directly in front of the station. “I couldn’t think of what I was missing, so I went back to the results and realized there’s no evidence of chelating agents in the bloodwork.”

“And that means . . .?” Jane drifted off as she pulled away from the curb, surreptitiously checking for any black cars.

“Kight wasn’t actually being treated for their condition. One of the primary therapies for this type of poisoning involves introducing chemicals that bind to the metals involved to help flush them from the system. It’s less effective in very advanced cases like this one, but it’s still a front-line treatment.”

“So Sheridan wasn’t trying to get better.”

“Not through standard medical means, no,” Maura said.

“Does that help us?” Jane’s tone was sincere. There was a leap here, she just couldn’t quite make it.

“It certainly indicates Kight was either attempting alternative methods, or—” she caught herself. “Or they were planning to let the condition kill them.” She bit her lip.

“Do you think that’s possible?” Jane asked, keeping her voice as gentle as she could.

“They were older, in their seventies,” Maura said. “The poisoning was quite advanced; their liver and kidneys had significant lesions and scarring. Chelation therapy would have slowed the progress, but it remains probable that the amount of build-up in their system would be the eventual cause of death, likely through failure of one or more organs.”

“Hell of a way to go,” Jane muttered, turning onto a narrow, winding street. Negotiating the city’s haphazard planning was always a chore, but at least she had a knack for it.

“It would be terribly painful. I didn’t find any evidence of narcotics or even standard analgesics, either. I can’t imagine what they must have been going through.”

“Or why,” Jane added. As she eased onto the Fairmont’s street, she bit her lip. “Any idea how long they had left? Or how long it would’ve been, uh . . .”

“Going downhill? Perhaps six months, though the symptoms likely started years ago. As for time remaining . . .” she shrugged. “I don’t know. Weeks? Months? It’s a question much better suited to Dr. Kerrigan.”

“Speaking of,” Jane said, pulling into the parking garage, “I called Korsak and let him know about your conversation. He said he’d get in contact right away. Send a couple plainclothes over to her place, if needed.”

“If Vanallen is blackmailing her as well it seems not unlikely he’d be having her watched too.”

“Exactly,” Jane said, pulling into a parking spot and turning off the engine. She reached over and lightly grasped Maura’s wrist before the other woman could get out of the car. “Um, Maur, so . . . does . . . did you . . .”

She blushed. Wished she hadn’t opened her mouth.

“What is it?”

“Never mind,” she mumbled, fumbling at her seatbelt.

“Jane,” Maura said in that infinitely patient, half-infuriating way she had. “What?”

“Uh,” she breathed. “Uh, does Sergeant Gonzales, um . . .”

“Know about us? Yes, she does.” Maura cocked her head. “Does that bother you? I didn’t tell her; she asked.”

“You didn’t have to say yes,” Jane muttered, regretting it immediately.

“I didn’t have to say no, either; in fact, you know perfectly well I can’t lie.” Jane could hear the chill seeping into her tone. “And Sergeant Gonzales is very kind and trustworthy.”

“How do you know?”

Deeper and deeper, Rizzoli. Keep digging this hole.

“We went on a date,” Maura said matter-of-factly.

That pit opened up in the middle of Jane’s stomach again.

Maura’s brow furrowed. “It was nearly seven years ago,” she said. “It was only one date; we quickly realized we weren’t compatible as romantic partners. We still talk occasionally, mostly at work.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Maura frowned. “You didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, but—“ she cut herself off.

“You’re upset,” Maura said, scrutinizing her expression. “Is it because she’s a woman, or because she’s a work acquaintance?”

Yes.

“No,” she lied. “It’s fine, I just . . . uh. Didn’t know.”

Maura sighed. “It didn’t mean anything then, and I certainly don’t harbor any feelings for her now beyond casual friendship.”

Jane shifted in her seat. Counted to ten. Well, four.

“She guessed?”

Maura nodded. “Surely you’re aware of the office gossip about us. Even I am.”

Jane shrugged awkwardly.

“Sergeant Gonzales’s personal life has made her someone whose observations I trust when it comes to same-sex relationships—“

Jane winced. Maura sighed.

“—so when she initially asked me to dinner, she had hesitations that reinforced the idea that our outward behavior has always had the potential to be seen as romantic or sexual attraction.”

Jane shrank down in her seat. Even though this whole miserable conversation was her stupid fault.

“It was part of why we only had one date,” Maura said softly. “She asked if it would make things difficult at work, since it was clear to her that we had feelings for each other.” She paused, eyes downcast, worrying at her hands.

“Seven years ago?” She didn’t mean to sound so incredulous, but hearing it this way, that people had seen it, really seen it, not just for a cheap laugh or wishful thinking, but that they were clearly in love even before Jane, at least, had really ever imagined the possibility. Even the possibility of the possibility.

“She was right, I think,” Maura said quietly, her voice small. “About me. I didn’t really grasp it fully at the time, since you were my closest friend, maybe my only friend, and since, well—“

“I only dated men.”

“Yes,” Maura said. “That was a significant deterrent.”

Jane laughed despite herself. “I bet.”

“I’m sorry if her knowing upsets you,” Maura said. “I’m certain she’ll be discreet.”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “I know. I—I don’t really mind that she knows. I feel like I should. But I . . . I don’t.”

“Good,” Maura said. There was relief in her voice and Jane cringed internally.

“I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of any of this,” she said quickly, afraid she’d chicken out if she didn’t barrel ahead right here in this Toyota Prius parked in the basement of a four-star hotel. “I love you, Maura. I want—“

She did stop herself then, before the words spilled out.

I want to marry you on the rim of a volcano.

“What do you want, Jane?” Maura’s eyes were dark, her voice low. She slid her fingers along Jane’s, letting them play at the hem of her sleeve.

“I want you to be just mine for a little while longer,” she managed. It was mortifying, kind of, but it was true, and it wasn’t the other, more mortifying thing. “Just us. We’ll tell everyone you want. We’ll get it on the Jumbotron at a Sox game. But . . . not yet, okay?”

Maura’s soft smile made Jane’s heart both leap and steady itself. “Of course, Jane,” she said. “I understand exactly what you mean.”

Jane grinned gratefully. “I love you, Maura Isles.”

“And I love you, Jane Rizzoli. But can we please go inside? It’s not very comfortable in here.”

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled, yanking her door handle open. “Sorry.”

“Language,” Maura said, her smile audible.

“I bet dinner’s there, too,” Jane said excitedly. “I got a huge steak. And broccoli,” she added. “And I got you the halibut, no sauce.”

“Thank you,” Maura said, slipping her arm through Jane’s again. This time, Jane interlaced their fingers. Leaned down for a kiss.

 

---

 

The smell of steak hit Jane’s nose the second she opened the door to their suite. She dropped her bag on the closest armchair, made a beeline for the elegantly-set table, two plates topped with silver domes on either side.

“Wash your hands, please,” Maura called, disappearing into the bedroom. Jane grumbled but dutifully headed for the bathroom.

When she emerged, her phone was buzzing on the table. Korsak.

“What’s up, boss? It better be important, I’m looking at the most beautiful steak I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Get it to go,” Korsak said grimly. “They found Matins. He’s dead.”

 

 

Notes:

1. I am of the firm belief that Jane Rizzoli has always been kind of an asshole, thus, she does assholish things sometimes, but at least she's trying
2. Maura is ride-or-die for her Prius, at least until she can get a custom Lotus
3. hoooo boy, lemme tell you about working at a Jewish deli during Hannukah (updates might be sporadic for a bit)

Chapter 18: You're A Pretty Big Deal

Summary:

another spicy one as a lil Boxing Day treat! we're also in the downhill slope, plot-wise; things are gonna start happening pretty, pretty fast.

Jane made it in to the precinct in record time. It helped that the uniforms had escorted her in their squad car; it wasn’t at all necessary, but she appreciated the gesture.

Maura had sat silently next to her on the ride over. It wasn’t until they’d made it to the parking garage that Jane realized there’d been no discussion of Maura going with her, it had just happened.

Jane was relieved. Not just because Maura would undoubtedly have some complicated-sounding insight, but because it meant she could keep a close eye on her. Korsak hadn’t said much beyond plane crash, but Jane’s hackles had immediately raised. She hadn’t told either of their mothers what had happened; no need to make anything even more complicated yet. But she’d noticed the plainclothes officers had moved to directly outside their room doors.

“So what’s the story? Better be worth missing out on a New York strip,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. Korsak was standing at Mason’s desk, the younger officer seated with the phone pressed to his ear.

“Got a call from Otsego County PD out of Cooperstown when they ID’d the body. I got a buddy with the NYSP, I put a bug in his ear last week when we couldn’t track Matins down,” Korsak said. “This is a big case, lot of attention, we need all the help we can get. Anyway, a guy was out walking his dog in the backwoods and found the Cessna in pieces. Matins himself looks to have been killed in the crash. But obviously we don’t know for sure yet,” he added, nodding respectfully at Maura.

“Walking his dog?” Jane raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Korsak snorted. “Hunting without a license, probably. Crash site is about forty miles from the nearest hamlet, so it’s unlikely anyone saw or heard anything. NTSB and FAA are already on it—Mason’s on the phone with the FAA now—so we won’t have a lot of information until they’re ready to share. And I know we all hate it, but it’s interstate now, so Cap’s gotta call in the Feds.”

Jane groaned. “Great,” she muttered.

“Where’s the body?” Maura asked.

“They sent it to the local coroner. Don’t worry, Doc, I told them you’d want to take the first crack at it.”

Jane grimaced at Korsak’s phrasing, but Maura gave him a bright smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. If there’s any difficulty with getting the body transferred, I know the New York State ME quite well, I’d be happy to call him.”

He gave her a nod. “Thanks. Shouldn’t be a problem; the county sheriff knows the basics. He’s going to get in touch with Ithaca, have some people go out to, uh . . .”

“Hollow Spring Farm,” Maura said. “The retreat.”

“We’re working with the idea that he was headed back there from Boston, since the route checks out. Mason’s on with the FAA, checking for a flight plan and any bad weather Matins may have run into on the way.”

“He may not have filed a plan,” Maura said. “He flew Mother directly to the city last week, but she said that was also odd, that he usually used a private airstrip.”

“Any idea where? Or who it belongs to?” Jane asked.

Maura shook her head. “Mother didn’t say, and I didn’t think to ask.”

“That’s okay, why would you have? But,” Jane said, “I think it’s time we bring Constance in to talk on the record.”

Maura tensed, then sighed. “Yes. Shall I call her? I’m sure she’ll come right down.”

“We can do it in the morning. And I want the protection officer to drive her in,” Jane said, glancing at Korsak, who nodded in agreement. “It won’t take long for word about the crash to get out, and if Vanallen’s involved here too, we need to be extra-careful.”

“You think he could be responsible for the crash?”

“I don’t know yet, but it’s an awfully big coincidence if he’s not.”

Mason was waving his hand at them while saying his thank-yous to whoever was on the other end of the line.

“Okay,” he said hanging up. “FAA has no record of any flight plans being filed for that tail number. They said it’s not too unusual for small planes like our Cessna to skip that step, which doesn’t make anyone’s job easier. But that does mean Matins probably didn’t leave from an FAA-registered airport or airstrip. I’ll call around anyway.”

“Good,” Jane said, giving him half an encouraging nod. Not a whole one. Not yet. “Any relevant weather conditions?”

“Not in the area the plane went down, at least not in the past forty-eight hours. Before that, moderately low visibility from rain and fog, but nothing an experienced pilot wouldn’t be able to handle.”

“So either mechanical failure or a medical emergency,” Jane said.

“Seems like it,” Mason agreed.

“Local PD says it looks like it most likely happened yesterday or earlier,” Korsak said. “The plane’s engine was stone-cold, and the body didn’t look, uh, great.”

“I’d like to get the body here as soon as possible, Lieutenant,” Maura said. “I should be able to determine time of death without much complication, particularly if the body was exposed to the elements. Measuring the development of insect larva, for example, is a remarkably effective method.”

“Uh . . . insect larva?” Mason looked a little green.

“Indeed,” Maura said, oblivious to his obvious discomfort. “Growth and reproduction rates of many insects that colonize dead bodies are well established, and inspecting any eggs or maggots in the body can allow me to give a very accurate window for time of death, despite the low ambient temperature. And then of course you have all the other standard metrics; rigor mortis, lividity, bloating, various other levels of decomposition—“

“That’s great, Maura,” Jane said hastily as Mason began to waver in his chair. She rolled her eyes at Korsak. Another one? she mouthed. He just shrugged.

“Oh,” Maura said, finally noticing Mason’s expression. “Are you uncomfortable with death? I’m sorry, I tend to forget that about people.”

“No problem, ma’am,” he said weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get the body transported down ASAP,” Korsak said, patting Mason on the shoulder. “I dunno if it’ll be tonight, though.”

“Oh, of course,” Maura smiled. “Tomorrow morning should be fine, provided the local facilities can adequately preserve the body and associated evidence. Though if nobody objects, I’d like to call the county coroner now, to go over their preliminary findings.”

“No problem, Doc,” Korsak said. “Let us know what you find out.”

After Maura had disappeared downstairs, Jane let out a long sigh. “Okay,” she said, plopping down at her desk. “What next?”

 

 

---

 

 

They made it back to the hotel an hour later, any real work having to wait until morning. The Otsego County coroner had been called back in to receive the body and hadn’t yet done a thorough examination, though she did give Maura a brief video tour.

“I’ll leave COD up to you, Doctor,” she’d said, “but at first glance, it looks like polytrauma from the crash. Severe impact injuries, crushed bones in the skull and upper torso, significant blood loss. Though I wouldn’t want to guess as to the victim’s condition prior, of course.”

Maura had politely thanked her, asked for photographs and any initial findings to be sent directly to her email. Confirmed that the body would be transported to Boston the next morning, assured the coroner she’d speak to the state ME herself—had even dropped the Governor’s name—to ensure jurisdictional cooperation.

“I so rarely have to get involved in the political aspects of my position,” she said later, as she and Jane sat tucked together on the little sofa in their suite. “It always feels so strange.”

“You testify in court all the time,” Jane said, letting her hand drift up to stroke the hair away from Maura’s temple.

Maura sighed, burrowed closer. “Yes, but that’s still about my medical expertise. I don’t mind calling Dr. Gerson or even the Governor if it helps us do our work more effectively, but I sometimes forget that I’m also a public servant, beyond the work I do for the victims.”

“Yeah,” Jane murmured, resting her head against Maura’s. “You’re a pretty big deal, it turns out.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Maura said softly. “I forget that as a high-ranking public servant, I’m also in some ways a public figure.”

“Right,” Jane mumbled. Glanced around the luxury suite, the one with the armed officer stationed just down the hall. “I’m sorry again that all this is happening.”

“I am too, but that’s not entirely what I mean either. It’s . . . I don’t know. I never wanted attention, except from my parents, since so many of my experiences with it from peers and teachers were so negative. And it’s not attention, exactly, anyway.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not expressing myself very coherently.”

“You’re powerful,” Jane said after a long moment, kissing the top of her head.

Maura gave a soft hmm. “I can’t say as I enjoy it.”

“You’ve been an Isles your whole life,” Jane shrugged.

“Yes, but that’s all about my last name. And my family’s money. This is just . . . me. I don’t know. It feels . . . uncomfortable. I’m glad I’m able to help, but I’ll be very glad when this is over.”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed, “me too.”

“When do you think we’ll have the incident report for the crash?”

“I dunno. NTSB investigations can take years, but I’m hoping the FAA or our investigators will find something a lot faster than that. And even though I hate sharing with the Feds,” she scowled, “they’ve got a lot of resources.”

“Oh dear,” Maura murmured.

“Hey,” Jane said, lifting Maura’s chin with her fingertips. “We’ll figure it out. Soon. I promise.”

Maura’s eyes glittered. “I know you will.”

“We will,” Jane said firmly, dipping her in head for a kiss. “And then we can go back to being just us.”

Maura smiled. “I really like being just us.”

Jane grinned, feeling a little flutter in her tummy. “Me too."

They sat quietly nestled together for a moment, Jane gently stroking Maura’s hair. After a few minutes, Maura murmured wordlessly, nuzzled into Jane’s neck.

The light brush of Maura’s warm lips against her skin made goosebumps spring up across her whole body. She shivered reflexively, her hand sliding down to squeeze at Maura’s shoulder, urging her on.

She gasped lightly at the first soft swipe of Maura’s tongue against her throat. Maura smiled, she could feel it; the sensation made her squeeze her thighs together.

As her head tipped back, allowing more access, Maura shifted, sliding one leg over Jane’s hips, straddling her lap, her hands carding through Jane’s hair, tugging lightly so that the column of her neck was fully exposed. Maura made a soft little noise of approval, moving one hand from Jane’s hair, dragging it down her skin to the barrier of her tank top, fingertips teasing at the fabric while she licked higher up Jane’s throat until she reached Jane’s mouth, thrusting her tongue in without prelude.

Jane groaned into Maura’s mouth, her hips bucking up. She grasped at Maura’s waist, rucking Maura’s silky blouse up to feel her soft skin. Maura whimpered, bit at Jane’s lower lip as she swiveled against her, arching into her touch. Her free hand moved to Jane’s breast, squeezing frantically, almost roughly, as her breath started coming in light, rapid gasps.

Jane felt a little dizzy. Her body was flushed, her pulse thick and heavy, the wetness between her legs growing rapidly. There was no question that she loved Maura’s eagerness, her desperation—she could relate—but as Maura surged and grasped and licked, Jane felt a rush of that new, thrilling desire, not just for Maura, but to have her. She ran her hand down the expanse of Maura’s lower back, feeling for the zipper on her skirt, relieved it wasn’t one of the complicated ones with buttons and clasps, otherwise she’d be on the hook for repairs.

Maura shivered when Jane yanked the zipper down and thrust her hand inside the skirt, growling low in her throat when she encountered only bare skin. Maura let out a sharp gasp in response, tugging Jane’s tank top down, forcing her hand inside the sports bra to pinch at her nipple.

“Fuck,” Jane rasped, breaking away from the kiss. Maura grinned, her lips swollen and glossy, her eyes bright and unfocused with lust. She ground down against Jane’s hips, her mouth dropping open, eyelids sliding half-closed. Jane growled again, gripping Maura’s ass with one hand, wrapping the other around her waist, sliding them to the edge of the sofa.

Maura whimpered, her arms circling Jane’s shoulders, ankles locking around her waist as Jane lifted them both off the couch, Maura clinging to her, kissing her hard again as Jane carried her to the bedroom, nearly throwing her on the bed.

She’d have to think about how easily all of this was coming to her later, about how natural it felt, how it felt like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Almost, anyway.

She looked down at Maura, her skirt slung low around her hips, blouse pulled up around her ribs. The smooth expanse of her stomach as it rose and fell rapidly. The flush across her skin, the way her body was wriggling, wanting Jane to touch her, the glazed, pleading look in her eyes.

Jane had never felt so powerful.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she murmured. “I love you so much.”

Maura let out a strangled little gasp, hips twitching off the bed. She twisted the comforter in her fists, chest pushed forward, breasts straining the buttons of her blouse. “I love you,” she breathed. “Please, Jane—“

Before she could finish, Jane was grasping her knees, forcing them up and out, the skirt pushing up around her waist.

Jane stared at the exposed flesh, pink and swollen and glistening with arousal. Slid her palms down the inside of Maura’s thighs, relishing Maura’s little whines.

She paused just as her thumbs brushed against the silky skin at the crease of Maura’s thighs, shivering with pleasure at the heat, the wetness, but also struck with a wave of anxiety. Sure, she’d imagined doing this, really wanted to, but she was nervous. Would she know what to do? Would it be good for Maura?

And there was the other thing, the faint squeamishness, which had accompanied all her fantasies. She’d tasted herself before, in the heat of the moment—she’d tasted herself on Maura’s lips just last night, even—and it had been a little weird, but not especially unpleasant. Still.

But Maura was right here, in the position Jane had put her in, legs spread, panting wantonly, so it’s not like she could chicken out even if her animal brain wasn’t screaming at her to do it. Plus the way Maura was squirming under her touch, the soft, pleading sounds she was making, the smell of her sweat and perfume and arousal—

“Please,” Maura gasped again, raggedly, and before the word had even left her lips Jane was on her knees, anxiety obliterated by dizzying anticipation.

She pushed Maura’s thighs apart and lowered her head, running her tongue along the silky crease of her thigh, lightheaded with the scent of her, the taste of her. She took a deep breath and ran her tongue lightly along the length of Maura’s sex, not too hard, just experimenting. For science.

The sensation was overwhelming. Jane’s hands slid around Maura’s thighs, pulling her closer. She rumbled deep in her chest as Maura wrapped her legs around her shoulders, one hand settling lightly on the crown of Jane’s head.

“Oh,” she breathed as Jane began to work her tongue with purpose, grinning as Maura’s thighs squeezed around her head, as she gripped at her hair, directing Jane’s mouth exactly where she wanted it. “Like—like that, right there—“

Jane felt another hot wave of arousal when she flicked the tip of her tongue over Maura’s hard clit, making her hips surge up, rocking against Jane’s mouth.

She began to experiment in earnest, wanting to see what kinds of things made Maura utter those high, sharp little whimpers, that made her gasp and shudder and whine, that made her tug on Jane’s hair and dig her heels into Jane’s back.

She hit a particularly good spot—on the left side, near the top—and Maura cried out, pulling Jane’s mouth hard against her soft flesh, Jane’s tongue flicking against the spot, finding a rhythm that made Maura gasp, made her grip so hard at Jane’s hair her scalp burned, but the snarling animal in her brain ignored the pain, was spurred on by it, and without being fully conscious of what she was doing she sucked hard at the pulsing bead under her tongue, flicking rapidly as Maura’s breath came faster and higher, a series of high keening uh, uh, uhs, gripping her thighs so hard she was vaguely aware she might leave bruises, but the way Maura was writhing and thrusting against her mouth meant the only thing she cared about was making Maura see stars.

“Oh—oh fuck, Jane, so good, you feel so good, right—right there, oh god—“

Her words cut off with a deep, shuddering moan as her thighs tensed, a gush of heat and wetness against Jane’s mouth and chin as she arched hard off the bed, Jane rising with her, tongue still lapping and pressing at her throbbing clit as she came, Jane pretty sure she was coming too as she watched Maura, head thrown back, the tendons in her neck tight against her damp skin, mouth wide in a silent cry of pleasure.

Jane shivered with her, instinctually softening the pressure of her tongue, lapping gently at silky flesh as she eased Maura back down, stroking her thighs where she’d previously gripped, sliding her palms across her abdomen, soothing away the intensity with gentle sweeps along Maura’s trembling body.

She listened to Maura’s breathing, to the little sounds she was making, and adjusted the pressure accordingly. After a few soft, slow licks, Maura tugged lightly on her hair. She pulled away, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses along the inside of her thigh before pulling herself up and sliding onto the bed next to her, still stroking her skin gently as she pressed their mouths together.

When she pulled away, Maura was gazing at her, eyes heavily lidded, her face slack and content.

“That was extremely effective,” she murmured, and instead of rolling her eyes Jane felt a hot rush of pride.

“Good,” she mumbled, burying her face in the sweat-slicked curve of Maura’s neck. “Because I’d hate to never do that again, too.”

Maura gave her a drowsy smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to do it, at least not so soon. I’d anticipated you’d need a bit longer before you felt comfortable.”

“I didn’t really think about it,” Jane admitted. “I just . . . really wanted to.”

“I’m glad you did,” Maura smiled again.

They lay there together for a few long moments, Jane playing with a strand of Maura’s golden hair, before Maura slowly sat up, began unbuttoning her rumpled blouse. Jane blushed, despite where her tongue had just been. “You don’t have to—“ she began, even though her body vehemently disagreed.

“But I want to,” Maura said with a slow smile, shrugging the blouse off. “I love you, Jane. I love your body. I love the way you make me feel, and I love the way I make you feel.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she mumbled as Maura unclasped her bra, breasts swinging free.

“Good,” Maura murmured as she reached for the hem of Jane’s shirt. “Because I’d hate to stop now.”

 

 

Chapter 19: Ouch

The next morning began with a flurry of activity. The body had been sent over from Cooperstown first thing, and the morgue attendants were just finishing up the delivery when they arrived, Maura clearly resisting the urge to lean up and kiss her, Jane relieved she hadn’t been the one who had to assert self-control this time. “I’ll let you know what I find out,” she’d said before vanishing through the lab doors.

The preliminary reports from NYSD had been sent as well; the crash had been prolonged, judging from shorn treetops and other damage. An aviation expert Jane had never met—a fed, by the look of him—explained it most likely meant Matins had been aware of the situation, at least enough to try controlling his descent.

“Any ideas on what happened?” she asked coolly, sipping on her coffee.

The fed—Agent Donovan Mackey, from the Boston FBI field office—shook his head. “It could still be mechanical or medical. If the vic was having a heart attack, for example, he may have recognized the signs and tried to bring the plane down safely. Same with a mechanical issue. But we do know the engine didn’t blow up mid-flight, and as far as we’ve been able to determine, there was no obvious tampering with any of the major systems. Plane’s a mess, though, so don’t take too much on faith.”

“So all we really know is it probably wasn’t suicide-by-Cessna.”

Agent Mackey grunted, sipped at his own coffee. “Probably not. Poor guy tried to stop whatever happened.”

“Poor guy,” Jane muttered. Mackey raised an eyebrow. She shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. Our vic is also a prime suspect in an ongoing murder case.”

“Yeah, they read me in. My sister knew the artist. Not personally. She teaches photography at MassArt. Said the murder is a pretty big deal in the art world.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered.

As if on cue, Constance swept into the room, looking every inch the wealthy doyenne. “Good morning, Detective Rizzoli,” she said, giving Jane a polite nod. “I was sent up here by the people at the front desk.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, setting down her coffee and crossing over to her. “Thanks for coming in.”

Constance nodded, her mouth set in a firm line. “Of course. I was expecting to speak with you formally, though I didn’t anticipate yet another death.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “All right. Where shall I go?”

“Right this way,” she said, directing her toward Interview 2. “Do you want anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? I gotta go talk to these guys real quick, I can grab you something.”

“I’m quite all right,” Constance smiled, a private, friendly one just for her. “Please, take your time.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, flashing a brief, grateful grin. “Have a seat, sorry about the accommodations.”

“It is rather provocative,”  Constance murmured benignly as she glanced around the bare room with its heavy gray table.

Jane furrowed her brow. “Uh, yeah. One second.”

She ducked back into the bullpen, Agent Mackey joined by another goon in a suit and Mason, who looked like he was doing his very best to stay calm.

“Hey Mason, you wanna interview Mrs. Isles with me?” she asked, figuring he’d want to do anything that got him away from the feds and their smug superiority.

“Sure thing, Rizzoli,” he called. “Fellas, why don’t you have a seat.” The two agents gave each other little sneers. Jane wanted to punch them in the nose, but settled for picking up her coffee cup with a little extra force.

“Room’s all set,” she said, scooping the Sheridan files into the crook of her elbow. “See ya soon, boys.”

The agents rolled their eyes. One took out his phone, began scrolling.

Mason followed her to the interview room. “Let me run this one,” Jane said. “I know her, and she can be . . . tough.”

Mason nodded as they entered the room, closing the door quietly behind them. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said settling into the chair across from Constance, Jane sliding in next to him.

“Good morning,” she said, flipping on the digital recorder. “It’s Wednesday at 8:45am, Detective Jane Rizzoli and Detective Shaun Mason interviewing Constance Isles in the matter of the deaths of both Kight Sheridan and Andrés Matins. I’m noting for the record that Mrs. Isles is the mother of Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth, and that we’re acquainted socially outside the scope of this case.”

She gave Constance an encouraging little smile before clearing her throat.

“Mrs. Isles, you’re here voluntarily to share information possibly related to both crimes, correct?”

“Yes,” Constance said, her demeanor stiffening. Jane had seen it countless times; witnesses and criminals alike tended to have a moment when they registered where they were, and why.

“It’s all right,” Jane said kindly. “Thank you very much for agreeing to cooperate with us, we’re grateful for your assistance. Can you start at the beginning, last week when you found out Kight Sheridan had been murdered?”

Constance took a deep breath, setting her shoulders. “I was at Hollow Spring Farm, an arts retreat northeast of Ithaca, where I’d been staying for the past six weeks. I was there in the company of seven others, including Andrés Matins.”

“Had you left the property at all during that time?”

“Occasionally some of us would travel into town to get supplies, that sort of thing. I estimate I left perhaps five times? And three weeks ago I went to New York City to attend a fundraiser; I was away for three days.”

“Okay, great. To your knowledge, did Andrés Matins leave at all while you were there?”

Constance bit her lip. “Not to my knowledge, though I admit Andrés and I weren’t particularly close, so I paid little attention to his activities. As I’ve said previously, Andrés was well-known for his intense hatred of urban spaces; he even disliked going to Ithaca. Imagine considering Ithaca a bastion of urban horrors.” She gave a sardonic little smirk. “But no. As far as I’m aware, he was always at the farm.”

"Do you remember seeing him Tuesday night, the night Kight Sheridan was murdered?"

"No," Constance sighed. "I've thought about it extensively, of course, but I spent most of that day and evening in my own studio, working on an upcoming exhibition. He was lodged quite far from me, several hundred yards at least, and the area is heavily forested."

"I thought it was a farm," Mason cut in. Constance gave him that look that made Jane shiver, remembering how it had felt directed at her.

"It was once a working farm," Constance said with the kind of restrained patience one would use with a small child. "The name is an homage."

"Got it," Mason mumbled, staring at his hands.

"So it's possible he did leave, without you knowing," Jane said, rescuing him from Constance's gaze. 

"Yes," she said slowly, thoughtfully. "It's possible. All I know for certain is that I myself didn't see him, nor did anyone I did see mention him, though again, that wasn't at all unusual."

"Got it. He had a private plane at the retreat?"

“Yes, a two-seat Cessna.”

“Can you tell me about it? Where did he store it?”

“The farm was quite large, nearly three hundred acres. It adjoined another large private property, and previous owners agreed to jointly build an airstrip to accommodate them both when the properties were functional farms in the 1920s. There’s a small hangar there.”

“Hmm,” Jane said, making a note. “So is it possible that he could have left and returned without anyone at the farm noticing? Not just you, I mean. Could he take off without anyone hearing or seeing the plane?”

“I . . . suppose, yes. It’s far enough from the retreat complex that it’s rare to hear anything unless the planes are directly overhead, and even then it’s considered proper etiquette to go around as not to disturb the residential guests.”

“Did people fly in and out a lot?”

“Oh, perhaps every two weeks or so; mostly weekend visitors, or people arriving to or departing from residencies. It’s certainly possible to drive there, but people do tend to take private planes, since it’s a bit of a jog from town and there aren’t any direct flights to Ithaca from most major cities.”

She glanced at Mason, who lifted his eyebrow just a hair. Rich people. Must be nice.

“Okay. So. Tell me about how you found out about Sheridan, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Constance said smoothly, though Jane saw how she gripped at the edge of the table. “We were all at dinner in the main house—each resident has their own studio cottage, of course, but it’s tradition to have midweek supper together. One of the residents, Malin Hart, a marvelously talented printmaker from Phoenix, had gotten a message from a friend here in Boston, who had seen the news online.”

“Yeah,” Jane muttered. “Word travels fast.”

“Of course we were all devastated. Kight was tremendously influential and well-liked. And such a dear friend,” she said, her voice threatening to break. Jane reached out and covered Constance’s hand with her own.

“We’re all so sorry,” she murmured. Elbowed Mason.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Very sorry. A terrible crime.” Constance gave him a cool glance, his eyes dropping to his lap immediately. Jane almost pitied him.

“Thank you,” Constance said, looking back at Jane. “So, the relevant aspects of that dinner. Malin broke the news, and I was . . . rather overcome. I went back to my studio to take it all in, and stayed there for approximately thirty-five minutes, until another colleague, Etienne Jean, came to check on me. He persuaded me to return to dinner with the idea that processing the tragedy among mutual friends might be of some comfort. He was right,” she said softly. “Andrés was present the whole time. Naturally I was interested in his reaction, knowing the history he had with Kight.”

“Can you tell me more about that?”

Constance smiled “Perhaps I could trouble you for some tea after all? Herbal, if you have it.”

Jane nodded. Elbowed Mason again. Grinned at the little sparkle of mirth in Constance’s eyes as he hastily leapt from his seat.

 

---

 

Forty minutes later they emerged. Constance hadn’t had any earth-shattering revelations, but her clear, detailed recollections were useful to have on the record, and she’d provided more information about Matins’s usual travel methods. The rural private airstrip he preferred belonged to an attorney, Calvin Bridges, who Jane had gathered was another local big shot; Matins had been using it for years. Jane made a note to call the lawyer; made another note to see if Bridges had any connection to Robert Vanallen, aside from their shared profession.

“This case is like a spiderweb,” Mason sighed as they walked back up after escorting Constance back to the unmarked vehicle parked out front. “Sticky. Nothing but knots. Everything feels connected, but there’s no loose thread anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “And we gotta make nice with the suits.” She grimaced. “The main thing is we keep this our case. They’re gonna pressure us to turn it over, but as far as you and me are concerned, they ask nice and we share if we have to. Only if we have to.”

“I got you,” Mason said. “I was in Narcotics before this, I know how to cover the ball.”

“Good,” Jane said as she swiped her keycard, shouldering the door open. “Time to play.”

Mason grinned as he followed her into the bullpen, where Korsak was clustered with the two FBI agents at the white board.

“Good news, Rizzoli,” he said. “We might have a cause for the crash.”

“No shit?” She crossed to them, folded her arms.

“No shit,” Agent Mackey said dryly. “My guys were wondering why there wasn’t any sign of fire—those old Cessnas don’t have the best tanks, so you’d expect rupture or at least leakage, and combined with the sparks from the electrical or metal parts rubbing together—“

“Boom,” the other agent smirked. Jane rolled her eyes.

“So, no fire. And that helps because . . .”

“Because there was no fuel,” Mackey said, only a little triumphant. Jane frowned.

“No fuel?”

He shook his head. “Based on the distance traveled per the odometer, the tank was less than half full at takeoff.”

“And Matins took off anyway?”

“This is where it gets interesting,” Mackey said, handing her a printout. “The gauge had been tampered with; they found it stuck at close to full after they noted the lack of spilled or burned fuel.”

“Could that have been from damage sustained in the crash?”

He shook his head. “Planes this old don’t have digital panels or sensors, so all the perpetrator had to do was pop the panel cover and put a drop of rubber cement under the needle. Replace the panel, impossible to notice unless you were really checking. Would take maybe twenty, thirty minutes with the right tools and experience.”

“Why rubber cement?”

“Doesn’t dry hard. Tap the glass, you get a little wobble.”

“Huh,” Jane said, examining the report. “Wouldn’t you notice the missing fuel weight?”

“Maybe not if you were in a hurry,” Mason chimed in from behind her. “Or were distracted for some reason.”

“Like murder,” Jane murmured.

“These rich hobbyists hardly ever fuel their own rides,” Mackey said. “The airstrip would have to have a pump, I’ve got my guys looking for it.”

“It’s north of Concord,” Jane said. “Owned by an attorney named Calvin Bridges.”

“Great,” Mackey said, reaching into is pocket for his phone, “that cuts down on a lot of legwork, thanks, Detective.”

She glanced at Mason, who was eyeing her skeptically.

“What?” she muttered. “We still gotta solve it.”

He shrugged.

“So,” she continued, glaring at him, “someone had access to the plane unsupervised, and knew how to set this all up. Maybe an employee of Bridges? Someone who fueled the planes, got them ready to go?”

“If he has the money for on-site fuel, he has the money for an aviation manager,” Mackey said, holding the phone away from his mouth. “Yeah, sorry,” he said as a tinny voice bled from the speaker. "Yeah, local PD found the airstrip." Jane scowled at the description. "Owner Calvin Bridges, somewhere north of Concord. Yeah. Yeah. Check employees, see who their hose guy is. Yeah. Yep. Okay, let me know.” He slid the phone back into his pocket. “They’re headed out.”

“Any word from that hot mortician?” the other agent cut in.

Jane felt an immediate flare of anger. She balled her hands into tight fists. “Dr. Isles is the Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” she growled, “show some respect, or get the fuck out.”

“Sor-ry,” the agent whined, throwing up his hands in mock surrender.

Jane stared hard at him until he blinked, looked away.

“Jesus, Doone,” Mackey muttered. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Doone’s kind of a dickhead.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, her teeth clenched. “I noticed.”

“Be nice or I’ll make you sit in the car,” Mackey said. Doone rolled his eyes.

“Sorry.”

Jane just glared at him.

After a beat, Korsak cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go see if Doctor Isles has anything for us, Rizzoli,” he said, jerking his head toward the elevator in the way that meant now. “Mason and I can orient our guests to how Boston Homicide operates.”

“Sure thing, Lieu.” She threw another icy glance at Doone, who at least had the sense to look genuinely abashed this time, before she crossed to the elevator and jabbed at the button.

She fumed as the elevator descended. Wanted, truly this time, to punch Agent Doone in his stupid, ugly face—

The elevator lurched to a stop, jolting her out of her fury. She took deep breaths, counted to ten. Well, six.

She was about to enter the lab when one of Maura’s assistants stopped her. “Sorry, Detective Rizzoli, Doctor Isles asked that we not allow any visitors until she’s concluded her examination.”

Jane grimaced. “That bad?"

The assistant nodded sympathetically. “That bad.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Jane said. “Can you let her know I’m here? Ask if I should wait or come back later.”

The assistant nodded again, then scurried back into the staff offices.

Jane grinned. It was kind of cute, the way they all made sure her every request was followed to the letter. Jane wished she had that power.

Her breath caught in her chest as a fragment of the previous night flashed through her mind, Maura clinging to her, sweat-slicked, whimpering her name, gasping please please please as Jane thrust three fingers deep inside her.

Rule Number Two. Rule Number Two.

“Jane?”

She blinked. Cleared her throat. “Hey,” she croaked.

“Are you all right?” Maura’s wide hazel eyes drifted across her face.

“I’m fine. Thinking about . . . science,” she said, trying to force down the blush that threatened to bloom across her cheeks.

“Ah,” Maura grinned, one cheek dimpling.

“Stop that,” Jane grumbled, pushing herself off the squeaky vinyl bench.

“How about instead I save it for later?”

Jane bit her lip. “Fair trade,” she managed.

“Good,” Maura said brightly. “Because I’ve completed my initial examination, and while I’ll obviously know more after the full autopsy, I find myself increasingly aligned with the coroner’s proposal of impact-related polytrauma. Fractured skull, fractured nose, maxilla, and mandible, sternum and ribs crushed; all likely a result of colliding with the yoke and instrument panel at the time of impact. He has significant vascular trauma; I haven’t gone in yet but the abdominal pooling is externally apparent. The early evidence suggests he suffered an aortic transection and bled out into his abdominal cavity, most probably sustained when his chest caved in.”

“Ouch,” Jane winced.

“Hmm,” Maura murmured in agreement. “Thus far nothing to indicate an acute medical crisis precipitating the crash, but of course there’s a lot of examination and testing before I can be sure.”

“Well, the FBI found out the plane was sabotaged. They said it looks like Matins tried to land, but couldn’t find enough open ground.”

“How was it sabotaged?”

“Someone messed with the fuel gauge. He ran out of gas.”

“Ah,” Maura said softly. She sat down on the bench.

Jane frowned, sat next to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” Maura sighed. “Nothing. Well. Clearly not nothing. But nothing new. This case just keeps getting more and more horrific. First Kight, and now another murder. When will it end?”

“When we catch whoever’s responsible. We’re close, Maura. We’re really close. I know we are. All the pieces are here, I just have to fit them together.”

“I just . . . I want to go home, Jane,” she said, her voice soft, fragile. “I want to go home, with you. Safe. Just us.”

“I know, babe,” she murmured, glancing around the empty hallway. Quickly wrapped her arm around Maura’s shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Me too.”

“Soon?” Maura whispered.

“Soon,” Jane said firmly.

“Okay.” Maura took a deep breath and stood, smoothing her skirt. “I’m going to go back in; unfortunately it’s going to take several hours due to the extent of the damage. But I’ll come find you after, we can have a late lunch?”

“Sure,” Jane grinned. “I promise I won’t eat any of the donuts Mason brought in.”

Maura raised an eyebrow.

“Any more,” Jane amended. “Gotta save room for lunch, even though I’ll never understand how you can eat right after . . .” she gestured to the door.

Maura shrugged. “It’s easy for me to compartmentalize. Would you like to eat out?”

Jane choked a little.

“What?” Maura frowned. “Did I say something wrong? We can just go to the cafe, it’s fine.”

“No,” Jane grimaced. “Say it again.”

Maura eyed her. “Would you like to eat out,” she repeated. Jane snorted. “Jane, come on, I—oh,” she said abruptly. “Now I hear it. But we wouldn’t have nearly enough time, don’t you thi—“

“Maura!” Jane yelped. “Not the time or place for this discussion!”

“About lunch?” she tilted her head quizzically. “Do you want to go somewhere else or not?”

Jane sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just come find me later, we’ll figure it out then.”

“Okay,” Maura shrugged. “Around one-thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment before Jane glanced around again, making sure they were still alone. “Love you,” she said quickly.

Maura gave her a wide smile, her eyes sparkling. Jane wanted to swoon.

“You too,” she said, then bit her lip before fumbling with the doorknob, disappearing into the softly-lit lab.

“Jesus,” Jane muttered as she headed for the stairs again. “She's gonna kill me someday.”

Yeah, but what a way to go.

 

Chapter 20: Hormone Stew

Summary:

toldja I'd be back! we're getting closer and closer to the end here, folks; still a bit to go but the finish line is in sight

Jane woke from a pleasant, heavy sleep to the insistent buzzing of her cell phone. She swatted at the bedside table, accidentally activating the touch lamp.

“Fuck,” she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Language,” Maura mumbled, hair spilling over her face.

Jane sighed, grabbing the phone and fumbling at the lamp until it blinked off. 5:53.

“Yeah,” she rasped. “Rizzoli.”

“Morning, Detective,” Korsak boomed. She winced.

“Isn’t it still night?”

“Not for the long arm of the law. We got a hit on the Concord lawyer’s aviation manager. You ready?”

Jane sat up, abruptly wide awake. “Who?”

“Guy by the name of Ron Dunaghy.”

She stared blankly at the fancy wallpaper. “Should I . . . know who that is?”

“No,” Korsak said. “But his ex-wife dropped his last name in the divorce. Marlene Johns. Sister of—“

“Bradley Johns,” she breathed. “From Vanallen’s office.”

“Is everything all right?” Maura murmured drowsily. Jane’s hand flew to her phone, praying Korsak hadn’t heard her.

Fine, she mouthed. Go back to sleep.

She slid out of the bed, padded into the living room. “Anybody pick him up?”

“Concord PD’s out there now, waiting on the feds. House looks quiet; car in the driveway, all the lights off.”

“Yeah, because it’s the middle of the night. Ow,” she grumbled, hitting her shin on the coffee table. “Why couldn’t this wait until sunrise, again?”

“I thought you’d want to know right away,” Korsak said. He sounded almost hurt.

“I do,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Thanks. I’ll head in soon.”

“I got the g-men on coffee duty. Figure as long as we’re doing their job for them they should earn their keep some other way.”

“At least they’re useful,” she sighed. “I’ll be there in 30.”

“Should be knocking on Mr. Dunaghy’s door about then,” Korsak said. “Hate for you to miss the excitement.”

“What about Johns?”

“Our guys are set up at his townhouse. Nice place,” he added. “No Fairmont, but still.”

She rolled her eyes. “See you soon, Lieu.” She yawned as she ended the call.

“What’s going on?”

Maura stood in the doorway in her little slip, hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her face was soft with sleep.

“They found the aviation manager. Turns out his ex-brother in law is Bradley Johns. Local PD is waiting on the FBI to knock, and we’ve got our guys on Johns’s apartment.”

“And you’re going in? Should I come with you?”

“Nah,” Jane said a little too quickly. “No reason why both of us should lose out on sleep.”

“It’s already six; half an hour is well within ordinary variances in sleep duration. Besides, I’m already awake.”

“It’s really okay. Gonna be mostly listening to radio static for an hour before anything happens, you know how it goes.” She shrugged.

Maura frowned slightly. “It’s no trouble. Unless you’d prefer I not come in with you?”

Jane tensed.

“Oh,” Maura said blankly. “You would prefer that.”

She sighed. “It’s not because of you. Well, it is. But not like that. I mean, uh . . .” she drifted off. Maura gazed at her expectantly. “Okay,” she sighed again, embarrassment battling for psychic real estate and largely succeeding. “One of the FBI guys is a real asshole. I’ve already had to stop myself from punching him in the face. Uh, all of us have,” she amended quickly.

Maura continued to gaze at her for a long moment before furrowing her brow. “He’s saying inappropriate things about me,” she said, her voice neutral. “Is that why you don’t want me to come in with you?”

Jane blushed. “Uh, basically, yeah.”

Maura eyed her again, then grinned. “Jane,” she exclaimed. “You’re jealous!”

She scoffed. “Of that guy? Not a chance.”

“I don’t mean that you see things you envy in him,” Maura said. “It’s a very primal response to encountering someone else showing interest in your mate.”

Jane scowled. “Mate? Really?”

“A result of the overabundance of oxytocin being produced in response to a new intimate attachment,” she continued, ignoring Jane’s sour expression, "combined with a similar increase in androgens, particularly testosterone, and cortisol released at the moment of conflict. A hormonal stew driving you to confront a perceived threat to your claim.”

“Ew,” Jane said as she crossed back into the bedroom and rifled through her open suitcase for something clean to wear. “Several problems with all that.”

“It’s core biology,” Maura sighed, opening the armoire and flicking through the hangers. “A basic survival mechanism. Science has shown a number of vertebrates exhibit common signs of jealousy, particularly around mating.”

She grimaced again. “But . . . testosterone? And I thought oxycontin was the good one. And you’re not my claim.” She yanked a pair of trousers—they were still mostly-folded, so a reasonably safe bet—from the suitcase, a waterfall of bundled socks spilling onto the floor.

Maura pulled a structured gray sheath from its hanger, laid it carefully on the bed. “All vertebrates produce both estrogen and testosterone. And it’s oxytocin, which is associated with feelings of love and pleasure, but has also been shown to increase emotional reactivity, particularly in connection with whatever is stimulating its production.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jane mumbled, pulling her t-shirt on. “He’s still an asshole, and you don’t need anyone ogling you, especially at work.”

“You mean anyone other than you,” Maura smirked, crossing to her and turning around. “Zip, please.”

“I—“ Jane gaped. “I don’t ogle you!”

“Hmm,” Maura murmured, shivering a little as Jane’s fingertips brushed her skin. “I don’t believe I was objecting.”

Jane gulped, let her fingers play more purposefully along the exposed flesh. She grinned as she felt the goosebumps rise, ran her thumb firmly along the ridges of her spine, making Maura shiver.

“We’ll be late. And I don’t want to hang this up again,” she purred.

Jane swallowed hard again, a wide grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She leaned forward, pressed her lips to Maura’s neck, tongue flicking delicately at her pulse point.

“Please stop,” Maura whispered, her voice already rough as she stepped gracefully away. “Because I find it unlikely that I’d be able to.”

Jane grinned again. “You’re the boss,” she rasped, tugging the zipper up smoothly.

“Hmm,” Maura murmured again. “The boss. I like that.”

 

 

---

 

 

They arrived at the precinct two minutes after the half-hour she’d promised Korsak. He and Mason were seated at their desks, hunched over a police radio that was, as Jane had predicted, emitting only the low hiss of static. Mackey and Doone leaned against the wall. Jane watched Doone’s face as they entered the bullpen; saw his eyes widen at the sight of Maura, the beginnings of a leer creeping onto his face before he glanced at Jane and quickly looked away.

“Is that him?” Maura whispered, waving good morning back to Korsak. “The one in the unpleasant tie?”

“You got it,” she whispered back. “Agent Doone.” And then, louder, “morning, fellas, any action yet?”

Mason shook his head. “Just got everyone in place. Warrant took a few, judges don’t like being woken up any more than cops.”

“What are we looking for? Other than the two suspects, obviously.”

“Uh,” Mason said, pushing around the piles of paper on his desk. “I’ve got it—“

“Tools, prints, glue. Any records showing any of our guys using the airfield.” Mackey set a cup down in front of her. “Morning, Detective. Doctor,” he nodded. Maura smiled politely. “At Johns’s place, anything with either Matins’ or Sheridan’s name on it. Or yours, Doctor,” he added quietly, so that only Maura and Jane could hear him.

Jane had pulled Mackey aside the previous afternoon to read him in to the blackmail aspect of the case, which Korsak had gotten the Captain to keep on a need-to-know basis. It had been easy, Korsak had said. The Captain hadn’t even unsealed the evidence bag, which contained the torn picture inside an opaque envelope. It hadn’t turned up any prints, surprising no one, so the Captain had ordered it be withheld from the broader file until such a time as it might be needed in court.

“It probably won’t,” Jane had assured her as they’d sat on the hotel room sofa the previous night. “There are so many other pieces of evidence and connections, and anyway, I’ll get a solid confession. We won’t even need it.”

“But what if I need it,” Maura had said softly. “Of course I would prefer this not become widely known, since while I doubt those responsible for my employment would find reason for concern, I fear the public would be less forgiving. But that doesn’t mean I want these men to get away with what they’re doing to us, and to Dr. Kerrigan, and who knows how many others.”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed, pulling her closer, tucking her small frame tightly against her own body. “But they’ll arrange separate proceedings for that. There’s a lot of reasons the brass wouldn’t want to publicize it. Like how they don’t love it when criminals break into cops’s houses and then the houses of high-ranking gubernatorial appointees,” she finished with an affected snootiness.

Maura gave a little snort, which made Jane feel infinitely better.

She’d kept the whole business of Page 67 and the break-ins farther back in her mind than anything else. Otherwise she’d have to think about how upsetting it was, to be violated like that. And then she’d have to think about how it was or wasn’t like that other time, or that other time, and before she knew it, she’d lose the thread of the case, if not at least a little bit of her carefully-cultivated happiness.

She couldn’t think of someone violating Maura like that without worrying she’d choke on her own rage.

Best to leave it for a minute.

Mason’s excited voice shook her out of her own head. “This is it, here they go,” he said, leaning closer to the radio, which had crackled to life. The two pickups were synchronized; Concord PD handling Dunaghy while BPD, who they were currently waiting for, brought in Johns from his townhouse in Roslindale.

“Unit 17, this is command. Report readiness. Copy.”

“Command, this is Unit 17. Perry and I are knocking now. 10-12.”

“Copy, Unit 17. 10-12.”

There was a brief pause before the scratchy voices of the officers resumed, speaking with whoever had answered the door. Everything seemed ordinary. Textbook. Until—

“Runner! Runner!”

“I’ve got him!”

“10-42! 10-42! Suspect has a firearm, I repeat, suspect is armed!”

The channel erupted for a moment before all the officers involved regained their radio discipline. Jane gripped the back of Mason’s seat, her knuckles white. Maura stood just behind her, worrying at her hands. Nobody spoke. Hardly breathed.

A few moments later, a voice came across the channel. “Unit 17 to command. 10-95, repeat 10-95, suspect is in custody. Firearm secured by Officer Perry. Sending units into the property now. Copy.”

Jane released what felt like all the breath in her body, but didn’t loosen her grip on the seat, waiting until the officers cleared the townhouse. After what felt like an eternity, the radio crackled again.

“Unit 17, all clear. Over.”

Jane let go this time, relief washing over her. From the faces in the room, she wasn’t the only one.

It was only a few seconds before Mackey’s cell phone began ringing. “Mackey. Yeah. Okay. Okay. Good. Great work.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “That was my guy in Concord. They got Dunaghy no problem. He’ll be booked and shipped later today.”

“Good,” Jane muttered. “We’ll have a nice chat as soon as I’m done with Mr. Johns.”

“Agent Mackey’s in the room with you, Detective,” Korsak called. “Mason, why don’t you take Agent Doone on a little field trip to Johns’s place, give the officers a hand with their search.”

Jane glanced at Mason who, to his credit, swallowed down his scowl.

“I call shotgun,” Doone snickered. Jane didn’t fault Mason for failing to stop it a second time.

“Or you could ride in the back,” he muttered as he grabbed his weapon, securing it to his waist.

“Huh?” Doone grunted.

“Let’s go,” Mason grumbled, leading him out of the room. Jane watched him steal a glance at Maura—her legs specifically—and felt her pulse quicken.

It’s just hormones. Just a big ol’ bowl of hormone stew.

She settled for clearing her throat and shooting him a death glare, the special one she reserved for only the most deserving of her wrath. She heard Maura’s breath catch next to her, resisted the impulse to circle her shoulders possessively.

So she was right. Again. She’s always right, why are you ever surprised?

Jealousy. Whatever.

Once Mason and Doone had left, Maura nodded politely to the remaining officers. “I’m very pleased both suspects were apprehended without too much fuss,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

“See ya, Doc,” Korsak called.

“Lunch?” Jane asked softly, glancing up at Mackey who was pretending not to notice.

“I’ll find you,” Maura smiled. “I promise.”

“You owe me like ten lunches,” Jane smiled back. “Which means I get to pick.”

“Please not—”

“The Robber? I thought you’d never ask.”

Maura sighed good-naturedly. “We’ll see,” she murmured, looking up at Jane through her lashes.

Rule Number 2, dipshit.

“Uh, okay,” Jane said abruptly. “Sounds good.”

Maura smirked as she turned to the elevator. “See you later,” she said airily as the doors slid open. Jane had no idea how Maura always managed to catch the elevator at the right floor, but somehow, she wasn’t surprised. It made as much sense as anything else.

“Okay,” Mackey said, rubbing his hands together briskly, though he did throw Jane half a quizzical glance which she chose to ignore. “So I think we can assume from Mr. Johns’s reaction to seeing uniforms at his door, he has something to hide.”

“This kind of insight why they give you the big badge?” Jane said, though it was more teasing than anything else. Mackey gave her an exasperated little sigh.

“No, they give me the big badge because I can also tell you he knew we were coming, because he called Dunaghy five times in the fifteen minutes leading up to the arrests; lucky for us, Dunaghy missed the calls. We’ve also confirmed Dunaghy fueled Matins’s plane once it left the hangar.” He held out his phone, which displayed a grainy black-and-white video. “Security footage at the airstrip, we sent someone to get it while the others were securing Dunaghy. Not much in the way of cameras, probably just this one to keep people from stealing fuel. No other security devices found inside the hangar or in the detached building where Dunaghy was staying. But you can see right . . . here,” he said, pausing the video, “that our suspect, Ron Dunaghy, rolled Matins’s plane out to the pump at 3:36pm two days before the wreck was discovered.”

“How long does he fuel it?”

“Long enough,” Mackey said, scrubbing through the footage. “But that’s easy to fake. Looks like he knew about the camera, how to make it look plausible. You can see right . . . here—“ he paused again, “that he glances directly at the camera, I’m guessing when he shuts the pump off.”

“And we haven’t found any evidence of a leak or anything? We can say for sure Dunaghy deliberately under-filled the tank?”

“We’re waiting on usage measurements from the fuel company, that’ll take a few days at least. But they’ll be able to measure the holding tanks and gauge how much fuel has been used over a set period, which should help us prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did it, and, with the security footage, that he did it intentionally.”

“Hmm,” Jane said, crossing her arms. “But intentionally underfilling a fuel tank isn’t a crime itself.”

“Nope,” Mackey said. “But we’ll get him on the instrument panel, and we’ve got a lot of circumstantial to tie him in. We’ll grab phone records showing any contact with his ex-brother-in-law, which includes this morning. Can’t see us not getting warrants for the phones, though, so I doubt we’ll even need those. This guy isn’t the big fish, Detective, nine times out of ten the lower-level accomplices turn on their bosses, particularly when you're talking about federal prison.”

“Yeah, but what if this is the tenth time?”

“Don’t worry, Rizzoli,” Mackey said, and he wasn’t being snide or condescending. “We’ve got him. Both of them. Johns making a run for it while armed isn’t gonna sit very well with a judge.”

“We just need to know what they know,” Jane said, rubbing the bridge of her nose again. “You think they’ll talk?”

Mackey shrugged. “I hope so.”

“What’s his ETA, you think?” Jane looked at Korsak, who glanced at the time.

“Eh, probably another forty-five to get him down here and through booking for the evasion and the firearm. But I’ll move it along as much as I can.”

“Thanks,” she said. “So, Mackey, you said you had people heading to the farm outside Ithaca?”

He nodded. “Should be there around 9am. They’ll be searching Matins’s personal studio, obviously, and the airstrip. Talk with a few of the people there. Maybe one of them saw something suspicious, didn’t say anything. I’m hoping we’ll have some information by lunch.”

“Great,” Jane said, sitting down at her own desk.

“What’s ‘the robber’?” Mackey asked, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded. Jane eyed him suspiciously for a moment before relenting.

“The Dirty Robber. Best cheeseburger in town and fries that’ll turn waxed paper clear before they get to your table.”

He wrinkled his nose just a tiny bit, and in that moment Jane was reminded of Maura.

“Hey,” she said. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

“Cop bar?”

She shrugged.

“Yeah, they don’t usually like us hanging around their watering holes,” he shrugged back.

Jane eyed him again. He wasn’t that bad. And his team had done some useful work. Plus she was pretty sure he’d had his own talk with Agent Doone, which meant he got at least half a point. Three-quarters, max.

“Well, let’s get this case wrapped up without fucking it up, and maybe you’ll be my invited guest for a round of rotgut.”

“Be still my beating heart,” he said, throwing his hand over his chest. Jane grinned. Maybe there was another reason she liked him.

“Well,” she said. “What’s next?”

 

Notes:

just wanted to say another heartfelt thank you to everyone who's been reading and leaving kudos and comments! to my beloved commenters, it truly makes my whole entire day and I think about you when you're not around <3

Chapter 21: Something Rather Unpleasant

Bradley Johns sat across the table from her, staring intently at a spot somewhere behind her head. He was of average height, though his round-shouldered slouch made him appear small, inconspicuous. He kept his long, thinning hair pulled back in a tight, greasy ponytail. He cleared his throat, fumbled at the cuffs of his suit jacket. The clothes clearly made him uncomfortable, which was unusual for an employee at such a high-profile law firm. Or would have been, if Jane hadn’t read his file.

“Eighteen months in the state pen for felony burglary and extortion,” she said, thumbing through the pages of police reports and court records.

Johns shrugged imperceptibly, his face blank.

“Looks like you have a way with getting around locked doors, Mr. Johns. Is that why Robert Vanallen hired you? To help him . . . acquire information?”

He shrugged again. Tugged his cuffs, his other cuffs rattling.

“That’s how you met, anyway.” She tapped at a page. “Mr. Vanallen represented you in that case, and then you were hired at the firm three weeks after your release. Seems odd that a white-shoe firm like that would take such an interest in the case to begin with, let alone in rehabilitating one of its clients, particularly after they’d been found guilty of stealing documents from their former employer, but maybe it was his way of saying ‘sorry I lost and you went to prison’?” She shrugged, glanced at Agent Mackey.

“Can’t imagine a better fresh start,” he deadpanned. “Interesting that he’s not here now, though, isn’t it? You’d think a big-shot litigator would want to ensure his valued employee had the best possible representation.”

“Unless, of course, that lawyer was worried it might cause a conflict of interest. Say, his interest in staying out of prison for murder.”

“Two murders, now,” Mackey said, almost conversationally. “That’s way bigger than stealing a few cooked books and trying to get paid for them.”

Johns remained silent, though Jane noticed a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“What I also find interesting—Agent Mackey, don’t you find this so interesting?—is that both your sister and your own wife’s divorces both went through while you were still inside.”

Johns’s face cracked, just a tiny bit, letting a glimmer of sharp anger peek through.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Must‘ve been a real shock, huh? You’re expecting til death do us part, but all you got was a lousy felony charge—state, not even federal—and poof, they’re both gone.” She shook her head, gave a little tsk. “At least your ex-brother-in-law didn’t abandon you. At least someone had some loyalty, right?”

His expression darkened. He clenched his jaw.

“What was it? Couldn’t have been just this one little thing. I mean, who throws away a whole life over one mistake?” Mackey was really starting to lay it on thick; Jane felt herself falling into the rhythm easily.

“To be fair,” she said, not looking at Johns, “it was your father-in-law’s books you stole. Really did a number on him with the IRS. I might be pretty mad too, if I was the daughter set to inherit the business.”

“True,” Mackey said, nodding. “Maybe she was right to leave you when you couldn’t fight back.”

The frown on Johns’s face twisted into a sneer. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Jane leaned forward. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“She’s a stupid fucking bitch,” he spat. “She took everything from me. And my sister’s a bitch too. They can both rot in hell.”

Jane was almost rattled by his vehemence. He’d seemed quiet, almost passive, but she could feel the anger rolling off him. Next to her, Mackey stiffened.

“So you and your best friend Ron thought ‘our wives left us, why not participate in a couple murders?’” Jane asked. “That seems like a reasonable response.”

“I’m not talking,” Johns said, folding his arms and settling back in his chair. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

“I’ve got you on, uh,” Jane flipped back to the morning’s booking sheet. “Resisting arrest, illegal possession of a firearm, and assault on an officer, and that’s just within the past ninety minutes,” Jane said. “How many felonies does that put us up to, Agent?”

“That’s at least two. Welcome to your third strike, Mr. Johns. Which doesn’t even include any of the felonies you’re looking at in connection with these crimes.”

“And what would those be?” Jane gave Agent Mackey a wide-eyed look.

“Hmmm,” he murmured, flipping through his own folder. “Looks like breaking and entering, burglary, criminal trespass, criminal extortion, criminal sexual extortion, conspiracy to commit murder, and accessory to murder. Might throw sexual assault in there too. We’ll probably find a few more, so don’t take my word on it just yet.”

“I didn’t assault anybody!” Johns cried, lurching forward.

“Those are just the federal charges, Mr. Johns,” Mackey said coolly, ignoring the outburst.

“The State of Massachusetts has a few charges of their own,” Jane added, now staring directly into Johns’s eyes. Thought about him creeping through her apartment. About him in Maura’s house. Her bedroom. “Not to mention the civil suits. I’d say it’s a good thing you have a world-class lawyer, but . . . I don’t see him anywhere.”

He clenched his jaw again. Balled his hands into fists, the chains attached to his cuffs rattling.

“Maybe your ex-wife’s brother knows someone. He works for a lawyer too, doesn’t he? Must run in the family. If you were still a part of one, of course,” Mackey said. He was twisting the knife, they both were. It was a dangerous strategy, but Johns was fully secured. Still, Jane made sure she was angled for an easy escape. “We could call Concord PD and ask them if he’s got representation. Of course you already know we picked him up too; you called him.”

Johns sat silently, but Jane could see his jaw working.

“What I’m curious about,” Mackey continued, “is how you knew to tip him off. Who tipped you off, Mr. Johns?”

“I’m not talking,” he hissed. “Ron’s not talking either.”

Jane frowned, leaned in a little closer, still angled slightly away. “You seem pretty confident about that, Mr. Johns. Is your mutual silence something you’d already discussed?”

“I want to remind you one more time about what you’re looking at here,” Mackey said. “Minimum of twenty years. With your priors, life’s on the table. Federal prison. Not some state penitentiary cakewalk.”

Johns flinched. Jane was almost positive.

“Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life? Working laundry detail inside a concrete box?”

“You have a choice here, Mr. Johns,” Jane added. “Stay quiet, take the fall for a powerful man who only cared about you when he needed you to commit crimes for him. Or help us fill in the blanks.”

“And what?” Johns scoffed. “Maybe be eligible for parole in fifteen years if I get the right panel?”

“Or never,” Mackey nodded sharply. “You’ve got the idea.”

They sat in tense silence for a few minutes before Jane sighed, snapped her folder shut, and stood. “Okay. I get it. You wanna throw your life away for some rich guy who doesn’t give a shit what happens to you, that’s your right.”

Johns sat glowering as Jane called for the officer outside the door to escort him back to his cell.

“You’ve only got a little time left,” she said quietly as he shuffled past her in chains. “Think hard.”

He looked straight ahead as the officer led him out.

Back in the bullpen, Mason was waiting with barely-concealed excitement.

”I thought you were over at the townhouse,” she frowned.

He waved her off. “Got something better. How’d it go in there?” he asked, though Jane could tell he wasn’t as interested in her information as he was his own.

“He’s not talking. I’m not surprised. What’s up?”

“Agent Doone—“ he suppressed his grimace admirably—“got a call from the team in Ithaca while we were heading out. They hadn’t even done a full search of Matins’s studio when guess what they found.”

“I don’t guess,” Jane said. The statement startled her a little, but also made her want to smile.

Serious face, Detective.

“Recognize anything?” Mason asked, holding out his phone.

“Holy shit,” Jane breathed.

Hanging from a hook on one of the walls was a gleaming sword, mounted alongside two masks that looked suspiciously familiar.

“Tell me that’s an unusually sharp fencing sabre,” she said, zooming in on the image.

“What you’re looking at here is an unusually sharp fencing sabre,” Mason said, a hint of smugness in his voice. “Matins was apparently an experienced fencer, according to one of the other residents.”

“Finally,” Jane muttered. “This could be our murder weapon.”

“But I thought this guy didn’t leave the retreat for anything, isn’t that what your witness said?” Doone cut in as he walked back into the room, wiping his hands on his jacket. Jane wrinkled her nose.

“She said she didn’t see him leave. But we’ve determined it may have been possible to fly in and out without anyone knowing, if you were careful about it,” Mason answered. Doone nodded. Jane had noticed Mason, while clearly disliking him, had managed to get Doone to pay attention. She was all for letting Mason be the one to wrangle him, especially if it kept him away from Maura.

“Our folks are headed to the hangar now to evaluate that possibility,” Mackey said. “And I’ve got the agents at the Concord airstrip checking to see if Matins flew in or out that night. We’re mostly looking for any inconsistencies in the flight records, since it seems likely Ron Dunaghy would have been tasked with covering that up as well.”

“Anyone get ahold of the property owner?”

“Calvin Bridges,” Mason said. “He’s apparently in court today. We’re checking that.”

“Any connection to Vanallen?”

He shook his head. “Aside from them both being members of the state bar, nothing yet. But I’ve got Gibney on it.”

The other new guy. The one Jane didn’t like. Not that she liked Mason. But he was doing . . . fine. He was doing fine. Not partner material. But not bad.

Not yet?

Shut up. Can’t think about that now.

“Good,” she said. “Check big-time donor lists, boards of directors, all the usual high-end stuff. They have to know each other socially, it’s a small world.” She grimaced. “At least I hope it is.”

“Speaking of,” Mason murmured, nodding toward the door.

Constance stood at the entrance to the bullpen, holding herself in that slightly stiff way that meant she was trying very hard not to let anything in the environment touch her.

“Hey, uh, Mrs. Isles,” Jane caught herself. “Is everything all right?”

Constance’s face looked more pinched than usual. Jane felt a lurch of uneasiness.

“Hello, Detective Rizzoli,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’m so sorry to arrive unannounced, but I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time. Privately,” she added, throwing a chilly glance toward Mason, who visibly shrank back.

“Yeah,” Jane said, her brow furrowing. “No problem. Why don’t you meet me in the conference room, it’s right down the hall.”

“Thank you,” Constance murmured, pivoting smoothly away.

“Everything good?” Mason asked, giving her a concerned look.

She shrugged. “I really hope so, but with this case . . .” she drifted off. “I’ll be back in a second. Let me know if we get anything else in.”

“You got it,” Mason nodded.

“Agent Mackey,” she said, ignoring Doone entirely. “Can you get that sword transported here?”

“Already on it,” he said, phone to his ear.

She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks.”

Took a deep breath and followed after Constance.

 

 

---

 

 

“What’s going on?” Jane said without preamble as she sat across the conference table from Constance, who was clutching her purse tightly.

“I’m afraid I’ve found something rather . . . unpleasant,” she said carefully, opening the bag and pulling out a long cream-colored envelope with her gloved hand, sliding it across the table to Jane.

That familiar pit in her stomach opened again as she pulled a pair of exam gloves out of her jacket pocket, the tight snap against her palms causing her to flinch. She carefully opened the envelope—unsealed—and slid its contents out, her blood running cold as she unfolded the single sheet of crisp white paper to reveal what looked like a short contract, a signature scrawled elegantly along the bottom. She didn’t need to read it to know what it was, but forced herself to look.

I understand that by signing this form subject to the usage restrictions outlined above I relinquish all rights and ownership of this photograph, and assign copyrights to the photographer listed above. No further payment will be due. All photographs will remain property of the photographer. I confirm that I am over 18 years of age.

Signed, Maura D. Isles.

“I found it in Kight’s office. I’ve been there going through all the archives; a tremendous amount of work, as you can imagine. I’ve been assured it’s all right by your Lieutenant,” she added.

“Yeah, as long as your protection officer is with you.”

“Of course,” Constance murmured, not entirely masking her annoyance about the situation. “Officer Sullivan is perfectly competent.”

“Hmm,” Jane murmured, giving her half a crooked grin. “So, you found this there?”

“Yes. I found it tucked in a box of old contact sheets.”

“Maybe it was just misfiled?” Jane asked hopefully.

“It was the same box I’d been going through earlier,” Constance said crisply. “I’d already done the initial inventory, and was in the process of selecting possibilities for the retrospective gallery show.”

“Okay,” Jane said slowly, controlling her breathing. “When could this have happened?”

“Between six p.m. yesterday and ten this morning,” she said. “I left to have dinner with Jocasta and some of the others on the event team—our colleagues, mostly—and when I returned today it was there, sitting on top.”

“This is a photocopy,” Jane said. It wasn’t a question.

“It is.”

“Heilmann—John—he said that the originals were being stored at the house.”

“Yes, after the gallery expansion there simply wasn’t space. And Kight felt they were safer closer at hand.” She sighed. “Quelle ironie.”

“So whoever left this had access to the original at some point. Were they in a closet, or . . .”

Constance frowned. “Of course they weren’t laying around in cardboard boxes,” she said icily. “They were kept in locked cases, requiring both a keycode and thumbprint to unlock.”

“That’s a lot of security,” Jane said.

She hadn’t intended to sound skeptical, but Constance eyed her sharply. “I’m sure you can appreciate the risks of this kind of information falling into the wrong hands.” Her voice was low, deadly. “What stands to be lost.”

Jane swallowed hard. “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “I can.”

“Good,” Constance said in that same dark tone. Held her stare for a long beat before clearing her throat. “The only people who had access to those physical documents were Kight, John, Jocasta, and—” she stopped, her face draining of color.

“Who?”

“Robert. Robert Vanallen. Because of his work with Blanton Cronie. He had access to all relevant legal documents, including release forms for any images published by them.”

“And he had plenty of time and access over the last few months,” Jane sighed. “I’m going to need to seal off that room for our scene technicians, I’m sorry.”

“Of course,” Constance murmured. “I’d be happy to show you which specific locked case my daughter’s confidential consent form was stolen from.”

A shiver ran up Jane’s spine. She wasn’t wrong, of course, which made it worse. To hear it stated so plainly. And by a mother, about her daughter. Who also happened to be the most important person on Earth, as far as Jane was concerned.

“We’re pushing for sexual extortion charges at both the state and federal level,” Jane said softly. “As well as providing support for any civil suits.”

“Wonderful,” Constance said flatly.

“Constance,” Jane said, trying to keep her mounting anger and frustration from creeping any farther up her spine. “I’m sorry this is happening. I’m sorry you’re a part of it, I’m especially sorry Maura is a part of it. But I’m finding the people who did this. I’m going to put them in prison. And I know you’re upset for Maura, but I just gotta say it’s a good thing I’m not the one in charge of handing down the sentence or these men wouldn’t make it out of the courtroom alive. You got me?”

She realized she’d ended up halfway across the table, still low on her elbows, but so close to Constance that she’d backed up slightly, her face still impassive as she regarded Jane with her icy blue eyes. After a moment, she nodded once, firmly.

“I believe we understand each other yet again, Detective Rizzoli,” she said archly, then, a moment later, more softly, “Jane.”

The cold disdain in her eyes had melted to pools of concern and—was it affection?

Jane sighed, offering her a weak, exhausted smile. “We do. Constance.”

“Wonderful,” she said again, but this time she meant it.

“I’m going to have to get this to our lab for analysis,” she said, sliding the paper gingerly back into the envelope. “Anything related to this aspect of the case is need-to-know only,” she added quickly. “It’s not part of the general file.”

Constance nodded stiffly. “Very well.”

“Do you have any idea who might have been able to break into the house last night?” Jane asked, steering them away from their mutual discomfort. “We’ll check out Vanallen’s whereabouts, see if he's got an alibi. Anyone else who had regular access?”

“Just myself, John, and Jocasta,” Constance said. “Though while Kight had a very comprehensive security system as part of their insurance policy requirements, I myself found it disabled more often than not when I came to visit, particularly in recent months. I’ve heard the same from Jocasta. Since Kight was still doing well enough on their own, the most we could do was check in regularly, and remind them to set the alarm.”

“Hmm,” Jane muttered, thinking of Maura’s occasional security lapses. Maybe it was a genius thing? Either way, they were getting an upgrade the minute this case was over.

Who’s getting an upgrade?

Me. Maura. Everybody. I dunno. Shut up.

“So to answer your question, no. I’m not certain of who else had access outside of Kight’s inviting them in, and that’s rather out of the question now, isn’t it?”

Jane thought immediately of Bradley Johns, how easily he’d broken into so many places already. He might have been familiar with the property through Vanallen; even if he’d never gone there himself, Vanallen could have easily supplied him with all the information he’d need.

But why had Vanallen pulled Maura’s form before Sheridan had been murdered? It’s not like he’d known the case would fall to Jane, or that she and Maura would suddenly find themselves in this new, half-awkward position.

Just because he felt like it.

A brute and a philistine.

She thought of Dr. Kerrigan, Kight’s private physician. How Maura had said she’d sounded scared on the phone. Made a note to check in with Korsak about whether or not she’d been assigned protection.

Maybe he’d known somehow that Maura’s name—Maura’s nude body—would appear in those files. Maybe he’d come across it by chance. Either way, if he was half the man everyone seemed to believe he was—including Jane herself—she had no problem believing he’d simply recognized her name as someone important and tucked the form away for a rainy day. Whether or not he knew that day would arrive so soon was a question she was suddenly very interested in finding the answer to.

“Thank you for bringing this in,” she said, holding up the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. “I promise it won’t get far.”

“What will you do next, Detective? How do you plan to keep my daughter safe?”

She bit her lip.

“I’m going to assign uniforms to all entry and exit points downstairs. If she’s not with me, she’s with them. And everyone’s grounded. No more dinners with colleagues.” She paused, rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Ma’s gonna go nuts when I tell her she can’t leave her room except to get driven to work in a patrol car.”

“I’ll talk with her,” Constance said, rather unexpectedly. “I assume she can leave her room to visit mine?”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “Uh, yeah, of course.”

“Very well.” Constance rose gracefully, closing her purse and eyeing the envelope on the table like it might emit poison gas at any moment.

“This is just to scare us,” Jane said as Constance was pushing through the door. “That’s all.”

Constance turned back around, eyeing Jane coolly. “It’s not frightening,” she said. “It’s an outrage. It’s a threat and a violation.”

“Yeah,” Jane said weakly as Constance squared her shoulders and glided elegantly out of the room. She waited a beat then sighed heavily, pinched the bridge of her nose. Took a moment to let her heartbeat slow, her tense muscles relax, before carefully picking up the envelope and carrying it to the bullpen, slipping it into an evidence bag before throwing stormy glances around the room.

“Somebody get Robert Vanallen down here. Now.”

Notes:

update: I noticed a minor error, plot wise, so I edited it two days later; more explanation next chap, thank u love u

Chapter 22: Something A Little Sacred

Summary:

you know what we deserve? a fluffy lil break.

Jane sighed heavily.

A few minutes later she sighed again, louder.

After another silence, she uttered a long, theatrical groan.

“Is there something on your mind, dear?” Maura murmured, not looking up from the open folder on the desk in front of her.

“It’s just,” Jane began, leaping from the armchair by the window and pacing around the room. “It’s just I’m the police and he’s a suspect and when the police want to talk to a suspect they get to.”

“Mm-hmm,” Maura nodded absently as she flicked through to the next page, pausing to place a small blue tab along the margin.

“And, like, so yeah, you’re a big, scary lawyer, I get it, but I don’t do things at your convenience. ‘Mr. Vanallen isn’t available at this time, shall I check his schedule,’ my ass.”

“Jane,” Maura sighed, finally turning to her. “You’ve dealt with this kind of situation before, with powerful people who aren’t obligated to follow the conventional rules. Why is this so much more frustrating?”

Jane stopped pacing abruptly, giving Maura an incredulous look. “Why? Because that guy . . . he . . . he fuckin’ sucks, Maur, and he’s probably a murderer, and he’s trying to blackmail both of us, and he knows we’re coming for him and he’ll get back to us later?”

“Jane,” Maura said gently. She realized she was standing in the middle of the little living room, fists clenched, arms tight at her sides, face hot, breathing heavy, practically shouting. She blinked, forced herself to relax.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Sorry. It’s just, we’re so close. We just need Vanallen. He’s right at the center of all this, I know he is.”

“Do you think you’ll get him?” Maura asked carefully, a hint of doubt in her voice. “I’ve been thinking about how his involvement seems so improbably aligned with the progress of the investigation. The break-ins. The photograph. He knew you were visiting John Heilmann’s office. It seems likely he alerted Bradley Johns to this morning’s arrests before anyone even arrived. And now my consent form. It’s unsettling, don’t you’d think?”

Jane had told Maura about the form, figuring she’d find out anyway when she saw the uniformed officers guarding the entrance to her lab. She kept the black town car with the green chalk stripe quiet, though. She hadn’t seen it today, not even hanging around Vanallen’s offices. Hoped it really had just been a coincidence, even though she didn’t believe it. Even though it fit perfectly with what Maura was suggesting, the thing Jane had tried to ignore as much as she could.

“Yeah,” she muttered grimly. “Korsak mentioned he was tight with the brass. And the commissioners. I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“The fact that he might get away with it, you mean?”

Jane winced. “I wish you wouldn’t say it all casual like that, but . . . yeah.”

She flopped back into the armchair, abruptly drained. She really had been avoiding the insistent little gnawing in her mind, the one that kept asking how and why and what if.

It was the last one that had been unnerving her the most. If Vanallen was that untouchable—which was clearly the case—was it even possible to find real justice? For Sheridan, for Matins, murderer though he appeared to be, for Constance and Maura and herself? Or would this be another one of those cases that simply faded away, vanishing like cigar smoke out the Superintendent’s top-floor window? She loved her job, believed in it, but she was far from naïve about the way things worked.

She sighed again, for real this time, and rubbed at her eyes. It had been a long, exhausting day; woken early by the arrests, the fruitless interrogation of Johns, Constance’s visit with the form, the annoyance of a jurisdictional pissing contest delaying Dunaghy’s transfer to BPD, the interminably slow process of the various forensics teams; all capped off by Patricia, Vanallen’s hateful secretary, stonewalling her with what Jane was positive was malicious glee.

“Go home, Detective,” Korsak had said firmly as soon as Jane had come storming back into the precinct. “You’re mad, you’re tired, you’re off your game.”

“What? It’s not even four, Lieu, I got work to do.”

“Not until tomorrow,” he said, nodding to her desk. “Nothing’s gonna happen before then. I hope,” he added, lightly rapping his knuckles on the wood railing. Jane rolled her eyes. He gave her a stern look. “I can make it an order, Rizzoli.”

“Where’s the feds?” she asked, grimacing when she heard her own voice. Raspy, rough, half-whining. Fine. Maybe she was tired. So what, she could still work. Right?

“How should I know? I’m not a babysitter. Go on, Jane. Get outta here.”

“But how can Vanallen—“

“Go, Detective.” Korsak’s tone hardened abruptly, making Jane pause. “Don’t worry about Vanallen. I’m handling it.”

“Handling what, Lieutenant?” She eyed him intently.

“I’m handling it. Go find the Doc, huh? She got here same time you did, I bet she’ll cut out early with ya.”

Jane grumbled as she stuffed files and reports into her bag. Grumbled as Mason gave her an exhausted nod. Grumbled as she demanded Korsak send him home, too. Grumbled all the way down to the morgue, where she saw Maura, seated at her desk, illuminated by the warm golden glow of her desk lamp, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her bad attitude dissipated in an instant, replaced with a warm golden glow of her own. She hung back, not wanting to disturb her, wanting to watch her, focused, serious, the charming little quirk of her lips as she read something particularly interesting.

Jane was just stupid for her. Just a total idiot.

Too soon, Maura looked up. “Jane!” Her face bloomed into a delighted smile.

Jane grinned, loped into her office, jittery anger forgotten. “Hey babe,” she said softly. “Korsak’s making me go home early.”

“It’s hardly early, given what time we arrived this morning,” Maura said, glancing at her wristwatch. She rarely wore them, and then only as a functional accessory, but Jane noticed every time she did. Especially this one, a bulkier, more complex model that resembled a man’s diving watch, fashionably oversized on her delicate wrist. Maura always wore it with structured garments, including the gray sheath Jane had so reluctantly zipped up that morning, her sharply tailored jacket hung from the back of her chair.

She didn’t know what it was about watches, specifically on Maura. Maybe the way they emphasized her slender arms, the way her lean musculature rippled as she turned her wrist to check the time. Whatever it was, Jane was a sucker for that, too.

“You wanna come with me? Since it’s been a long day for you too, and all.”

“Well,” Maura gave a playful little smirk as she closed the folder she’d been reading. “Since you’re so concerned for my well-being, it would seem rude and irresponsible for me to decline.”

“That’s the spirit!” Jane clapped her hands. “Is it too early for dinner, do you think? Or maybe we could . . . go for a run?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Maura tutted.

“Yes, it’s too early for dinner. And I’d like to do some yoga; I haven’t been keeping up. I had the studio send links to a couple of one-on-one video classes, if you’d like to join me.”

Maura in her yoga clothes.

Shut up.

“I’ll think about it,” Jane offered magnanimously. “But I don’t think it’s too early for dinner.”

She’d managed to keep up her improved mood for almost a whole hour after they’d gotten back to the hotel, but once she’d kicked off her work shoes—Maura shaking her head as she then immediately tripped over them—and settled down in the armchair with a beer, ignoring—well, sort of—Maura’s pointed glance at her watch, she found herself stewing on Vanallen again.

Maura had decided to finish the reading she’d been doing in her office—a cold case involving a young girl, likely forced into prostitution, found frozen to death, bruised and bloody, next to the Charles River one icy February day fifteen years ago. Jane had never asked Maura why she picked the cold cases she did, but she didn’t have to. Young women, usually. Unidentified. Vulnerable. Jane didn’t know if she was looking for evidence of undiscovered murders or ways to identify the victims or what, but she sometimes wondered if just the act of revisiting these cases, giving time and attention to the forgotten dead, wasn’t something a little sacred. She knew Maura wasn’t religious, but her devotion to justice struck Jane as almost holy.

So Jane felt especially bad when she’d caught herself hollering, demanding Maura’s attention so she could vent to an audience. And now here she was, slumped in a luxury hotel suite in the Back Bay thinking about whether any of this would matter at all in the end.

She took a sullen pull of her beer and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. Maura sighed, cocked her head, then gently closed her folder. “Would dinner help?”

Several pithy responses flashed through her mind, but she forced herself to bite her tongue. “Yes,” she mumbled petulantly over her beer bottle. “Cheeseburger.”

“Okay,” Maura agreed immediately. Jane frowned.

“That was too easy,” she whispered, suspicious.

Maura shrugged, rising from the desk to perch on the arm of Jane’s chair. “Why would I want to make a hard day harder?” she asked, her voice soft and sincere. She reached out and stroked Jane’s hair, Jane letting herself be pulled to Maura’s chest, her heartbeat steady, steadying. “I love you, Jane. If I can make you happy, of course I will.”

“But what about the carcinogens,” Jane mumbled, relaxing into Maura’s gentle touch.

Maura sighed indulgently. “What kind of cheese?”

“‘Merican,” Jane mumbled again. “Fried onions.”

“Jane—“

“I’ll do yoga,” she said, looking up at Maura plaintively. “Fried onions for yoga, that’s so fair.”

“I suppose it’s an acceptable compromise,” Maura said, but Jane didn't miss her little eye roll.

 

 

---

 

 

Jane leapt up excitedly at the knock at the front door ten minutes later. “Cheeseburger,” she growled. Maura giggled from the loveseat she’d tugged Jane onto after she’d called room service.

She pressed her eye to the peephole and sighed heavily.

“You think you can avoid me for days when we’re in the same building? It didn’t work when you were a teenager, it won’t work now.”

“Why,” she groaned under her breath, flipping open the latch.

“Jane, it’s been days!” her mother cried as Jane cracked the door open. “I’ve been worried sick!”

“Yeah, you look terrible,” Jane muttered, reflexively ducking from her mother’s sharp swat. “Come on in. Again.”

Angela gave a little harrumph as she bumped past her daughter. “Hi, Maura, honey, I’m glad you’re not dead,” she called, throwing Jane a sour glance.

“Hello Angela,” Maura said with her usual politeness, though Jane was positive she heard a little strain in her voice. Just a tiny bit. Which meant she was as annoyed as Jane was, at least. “I’m sorry we’ve been so unavailable.”

“Because we’re solving two murders at once, Ma,” Jane added pointedly. “Been a little busy.”

“And what, I’ve been at the spa? Well,” she said, “Connie did get me a massage. They came up to my room and everything, it’s so . . .”

“Classy,” Jane finished with her. Angela frowned.

“The least you can do is let me have a nice time while I’m cooped up in here.”

“Ma, this place has like a thousand chandeliers. In what way are you suffering?”

“Sue me for being worried about my babies,” she huffed. “Connie said we can’t go anywhere except work. What happened?”

She planted her hands firmly on her hips. Jane found herself glancing at the huge television mounted on the wall, her mother’s steely glare making her irrationally worried she’d somehow broken it before shaking her head.

“Ma, it’s fine. We’re just getting closer. It’s all precautions.”

“I miss my kitchen, Jane.”

“Uh, I think you mean Maura’s kitchen, right?”

Angela glared at her. “You live across town and call it your house, it can be my kitchen too. Right, Maura?”

“Uh—“ Maura glanced frantically at Jane, who just rolled her eyes.

“Fine. Our kitchen.”

Jane sighed again. “Soon, Ma. I promise.”

“By Sunday dinner?”

“I—I have no idea. I hope so. Okay? I’m doing my best.”

Angela relented a little. “I know you are, sweetheart,” she said. “You both are. My brilliant girls.” She tutted softly. “I hope you’re not just talking about work all night,” she continued, giving them both a stern look. “You have to give yourself a break to keep your mind sharp.”

“What are you, a shrink?” Jane snapped. She hadn’t meant to, but she could see that look in her mother’s eye. She was fishing.

“No, I’m your mother. I want you to take care of yourselves, which means taking time to relax. You know,” she drawled, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Here it comes,” Jane muttered.

“You girls should get one of those masseurs sent up here.“ Her accent dragged the word out, but that didn’t make Jane cringe nearly as much as much as her feigned guilelessness.

“We’re good, Ma,” Jane said hastily, glancing at Maura who nodded vehemently, Jane noticing as she tried not to scratch as her neck. “Perfectly relaxed. Or were,” she added meaningfully. “Did you stop by for any reason other than this inspiring maternal pep talk? Because I’ve got a cheeseburger showing up any second, and that’s gonna be way more relaxing than whatever this is.”

“I carried you for nine months, Jane Rizzoli,” Angela warned. “And don’t think you were some cute little bundle of joy, either. Eight pounds, fourteen ounces.”

“And don’t I forget it,” she grumbled. “But right now I’m more grateful for cheeseburgers. Look,” she said, her tone softening. “It’s been a really long day. We’ll have lunch tomorrow, okay? Or dinner here. I promise.”

“Maura?” Angela looked at her expectantly.

“Dinner,” Maura said weakly. “Perfect.”

They were both saved by a short rap at the door.

“If that isn’t my cheeseburger I’m ordering this place locked down,” Jane said as she crossed to the door and looked through the peephole. Officer Cantor stood on the other side looking slightly disinterested, as usual.

“Detective,” he nodded as she opened the door. “Your dinner.” He stood back to allow her to roll the little silver cart into the room, two trays under silver domes, a half-bottle of wine, another beer, still cold.

“Evening,” she nodded back. “Thanks. Everything all right?”

“Boring as hell, so, everything’s great.”

Jane gave him a brief smile. “Thanks again.” She leaned back into the room. “All right, Ma, that’s your cue.”

“Think about that massage, Jane. The lady told me they have a whole couples setup. Because there’s two of you, I mean,” she added, all big-eyed innocence.

“Goodnight, Ma,” she said forcefully, all but shoving her out the door.

“Goodnight, honey. Goodnight, Maura,” she called, not waiting for a response. “Hello again, Paul,” she said, grabbing Officer Cantor’s arm. “Shall we?”

“Right this way,” he said in his usual deadpan, but Angela cackled regardless. “Such a charmer. Are you married?”

Jane didn’t wait for his answer before snapping the door shut and sagging against it. “Sorry,” she breathed. “She’s gone now.”

“Mmm,” Maura murmured. She lifted the lid off one of the trays. “Your cheeseburger, babe.”

Jane grinned at the endearment. “I thought that was my thing,” she teased, sitting back down on the loveseat and yanking a thick cloth napkin into her lap.

“At the table, Jane,” Maura sighed, picking up the other plate and the bottle and settling at the small counter.

“Ugh,” Jane whined, though she gave Maura a little wink. “But it’s right here.”

“Yes, but I’m right here,” Maura said, affecting a little pout. “All by myself.”

“Hmm,” Jane said, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound right, a beautiful woman like you eating alone.”

Maura shrugged. “I guess I’m just waiting for the right person,” she murmured, slowly crossing her legs, Jane watching the hem of her skirt slide up her bare thigh.

“And who might that be?” she rasped, unable to look away from the soft expanse of skin.

“Someone who eats at the table like an adult,” Maura said smartly, recrossing her legs away from Jane. “Come on, it’ll get cold.”

“Vile temptress,” Jane whispered, picking up her own plate.

“Vile?” Maura said skeptically, pouring a glass of wine.

“Perfect,” Jane amended, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she sat at the counter.

“Better,” Maura smiled, tilting her head to capture Jane’s mouth with hers. “Now eat your pile of complex carbohydrates and hydrogenated fats.”

“It’s not a pile,” Jane huffed, taking a bite. “Isha cheebrgrr.”

“Jane!” Maura cried, recoiling. “Please.”

She grinned, fully aware of the piece of onion dangling from the corner of her mouth. “You love me.”

“Yes,” Maura sighed, wrinkling her nose slightly. “I do.”

Jane swallowed, wiped her mouth. “How lucky am I, huh?” She flashed another crooked grin. “Probably the luckiest.”

“Luck isn’t a quantifiable unit of measurement,” Maura said primly. “What people attribute to luck is most often a result of unrecognized effort, coincidence, or retrospective mythologizing of events that are easily explained by science.”

“So you’re saying I’m not the chosen one,” Jane pouted.

Maura paused for a moment, an oblique expression on her face. “You are,” she said softly. “It’s not luck, Jane. It’s you, being who you are. I don’t love you by chance. I love you because you’re strong, and compassionate, and intelligent, and sweet, and because you make me feel safe and happy.”

Jane blushed. She twisted her napkin in her lap.

“Now will you eat your dinner like a grownup?”

Jane gasped in mock-offense as Maura turned placidly back to whatever green thing she’d ordered. Was about to retort when a french fry abruptly found its way into her mouth. “Hmmph,” she grumbled as Maura smirked, but ate it anyway.

 

 

Chapter 23: Guilty Of Owning A Beanie In December

When she awoke abruptly this time, she knew instinctually it wasn’t even close to morning. She squinted at the clock, its dimly-glowing face reading a respectable 1:17. She’d fallen asleep before ten, something that had been happening with more frequency as the years moved on, but at least this time she could point at a ten-hour day in the middle of one of the most complex, high-profile cases of her career. She’d earned it.

Maura had stayed up later, going back over her cold case. She’d kissed Jane sweetly, had promised she’d be in soon. How soon was impossible for Jane to know, since she’d fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She was there now, though, sleeping quietly, facing away from Jane but with one foot tucked back, just brushing Jane’s calf.

Jane stifled her yawn as she crept out of bed and into the bathroom, taking an extra couple minutes to thoroughly brush her teeth again, since Maura had been right about the onions.

Obviously.

Shut up. I downward dogged for those onions fair and square.

She padded back to the bedroom, crawled under the blankets. Maura murmured, shifted so that her warm back was pressed against Jane.

Jane smiled sleepily, slid her arm around her, feeling her pulse flutter as her thumb lightly grazed Maura’s breast. She sighed, burrowing in, letting Maura’s warmth, her closeness, lull her back to sleep.

It had almost worked when Jane felt Maura’s fingertips drifting slowly, lightly along her arm, making her shiver involuntarily.

“Mmm,” she murmured, not trying to be provocative, just a little sleepy hum of appreciation.

Maura made a soft, high noise in return, a faint little whimper that made Jane’s hand slide up her ribs to lightly cup her breast, a move rewarded with another dreamy whimper and the slow, undulating pressure of her hips beginning to rock gently against Jane’s pelvis.

Jane wasn’t entirely sure Maura was even fully awake; her breath remained calm and steady, her body was soft, pliant, relaxed. But she was definitely whimpering again as Jane slowly, drowsily ran her thumb across her nipple through her silk nightgown, the flesh already responding to her touch.

Was she asleep? Was she dreaming about Jane touching her?

Jane applied a little more pressure, and Maura moaned again, more clearly, as she rolled her hips back.

Jane drew a shaky breath, then carefully rose up on her elbow and slid her free hand along Maura’s bicep, over the curve of her shoulder, gently moving her hair away from her neck, allowing Jane both access and exactly the right angle to lean in and press her lips to the spot that made Maura—

“Jane,” she breathed, nipples straining against the thin silk. Jane sucked lightly at the spot as she circled with her thumb, dragging the cool fabric across the sensitive flesh. Maura shivered, whimpered again.

Jane nuzzled at Maura’s hairline, brushing her lips along her neck, her jaw, the shell of her ear. Let her hand slide down Maura’s abdomen, smiling drowsily as Maura stretched languidly to allow her more access.

She gave another soft, sleepy whimper as Jane caught the hem of her slip, shivering as Jane’s fingers traced delicate little swoops along her skin. Jane was just about to slide her hand between Maura’s thighs, to the heat she could feel there, when Maura murmured wordlessly, shifted herself so she was facing Jane, their warm bodies pressed together, Maura’s soft, sleepy mouth finding Jane’s, dragging lazy, luxurious kisses across her lips, her cheeks.

Jane relished the gentleness, the dreaminess of Maura’s kisses, her touch; let herself relax into it, her arousal thick, warm, enveloping. Shivered involuntarily as Maura’s fingertips dragged down the plane of her stomach, tugging at the waistband of her shorts. Gave a soft little mmmph of assent when Maura paused, then shifted her hips so Maura could slide them down, letting her kick them off under the blankets. Gave a soft little rumble when Maura dragged her fingers back up, just faintly fluttering over her sex.

She hadn’t even opened her eyes. She wanted to see Maura, but it was so dark, and she was so pleasantly drowsy, so instead she focused on the heat of Maura’s body against hers, soft and pliant and undulating, the slow, languorous rhythm lulling Jane into a dreamy bliss.

“Love you,” Maura mumbled, her lips pressing to the sharp jut of Jane’s jaw. “So . . . so much—ah—“

Jane shuddered with her as Maura slid one toned thigh between Jane’s legs, sliding her hands down Jane’s back, cupping her ass to pull their bodies closer. “Mmm,” she breathed again, lips drifting down her neck, back up to her chin, her mouth. “Love you, love you, love you.”

Jane felt a little dizzy. Almost drunk. Like she was slipping in and out of some hazy alternate universe, where she was made of fog and warmth and pleasure. Maura kept murmuring the words over and over, love you, love you, love you, like a benediction. Like a promise. Even when her breath started coming faster and faster, the syllables catching and breaking, when they were only hot, urgent gasps, Jane heard them, felt them. They made her feel powerful. Safe. And, though she pushed it down, oddly like she might cry.

When Jane could tell Maura was about to slip, she slid her hand back to Maura’s breast, squeezing the firm flesh, giving her nipple a sharp tug, the resulting gasp in her ear causing her hips to jerk and twist, changing their position just slightly, so that they were no longer grinding against each other’s thighs, instead Jane’s head tipped back as their sexes brushed together, the sensation of liquid heat almost shocking, so intense she groaned, shivered, came without realizing she was about to.

Her orgasm wasn’t blinding or obliterating like they had been with Maura before; instead it rippled through her body in heavy, shimmering waves, heat billowing across her, through her, as she clutched at Maura, only dimly aware that Maura was clutching at her as well, her hips rolling against Jane’s, her breath ragged, high, fluttering.

“Love you,” Jane panted in her ear as she shuddered with the aftershocks. She felt dense, heavy, like she was melting into the mattress, Maura’s trembling body the only thing keeping her anchored to reality. “Love you, love you.” She nosed at the damp hair at the nape of Maura’s neck, drew her thumb in soothing circles at the small of her back, feeling her breathing even out and her pulse begin to slow.

After a few warm, soft, blissful minutes, she kissed Maura’s temple. “Don’t forget to wash up,” she whispered. Maura groaned. “I promise I won’t turn the light on.”

Only they were back in bed, tangled together again, did Jane take a moment to stare at her face, already soft and content with sleep. She felt that odd, inopportune urge to cry again. It wasn’t sadness, but something she couldn’t find the right name for. Something too big for a name, maybe.

I want to marry you on the rim of a volcano. I want to be in love with you forever. I’m going to be in love with you forever. 

She smiled, inched forward so her lips were just brushing Maura’s, and closed her eyes again.

 

 

---

 

 

They stopped for coffee on the way in—their usual spot, nothing hinky, no black cars—where Maura had insisted on buying for everyone at work. Had held Jane’s hand at the counter, just long enough to give her a little squeeze, but Jane still felt awkward and self-conscious and anxious. She glanced around the coffee shop, briefly worried about some imaginary outsized reaction, relaxed when not a single patron appeared to have noticed, or if they did, cared.

They’d hardly spent any time together anywhere outside work since all this had started, and Jane was still a little nervous about public displays, though she’d never been particularly fond of them with anyone. But the idea of touching Maura, of kissing her where someone else could see, was at once terrifying and a little exhilarating.

“Coffee for the Doctor,” the barista announced, giving them both a genuine smile, though Jane knew it was more for Maura, who was always polite and tipped well, rather than her, who tipped well because she usually forgot to be polite. “Have a good day, you two.”

Jane’s first instinct was to say something she’d have to tip extra for next time, something about how they weren’t joined at the hip, but thought better of it, mostly because, for all Kelly the barista knew, they were. And, well, she wasn’t wrong. And it was fine. It was totally ordinary.

She glanced around again, looking more carefully at the patrons. In the corner, two women sat close together, one resting her head on the other’s shoulder as she leafed through a magazine. A middle-aged gay couple cajoled a fussy toddler with hot chocolate at one of the tables by the window. It’s not like it was anything special, but she’d never actually imagined she’d be a . . . whatever the right word was. “Lesbian” never sounded right. Too . . . much, somehow. And “queer” was even more. But it didn’t really matter. Not right now, anyway, not when she was holding up the line.

Jane balanced the tray of coffees in one hand, then very carefully, very deliberately, placed her other hand on the small of Maura’s back, letting her fingers drift around her waist as she guided her to the door. “You too,” she called over her shoulder, giving Kelly a wink. The barista grinned as she swiped at the counter with a towel.

Jane didn’t lift her hand until they were back at the car.

At the precinct, they were descended upon by Korsak and Mason, both of whom thanked Maura without so much as a second glance at Jane.

“What if it was me who got your coffee?” she pouted.

Korsak snorted. “Then I’d be planning my trip to Fiji with the lottery ticket I’m gonna go buy.”

“Yeah, well,” she waved him off, turning to Maura. “Lunch?”

“Possibly,” Maura nodded. “I have quite a heavy caseload and I’d like to get through as much as possible before the weekend.”

“Holidays,” Korsak grimaced. “Rough time of year.”

“Indeed,” Maura said brightly, and Jane could tell she was about to launch into a string of depressing statistics.

“I’ll come check in,” she said quickly. “See you later.”

“See you later, Jane.” Maura gave her a coy little grin, one Jane prayed Korsak and Mason hadn’t noticed. “Gentlemen.”

“Thanks again, Doctor Isles,” Mason said, lifting his cup.

Once Maura had disappeared into the elevator, Korsak and Mason gave each other wide grins.

“See you later, Jane,” Mason teased.

“Knock it off,” she grumbled, trying to stuff down her blush. “We’ve got murders to solve, a little respect, please.”

Mason rolled his eyes. Korsak snickered.

“Mutt and Jeff over here,” she muttered. Headed to her desk, dropped her bag, flopped into her chair. “Anything, like, important I should be using taxpayer dollars on today?”

Korsak coughed, straightened his tie. “Uh, yeah. We got some stuff from Johns’s townhouse. Nothing tying him to Vanallen,” he added, answering the question forming in Jane’s brain. “Just usual employee paperwork. Tax forms. Paystubs. Nothing suspicious.”

“So what did you find?”

Korsak looked up at Mason, nodded. Mason nodded back, headed to his own desk as Korsak sat next to Jane. “Another photocopy of the doc’s consent form. His lock pick set—real nice one, way better than ours—and clothing that matches the security footage from the doc’s house.”

Jane frowned. “Except for the consent form, he's guilty of . . . what? Owning a beanie in December?”

“It’s circumstantial, I know, but it ties him to the break-ins, and puts him in possession of a stolen document.”

“A photocopy of a stolen document,” Jane corrected. “We’ve got nothing except his own fuckup yesterday.”

“It’s enough for a third strike,” Korsak said. “But that’s what the lawyers and the DAs are for.”

“I’m not letting this guy plead out,” Jane frowned. “He’s an accessory to two murders!”

“Maybe just one.”

Agent Mackey strode into the room, Agent Doone close behind. Mackey held a manila envelope, handed it to Jane.

“What are you talking about?”

“How much do you love us right now,” Doone smirked as Jane opened the envelope.

“I dunno,” she muttered, “but I’m sure it could be more.”

She slid the contents onto her desk, brow immediately furrowing. “How did you get this?”

Doone shrugged. “I got a girl at the field office forensics lab, sometimes she does me a favor.”

“You mean this whole thing works on women?” Jane blurted before she could stop herself. “Uh, sorry. This—this is—“

“Hair samples from Canister Number One,” Doone crowed. “Belonging to one—“

“Andrés Matins,” Jane breathed, staring at the neatly-typed line.

“DNA’s all there. Easy match, thanks to your guy’s untimely—“ he mimicked a plane crashing into the desk with his thumb, complete with whistling descent and saliva-flecked splat.

Jane glowered at him. She was grateful for whatever improbable strings he’d pulled—not that she wanted to imagine him pulling them—but he was still a jackass, and she still wanted to pop him one right in the nose. And not just because of Maura, either.

“All it means is Matins was in the house at some point,” Jane argued. “They knew each other for decades.”

Mackey cocked an eyebrow. “But nobody said they were friends; in fact most people have told us the opposite. You leave stray hairs in your enemies’ bedrooms a lot, Detective?”

Jane swallowed hard thinking about Maura’s golden hair splayed out on the pillow next to her.

“I agree that, for the moment, it’s just another log on the circumstantial pile,” he went on. “But it places Matins at the scene of the crime, and I think we can reasonably assume more recently than thirty years ago. Sheridan seemed like a pretty tidy person; there wasn’t much else in that vacuum canister.”

“We get the sword to our lab yet?”

He shook his head. “Later today. But on that note, I’ve got more from Ithaca.”

Jane took a long draw of her coffee and sat forward. Next to her, Korsak glanced down at his phone, then cleared his throat.

“This is great work, Agents. Detectives. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting I gotta get to.” He stood, brushing at his tie. “Keep me informed.”

Jane frowned as he left. She glanced at Mason, who shrugged. Sure, Korsak had meetings. Everyone had meetings. But he usually complained about them well in advance. And who suddenly has to go to a meeting at—she looked at her own phone—nine-eighteen in the morning?

She frowned again, made a mental note to ask him later.

“Detective Rizzoli?” Mackey was looking at her intently.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. What else?”

“Some simple experiments showed it would be possible to fly out from and return to the property’s airstrip without being detected.”

“Like what kind of simple experiments?”

Mackey smiled faintly. “They got some speakers and played music at roughly the decibel level of a small plane taking off and landing to see how far the sound carried.”

“Captain and Tennille?” Jane teased. “A little Barry Manilow?”

“I think they said it was Black Sabbath,” he said, his tiny smile firmly in place. “There’s enough trees and distance that it would’ve been no problem. It’s about a mile and a half from the main buildings, so quite a late-night stroll, they’re still combing the footpath for any discarded evidence.”

“Any non-discarded evidence?” Jane sighed. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“It’s what they di—“

“I swear to god,” Jane groaned, “if you say ‘it’s what they didn’t find’ . . .”

“But it is,” Mackey shrugged. “So we know Matins is a fencer. We found a few blades, including the sharpened one in the photograph, we found masks, we found some old gloves and shoes. Stuff you’d expect a longtime fencer to have.”

“Okay, so?”

“What didn’t I list?”

“Don’t make me play games, man, I haven’t even had this one coffee yet.”

“No padding. No jacket. No pants. No suit, period.”

Jane paused. Furrowed her brow.

It’s like the killer was wearing a Hazmat suit.

“And they’re sure it’s not at the dry cleaners or something?”

“Those suits are reinforced with Kevlar. No chlorine, no UV. No dry-cleaning.”

“So,” Jane murmured, leaning back in her chair, “where’d it go?”

“The sixteen million dollar question,” Mackey sighed. “No sign at the retreat. Nothing in the plane, at least not so far.”

“This is probably a dumb question, but are we sure Matins actually had a fencing suit?”

“You play basketball in flip-flops?”

Jane shrugged. He had a point.

“But,” Mackey added, “because I’m sure a judge will want the answer to exactly that question, we found a fairly recent picture of him at some kind of fencing gym or something, we’re still tracking down where, exactly.”

Jane sat back up. “Is anyone with him?”

Mackey frowned. “Lemme see, one sec.” He pulled out his phone, began scrolling through something.

“Yeah, looks like they just finished a set. Matins has his mask off, but his partner doesn’t.” He showed Jane the picture.

“You said recent, when are we talking? Matins had been at the retreat for months.”

“This one was posted to a fencing forum about a month ago.”

“First of all, people still use forums? And second, how could it be from a month ago? Constance said he was there the whole time she was—” she stopped abruptly. “You got an exact date?”

“Yeah, hold on.” He scrutinized the photo. “One month and four days ago. Why? You got something?”

“Maybe,” she muttered, flipping through her notes until she found the section for Constance Isles. “Okay, yeah. Constance Isles was gone for three days at a fundraiser in New York on that same date.”

Mackey eyed her skeptically. “Seems like a stretch.”

“This whole thing is a reach,” Jane pointed out. “Can your guys find out who’s in that picture with him? And where it is?”

Mackey smirked. “That’s why they give us the big badge.”

 

 

Notes:

i have covid, i have completely lost my sense of taste and smell, it is terrible but at least I can bring you smut in these dark times

Chapter 24: You Have To Be A Killer

Summary:

it's both the home stretch and kind of a downer :/

“The Mayflower Athletic Club,” Mackey announced, slapping a printout of Matins’s fencing picture on her desk. “A last-minute reservation by one of their, I quote, ‘more notable members.’”

“Lemme guess: who shall remain nameless,” Jane groused.

“Funny how that works,” Mackey said. “But I’m about thirty minutes out from a warrant for their membership and reservation records, so it’s more a speedbump than anything.”

It was later that afternoon, Jane and Agent Mackey working to try to piece together a new coherent timeline while waiting on more reports, more information, for the State Police to get their heads out of their asses and transport Ron Dunaghy for questioning. Mason and Agent Doone were back at Bradley Johns’s townhouse, searching for anything that could connect Vanallen to the murders. They hadn’t turned up anything yet, and Jane was about to have to be talked out of driving down to the high-rise office herself when Mackey had come in with the photograph.

“How much you wanna bet it’s Robert Vanallen behind that mask?”

Mackey grinned. “Hmm . . . how about a round at the Dirty Robber?”

Jane cocked an eyebrow. “Slow down there, g-man. If it is him, you’re invited. You’re getting the first round no matter what, since you’re on my turf and I can see the silk lining on that jacket.”

“I make it work on a government salary, it’s true,” he smirked. “And I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fashionista. No offense,” he added quickly.

Jane snorted, looked down at her polyester blend. “None taken. I don’t know anything about clothes, it’s my—uh, my friend,” she finished lamely.

Mackey’s grin softened. “Dr. Isles? Yeah, I figured. You don’t wear Issey Miyake to your day job unless you know what you’re doing.” He shrugged at Jane’s pointed stare. “What? I’m an FBI agent, so I can’t appreciate fashion?” He gave her a tiny wink. “I told you my sister’s a photographer, it runs in the family. Anyway, I bet she’s got a hell of a closet.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, then heard herself, cleared her throat. “Uh—“

“You’re cute,” he said softly as Jane rubbed uncomfortably at the back of her neck. “You two.”

“Uh,” she stammered again. “Thanks.”

She could feel her blush threatening to burn her alive. She’d done it. She’d come out. Sort of. Almost? Obliquely, at most. But even if she hadn’t said it, someone else knew. For sure.

It was kind of thrilling. Like going on a roller coaster. She kind of wanted to throw up, but she also kind of wanted to burst out laughing. Instead, she took a deep breath, hoped Mackey would just gloss over this awkward little moment.

To her relief and gratitude, he did. “So,” he said, clapping his hands together. “If it is your guy, what does that give us?”

Jane sat forward, focusing on the photograph. “Matins came all the way into Boston without telling anyone to do a little sport fencing with his business rival. Make it make sense.” She sighed, dropped her head into her hands, stared blankly at the mess of papers covering her desk.

She was about to suggest they go get more coffee when something caught her eye. The redacted copy of Sheridan’s medical records.

“Wait,” she breathed.

“You got something?” Mackey crossed behind her, peered over her shoulder.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, leafing through the file, scanning its contents carefully. “Okay,” she said. “Yeah. Can you, uh, can you grab that copy of Sheridan’s last will? It’s somewhere . . .” she waved her hand in the direction of the empty desk they always used as a dumping ground during busy cases.

“On it,” Mackey said.

Jane tapped at the page. The records started getting awfully thin going back about three months, which must have been when Dr. Kerrigan determined the poisoning. She glanced at the case file, praying someone had gotten ahold of the doctor, but came up empty. Made a note to call her right away, see if she could get her to talk, at least about when she’d made her official prognosis, or at least at least to get her to confirm, somehow, it was Vanallen who was threatening her.

“Got it,” Mackey called, holding up the will. “What am I looking for?”

“The date it was modified,” Jane said.

“Looks like . . .” he paused. “Well, well. A week before Mr. Matins’s little trip the city. Good work, Rizzoli.”

“Not yet,” she muttered. “How would Vanallen have known about the revised will? He knew Sheridan was sick, but nobody thinks they’d have told him anything.”

Mackey pursed his lips. “Didn’t the other lawyer say—“

“Shit, that’s right,” Jane interrupted, sitting up straight. “If Vanallen was over at the house a lot, and Sheridan was starting to have some cognitive issues from the illness, he could have easily found out. Maybe Sheridan forgot to put a copy away or something.”

“So Vanallen suggests a little swordfight between friends; what better cover for sharing some inside information with your opponent than a literal duel?”

“Now Matins knows Sheridan is dying, and is planning to make all his big, expensive dreams disappear when it happens. Can’t have been a good feeling.”

She realized she was halfway out of her chair, gripping at the arms. The rush of things clicking into place was always exhilarating, part of what made her love the job. But as she half-stood, heart racing, she frowned, then flopped back into her seat.

“But why?”

Mackey shook his head. “Fortunately for us, all we really have to do is prove that and how.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jane grumbled. “But the that and the how don’t keep me up at night. As much.”

“Maybe he’s just a sociopath,” Mackey said with a shrug. “I know some guys in Behavioral Science, the stuff they’ve seen . . . you’d be surprised.”

“I really wouldn’t,” she muttered darkly, rubbing at her palms.

“I know it sounds like a bad joke, but my buddies tell me the percentage of high-powered anyone who meets the basic sociopathy criteria is way higher than the rest of the population. You have to be a killer, they say. Sometimes literally.”

“You think just pulling the strings on a couple murders still scratches the itch?” Jane asked sourly.

“Beats me,” Mackey shrugged. “I’m not a sociopath.”

She sighed, pushed her hair back. “So the that, we’ve got. The how, we’ve got a theory. It matches up to our timeline. We’ve got Vanallen seeing Sheridan looking ill. Blackmailing their doctor for the proof. Sharing that information with Matins, in case it should inspire him to murderous rage, which it seems to do a month later.”

“Seems like it,” Mackey murmured.

“So Matins sneaks over to Boston in his private plane one night, wears his fencing suit to protect himself and not leave evidence—“

“Oops,” Mackey interjected.

“—and kills Sheridan with his sword, then cleans up after himself, sort of. Then goes back to the retreat, everyone finds out, Constance Isles wants to deal with it in Boston, Matins knows she was close with Sheridan, wants to keep an eye on her and, I’m assuming, meet with Vanallen while he’s at it.”

“So far so good.”

“Matins leaves Boston at some point but doesn’t go back to the retreat right away. He turns up at Calvin Bridges’s airstrip a day later, where Ron Dunaghy deliberately underfills his tank, possibly on orders from his ex-brother-in-law Bradley Johns, working for Vanallen; he runs out of fuel, boom, no more Matins.”

“That’s about it,” Mackey sighed. “Vanallen had Matins killed to get rid of the connection to Sheridan’s murder. Very tidy.”

“And the threats to Maura and me were just, what? Fun?”

There was a heavy pause. Mackey cleared his throat.

“He clearly underestimated you both,” he said kindly. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be on either of your bad sides. Though it’s hard to imagine Dr. Isles having a bad side.”

Jane couldn’t help her grin, inopportune as it was. “She does, but it takes a lot to get there.”

“Well don’t push it,” Mackey teased. Jane gave him a sloppy salute.

“So—“ she began, but was interrupted by a sharp “Rizzoli!”

Korsak stood at the entrance to the bullpen looking a little grim. Jane frowned, leaped up.

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

He glanced at Agent Mackey, who was watching them closely. “Captain’s office. Come on.”

A cold wave of anxiety washed over her. “Why? What’d I do? Is something wrong? Is Maura okay?”

“Let’s go, Detective,” Korsak snapped, making Jane jump.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, throwing a nervous little glance at Mackey.

She followed silently behind Korsak as he strode quickly down the hall, the click of her low heel echoing hollowly. At the door to the captain’s office, he paused, looked at her intently.

“I tried, kid,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For—Korsak, what—“

He clicked the door open and nudged her inside, not following her.

Jane’s mouth went dry when she registered the scene. Instead of the captain, she saw Deputy Superintendent Ross seated behind the heavy oak desk, hands folded together, face even stonier than usual. Across from him, someone she vaguely recognized from the District Attorney’s office. Not a DDA, she realized abruptly, it was the District Attorney. Jane had only seen her a couple of times, usually on the news. She gulped.

Next to the DA sat Robert Vanallen, his impeccable navy suit looking to Jane unsettlingly like police dress blues. He turned his head slightly, not facing her, but just enough so that she caught his faint sneer.

“Detective Rizzoli,” DS Ross said, his voice blank. “You know Ms. Schachtman.” He nodded at the DA, who gave her an inscrutable look.

“Uh, hello,” she rasped. “Detective Jane Rizzoli.”

“Charles Hoyt,” the DA said. “That was you.”

“Uh,” Jane glanced briefly at the ground. “Yes ma’am, it was.”

“And of course Mr. Vanallen, with whom I believe you spoke earlier this week.”

“Detective,” Vanallen drawled, turning to face her this time. “We meet again.”

His face bore a polite, professional smile, but his cold blue eyes revealed only an icy emptiness. She swallowed again, suppressing the shiver she could feel tickling at the base of her spine.

“Mr. Vanallen.”

“You’ve got a suspect name of Bradley Johns in your lockup, correct?” Ross asked without looking up at her.

“Yes, sir.”

“You charge him yet?”

A sinking feeling opened up in the pit of her stomach.

“Not with everything, sir.”

“Get him up here.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” she stammered, feeling awkward. Had she been brought into this room just to fetch a suspect from holding? In front of the Deputy Superintendent and the DA and another suspect, powerful though he was?

“Come back when he’s in Interview 2.”

“Yes sir,” she said, ducking quickly through the door.

The hallway was deserted. Jane glanced around for Korsak, but saw nobody. She took a deep breath, swiped her sweaty palms across her trousers. Being called into the captain’s office was nerve-wracking enough, but to find instead the Deputy Superintendent, the District Attorney and Vanallen waiting felt like some sort of dirty trick. She suddenly understood Korsak’s preemptive apology.

She wasn’t sure she’d forgive him, though.

She made her way down to holding, tried to ignore Johns’s smug smirk as she fished him out of his cell. Wasn’t as careful as she could have been in tightening his cuffs, maybe.

“I knew it,” he muttered.

“No talking without your lawyer present,” she muttered back. “Shut up.”

“See you on the other side, Detective,” he hissed as she shoved him into the interview room, her jaw clenched tight.

She walked briskly back to the captain’s office, rapped twice at the door.

“Come in,” DS Ross called. She pushed the door open.

“Johns is in Interview 2, sir,” she said.

“Good. Okay. Mr. Vanallen is going to meet with his client, then Ms. Schachtman will review any offers on the table.”

“But this is a federal case,” Jane blurted. “And we haven’t even charged him yet!”

“Jurisdiction isn’t your problem, Rizzoli,” Ross said calmly, though she could see the muscles in his jaw working. “Mr. Vanallen, I believe you know the way.”

Vanallen stood, shook Ross’s hand. “Ms. Schachtman,” he said silkily. The District Attorney didn’t respond, but her eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. He turned to Jane. “Detective,” he hissed, before moving confidently through the door.

Jane stood awkwardly for a moment.

“Are we done here, John?” the District Attorney sighed, rubbing at her temples. “I’m going to the Berkshires this weekend, and I’m hoping to beat traffic out of the city.”

“Thanks, Michelle,” the Deputy Superintendent said, standing and extending his hand. “Have a safe trip. My best to David.”

She shook his hand once, firmly, then hoisted her enormous black tote over her shoulder. She paused as she passed Jane, gave her a long glance. “That was good work, Detective,” she said. “The State still owes you a debt of gratitude for getting that monster off the streets.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jane said. She’d rather the State do something about the other monster who had just been in the room with them, but she was smart enough to realize how much of this had been theater, another way for Vanallen to intimidate her.

It had kind of worked.

“Stay,” DS Ross barked as she turned to leave. “Sit down.”

“Sir, I—”

“Don’t, Rizzoli,” he sighed. “You’re done looking into Robert Vanallen. Matins killed Sheridan, then died in a plane crash. That’s what the evidence is showing, and it gets you a clean closure. Yeah?”

“But sir, he—”

“Rizzoli, you’ve been a pain in this department’s ass for well over a decade. I don’t need you to be a pain in Robert Vanallen’s ass too, okay? Because then things start happening, like your captain having to call me, and then me having to call the District Attorney to get her down here on a Friday afternoon to work out any misunderstandings we may have had about this case. You think I like doing that?”

“No sir, but—”

“Look,” he said, rubbing his hand across his face. “I know what you think about him. About what you think he did to Matins, and to you and Dr. Isles.”

Jane tensed. “I don’t think he did those things, sir,” she said as calmly and professionally as she could manage. “I have evidence, and we have Johns—”

“Mr. Johns is certainly going to be checking in as a long-term guest at one of this country’s many fine resort facilities,” Ross cut in. “For what we’ve got on the record.”

“But sir—”

“What we’ve got on the record is enough, Detective,” he said firmly. “Mr. Vanallen and I have discussed a few of the . . . finer points, and we’ve agreed it’s best for everyone involved if we let this case simply arrive at its natural resolution, and acknowledge Andrés Matins as Kight Sheridan’s murderer due to the unfavorable terms of Sheridan’s new will.”

Like cigar smoke through a window. And it didn’t even have to get to the top floor.

Jane was furious, not just because her worst fears had come true about the case, but because it had taken so little. Like she was an annoyance, easy to brush off. Because it meant there would be no justice for Maura, or for her. Sure, it would all be kept a secret, would disappear sooner rather than later, but the sense of violation, of disillusionment, would go unpunished, unrecognized.

“Well,” Ross said, sighing and standing, Jane standing too. “I guess I should say congratulations on solving your case, Detective. Another one for your sterling record.”

Jane worked hard to keep the scowl from her face.

“You know, your division speaks very highly of you. I pulled your jacket, you’ve got a lot of convictions, a lot of good work. I’ll talk with your captain, see about you getting to use some of that vacation time you’ve got saved up.”

“Lay low,” she muttered.

The Deputy Superintendent gave her a hard stare. “Good idea, Detective,” he said. “This is a high-profile case. You’re an unusually high-profile detective. Might do you some good to get away for a while, get your name out of the papers.”

He held eye contact until Jane blinked, looked away.

“Yes, sir,” she said dully. “Anything else?”

“That’s all,” he said, giving her a curt nod. “Detective,” he called. She paused at the door. “Nobody likes it. But we do it. Because it gets more done in the long run.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. Let the door click shut behind her.

 

 

 

Notes:

yes, it's almost done, alas. but it's been so fun!! I'm so glad we're all having a good time together!!

I've been thinking about the next one, how do we feel about a Victorian AU, sort of a Penny Dreadful vibe, *maybe* supernatural stuff, maybe not, haven't decided yet; I just like the idea of Maura Isles as a spinster living in her parents' mansion doing taxidermy in a big dress (and I love writing genre so so so much)

Chapter 25: About Damn Time

Summary:

le end; love you so much

“Jane?”

“Janie?”

“Jane Clementi—“

“What, Ma?”

Angela pulled back like she’s been slapped. “Your guests are all here,” she sniffed, then marched stiffly out of the room.

Jane slumped down into the leather armchair. She sighed, rubbed at the bridge of her nose. She could hear voices in the living room, her mother and Maura and Constance. Frankie and Mason yelling at the football game. Korsak, haunting the snacks. And a new voice, one that she knew she had to leave the dim, quiet sanctuary of Maura’s study to greet.

She sighed again, grimaced, squeezed her hands into fists for a second.

“It’s fine,” she muttered to herself. “It’s fine.”

She opened the study door carefully, not wanting anyone to make a whole obnoxious thing about her finally deciding to come out of her room and grace everyone with her presence. Said a silent prayer of relief when everyone stayed occupied in the other rooms, allowing her to slink into the miraculously-empty kitchen without much fuss.

“Hey,” she said, trying not to sound as angry and miserable as she felt. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Agent Mackey said, giving her an awkward little nod as he shrugged off his coat. Jane felt a twinge of sour gratification when she heard the same forced cheer in his voice.

“Sucks, huh?” Jane sighed.

“Oh absolutely,” Mackey said, visibly relieved. Jane grinned crookedly.

“Is that a vintage Burberry?” Maura exclaimed, gracefully swooping in to take Mackey’s coat. “Jane, look at the hand-stitching here on the cuffs, this is a lovely piece. Did you get it in London?”

Mackey smiled. “You flatter me, Doctor. It was my father’s; I may have relieved him of it Christmas of ’08.”

“Well,” Maura said, still scrutinizing the finishings, “you made a very savvy acquisition. I’ll hang it for you, please, have a glass of wine. Or there’s beer, if you . . .”

“Wine is perfect,” he said quickly. “Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home. I know we didn’t spend much time together during the case, but from what Jane says, I’m excited to get to know you.”

Maura blushed, smiled widely. Reached out and lightly brushed Jane’s arm with her fingertips. “Likewise,” she said, before disappearing with his coat.

Mackey watched her leave, giving Jane a little smirk. She rolled her eyes, grabbed a beer out of the fridge.

“Really,” Mackey said, pouring himself a glass of Chardonnay. “Thanks for inviting me. I know we’re not supposed to get along, but—“

Jane waved him off. “I met your partner. I figured you’d rather pretend to be happy the case is over with people who might actually give a shit.”

Mackey snickered. “He does actually give a shit, in his own way. It’s just not a way I love to spend my free time.”

“Yeah,” Jane muttered. She fiddled with the label on her beer bottle. “You must see this stuff a lot,” she said finally. “Feds and all.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Sometimes. It never gets any easier.” He paused, gave her a long look. “I won’t say congratulations on closing your case, because I know how you feel. But you did good work, Detective. Really impressive. It was a pleasure working with you.” He sipped his wine. “Just don’t tell anyone at HQ I said that.”

“Thanks,” Jane muttered again, taking a swig of her beer. “You too.”

He smiled. “You ever want to graduate to the big badge, give me a call. We can always use more people who actually give a shit.”

Jane picked at the label on the bottle. Was grateful when Frankie and Mason whooped loudly in unison from the living room.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you. Fair warning, my mother is a weapons-grade busybody. But she means well. Usually.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Mackey nodded solemnly. “Any other tips?”

“Uh,” she said, biting her lip again, flushing slightly. “They don’t, uh, know yet. About, um, me and . . .”

He drew his fingers across his lips. “Say no more.” He glanced around the corner at Maura, currently giggling at something Angela had said. “Though I can’t say I understand hiding that light under a bushel.”

“It’s complicated. Not because of, like, homophobia or anything,” she added quickly. “But Ma and Korsak are still learning, so they might say something stupid.”

Mackey shrugged. “Bring it on.”

Jane grinned. Took another swig of her beer.

“Jane!” Angela cried as she led them into the living room. “About time. Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ma. This is Agent Donovan Mackey, he worked on the case with me. With us,” she said, nodding at Mason.

“Van,” Mackey said, giving a little wave to the room. Jane didn’t miss Frankie’s suspicious squint. Made a little face in return, mouthed get over it.

“That’s my ma, Angela, and Maura’s mom Constance,” she said. “And my brother Frankie, who’s just jealous.”

“I’m not—“

“It’s okay,” Jane ignored his protest, “his voice will drop any day.”

“Jane!” Angela shouted.

“And you know Mason and Korsak and Maura,” she finished quickly, smirking at Frankie, who shot her a death glare.

“Nice to meet you all,” Mackey said politely.

“Van, tell me all about the FBI,” Angela cooed, grabbing his elbow. “Is it true that you have to speak three languages? I bet you’ve got all the girls after you.”

“No ma’am,” he stammered, throwing Jane a half-desperate glance. “Not exactly.”

Angela eyed him sharply for a moment. “Where do you get your hair cut?” she demanded, pulling him back toward the kitchen, where Constance had started chopping vegetables for the salad. “I know a fantastic stylist; he’s an angel, he’s a genius, and he’s single.”

Jane gave him grin and an apologetic shrug. Was about to commandeer the pretzel bowl when Maura appeared at her elbow.

“It was very nice of you to invite Agent Mackey to Sunday dinner,” she murmured. “He’s putting up with your mother admirably.”

“Give it time,” Jane muttered.

“Hey FBI, you college boys like football?” Frankie called, giving Jane a look she recognized all too well; she’d seen it countless times at dinners and holidays and church picnics. The one that said you owe me.

“Pats are Pats,” Mackey called back, smiling gratefully. “Were we at?”

“Third quarter, second and seven, up thirteen, would’ve been fourteen if Folk hadn’t whiffed the conversion.”

“Giants still using the second string?”

“Yeah, we’re crushin’ ‘em,” Frankie said. “Of course. Who needs Brady, huh?”

Jane couldn’t help her smile as Mackey made his way over to the couch, grabbing a bowl of chips on the way, offering them to Frankie and Mason.

“Don’t spoil your appetites!” Angela yelled. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes!”

“You said that ten minutes ago, Ma,” Frankie yelled back. “What the hell? Fuckin’ idiot!”

“Francesco Rizzoli Junior, I swear—“

“Sorry, Ma, Pats gave up a bullshit turnover.”

“You watch your language, mister.”

Jane leaned against the wall, watching everyone. Constance and Angela in the kitchen, her brother and Mason and Mackey on the couch, whining about interceptions, Korsak contentedly thumbing through his phone, snickering at pictures of kittens. Maura still next to her, gazing at her softly.

“I’m sorry about the case, Jane,” she murmured. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know,” Jane sighed. “I just . . . don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”

They hadn’t talked about it much at all yet. Jane had come storming down into the morgue after the ambush in the captain’s office, delivering a curt “it’s over” before storming back up to her desk to shove her things into her bag.

Maura had come rushing up after her, relying on Korsak to outline the situation, including Jane’s refusal to acknowledge him. She’d given Jane a long look, full of anger and disappointment and disbelief, but hadn’t pressed. Had calmly asked Jane to wait a few minutes while she wrapped things up downstairs. Had sat in silence with her on the ride back to the hotel, where she’d jammed her belongings back into her duffel bag, then flopped, defeated, onto the bed.

Maura still hadn’t pressed. Had sat down next to her, asked softly if she wanted to go home. Hadn’t needed to clarify which home she meant. Had called down to the front desk to ask that anything they’d left behind be given to Constance, had insisted Angela stay another night, including dinner at the restaurant and whatever spa treatments she might want.

Then she’d led Jane to the car, not commenting when Jane slid dejectedly into the passenger seat. Drove her silently back to the house in Beacon Hill. Jane noticed her flinch, pause before unlocking the door, felt a renewed rush of fury remembering what had happened the last time she was here. How it would never be made right.

Maura gave her a gentle push over the threshold. “Upstairs,” she murmured. “Go change.”

“I don’t have—“

“Top two drawers on the left,” Maura interrupted. “I told you you’d left several things here.”

Jane sighed, then clomped up the steps. She was too upset to argue about being told what to do; what she really wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

After she punched some stuff, of course. Maura had installed a couple of bags in her home gym; it had taken Jane’s confused questioning about her sudden boxing habits to realize they’d been put there specifically for her.

And it still took you all this time.

Shut up.

She pulled on the new gym clothes Maura had gotten them the other night; a sports bra and calf-length leggings. Wrapped her hair into a messy ponytail. The thought of pummeling a leather bag made her feel a little better. She could imagine it was Vanallen’s smug, satisfied face.

After thirty minutes, she was winded, sweaty, and sore. She was about to strip off her gloves when Maura rapped lightly at the door.

“Jane?”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed, “come in.”

Maura pushed into the room, pausing at the sight of her, skin flushed and damp with sweat, hair wild, sticking to her neck, her face.

Jane watched her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, her breath catch.

Maybe you’re not the only one who appreciates workout clothes.

“Um,” Maura stammered, a flush of her own creeping up her pale chest. “Dinner?”

She grinned despite her bad mood. Felt it start to break up, drift apart a little as Maura stared frankly at her.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to eat, Doctor?” she rumbled, stretching her arms over her head, shivering as a bead of sweat rolled down her stomach.

“I—“ Maura drifted off, still staring.

“You okay, babe?” Jane smirked.

At least you don’t have to worry about it being weird when you get home.

“Yes,” Maura whispered. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“Hmm,” Jane frowned as she pulled her gloves off, flexing her fingers. “I’m not so sure you are. You’re looking a little flushed, do you think you might need to lie down?”

“No,” Maura said, shaking her head. “I’m perfectly—oh. Oh, I—I see.”

Jane smirked, crossed to her. Grinned as Maura’s eyelids fluttered when she dragged just the tip of her finger across her collarbone, tracing the little pattern of freckles peeking out from under her blouse. She drifted her fingertip lower, just brushing the swell of Maura’s breast, teasing along the silky skin.

“I love you,” she said, her voice low, soft.

“I love you too,” Maura murmured, gazing up at her.

The look lasted a few long, aching seconds before they crashed together, Jane’s fingers tangling in Maura’s hair, an arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. Maura curled her hand around the back of Jane’s neck, the other grasping at the strap of her sports bra, whimpering into Jane’s mouth as she pressed against her.

Jane didn’t pull away as she guided Maura out of the room, as they spun down the hall, still entwined. She only noticed when she bumped hard against the staircase, pulling back with a sharp groan.

“Are you all right?” Maura asked breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Jane mumbled. “Upstairs. Now.”

Maura gave a strangled little gasp, bit her lip, pupils wide and black. She shuddered as she pulled away from Jane, nearly sprinted up the stairs, Jane close behind her.

They’d barely stumbled into the room before Jane had Maura’s blouse over her head, running her palms down Maura’s toned stomach. Maura let out a little whine, pulling Jane toward her, crying out as she collided with the bedroom door.

Jane smirked against her lips, grabbing her wrists, pulling them over her head, pinning her lightly against the door. Maura whimpered again, almost a keen, and Jane paused, pulled back slightly.

“Okay?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Maura gasped, nodding jerkily. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jane rasped, pushing her firmly against the door with her hips, leaning in to trace her tongue along Maura’s throat.

Maura worked her hands free, running them along Jane’s arms, her torso, her back, her breath growing rapid and shallow as she stroked along Jane’s skin. Before Jane knew what had happened, Maura’s hands were on her shoulders, pushing down; she was on her knees, sliding her hands up Maura’s thighs, under her tight skirt, pressing hot kisses to every newly-exposed bit of skin.

“Yes,” Maura hissed, her fingers twisting in Jane’s hair desperately, almost painfully.

Something came over her then, something about the way Maura was gasping and writhing, the way her scalp burned as Maura tugged, the way she wanted to tear Maura’s clothes off, to pin her up against the door as she took what was hers.

She’s yours.

“Jane,” Maura moaned as Jane’s tongue flicked at the liquid heat between her legs.

And you’re hers.

She was never, ever, ever going to get over the way loving Maura made her feel.

She shivered as Maura wrapped a leg around her shoulders, forcing her closer. Again as Maura gasped, her hips thumping against the door as Jane refused to relent, kept her pressed up against the door even as she cried out, shuddering, then slumped back, breath shallow and rapid.

Finally she slid her leg off Jane’s shoulder, tugged gently on her hair, trembling with exertion and the last fluttering pulses of her orgasm. Jane gazed up at her, tousled, sweaty, half-dressed, and felt herself begin to sway, even though she was on her knees.

Maura gave a lazy, contented smile. “On the bed, please,” she murmured. “Take your clothes off.”

“But I’m all sweaty,” she protested.

The devouring look in Maura’s eye was all the convincing she needed.

But she still didn’t want to talk about the case.

“There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about,” Maura murmured as Jane watched their mothers roll out ropes of gnocchi dough in the kitchen. It had been a huge step for Angela to ask Constance to roll the dough, and to her credit, Constance seemed to understand the honor she’d been given; had followed Angela’s overly-complex, superstition-laden instructions to the letter.

“Oh yeah?” Jane murmured back, finishing her beer with one long swallow. “What’s that?”

“Korsak mentioned you were, um, encouraged to take some time off.” She sighed as Jane scowled. “I’m not saying it’s something you’re happy about. But I was thinking, it might be nice to at least make a real vacation out of it, instead of, um . . .”

“Me driving you crazy here?” Jane sighed. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

“Jane!” her mother shouted as she opened the refrigerator. “Butter!”

Jane snickered as Constance stiffened for a moment. Handed Angela the loaf of butter, popped the cap off her beer. Took a long pull before crossing back to Maura.

“So,” she said, rubbing at the back of her neck. “A real vacation. I can’t remember the last time I had one of those.” She paused, took another sip of her beer. “Or if I’ve ever had one of those.”

“You haven’t,” Maura said. “At least not in the time we’ve known each other.”

“Yikes,” Jane muttered.

“So I was thinking about Sicily,” Maura continued. “There’s the pensione Mother likes, of course, but there are a number of excellent options both in and out of Palermu. We could even find out where your family is from, it wouldn’t be difficult, I’m sure. And I know it’s the off-season, so it won’t be especially warm, but—“

“Whoa,” Jane said. “Slow down there, Mario Andretti. Sicily? Sicily. Like, Italy-Sicily.”

“Unless you’d prefer to go to Central Illinois for two weeks?” Maura’s brow furrowed. “I mean, I can certainly look into it—“

“No, Maura,” Jane sighed. “I don’t mean Illinois. But you mean, like, Italy.”

“Yes,” Maura said slowly, frowning. “I really would love to go back, I’ve only been there a few times, mostly when I was younger. And you’ve never been. And I was thinking we could invite Mother and Angela—“ she tutted at Jane’s horrified expression—“for a few days, and of course they wouldn’t be staying with us.”

“Maura, I—“

There was another large whoop from the living room, followed by Frankie and Mason and Mackey piling back into the kitchen.

“Is it time to eat yet, Ma? We’re starving.” Frankie elbowed Jane as he squeezed up to the island counter.

“You boys go set the table. Carefully!” Angela shouted. “I better not see one of those plates in pieces!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie sighed. “Mason, you get the silverware. FBI, you do the plates.”

“And you’re doing what, Frankie? Delegating?” Jane teased.

“At least I’m not just whispering with my girlfriend in the corner,” he muttered.

Jane froze. She’d heard it from Frankie before, for years, but this time was different.

She is your girlfriend.

“Well,” Jane said slowly, her heart pounding, “at least one of us should make Ma happy.”

This time it was Frankie who froze, a confused expression on his face. He stood there for a second, staring at Jane, who grinned, reached for Maura’s hand, gave it a little squeeze.

“Serious?” Frankie whispered, glancing at their mother, who was busily stirring the pasta. Jane shrugged. She couldn’t look at Maura, not yet; instead she squeezed her hand, grinned wider when she got a little squeeze back.

There was another long beat, then Frankie broke out into a wide smile. “Serious?” he said again, louder.

“Serious,” Jane nodded.

“You’re serious!” he crowed. Clapped Jane on the shoulder. “About damn time,” he said excitedly. “Hey Korsak, you owe me twenty bucks.”

He vanished into the living room before Jane could tell him to keep it quiet, though she also knew that the cat was out of the bag. It was that roller-coaster feeling again, exhilarating and terrifying. She finally looked at Maura, eyes shining.

“Was that okay?” she asked softly. “I didn’t really think about it, I’m sorry.”

Maura didn’t respond, just gazed up at her. After a beat, she gracefully lifted onto her tiptoes, pressed a soft kiss to Jane’s lips.

“Janie, can you OH MY GOD,” Angela shrieked. “Jane! Maura! Are you—oh my god! I knew it!”

“We all knew it, Ma,” Frankie scoffed, returning to the kitchen with Korsak in tow.

“Don’t you ruin this moment for me, Francesco,” Angela warned, shaking her wooden spoon at him. “My babies!”

She dropped the spoon with a clatter, rushed over to them, smothering them both in a tight hug.

“I knew it,” she whispered against both of their cheeks. “I knew it.”

“Yeah, Ma,” Jane grumbled, trying to wriggle out of Angela’s iron grip.

“When did this happen? How long have you been lying to me?” Angela stepped back, arms folded across her chest. Jane sighed good-naturedly.

“Nobody was lying, Ma. Just wanted a chance to be, you know . . .” she trailed off, her burst of bravery fading into a familiar awkwardness. It’s not that she’d been worried about how her mother would take the news—well, not that she’d be upset—but Jane realized she hadn’t really thought through to the Twenty Questions part.

“Just this week,” Maura said shyly, twining her fingers with Jane’s.

“Awwwwww,” Angela cooed. “Look at your little faces.” She lunged back in, pinching both of their cheeks until Jane pulled away. “My beautiful girls,” Angela said fondly, cupping Maura’s chin. “When’s the wedding?”

“Ma!” Jane cried, throwing her arms up. “Give it a rest, okay?”

“Don’t you make this poor girl wait another ten years,” Angela frowned, putting her arm around Maura. “The patience of a saint.” She gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. Maura blushed, giggled.

“Congratulations,” Constance said softly, moving to stand next to Angela. “How lovely for you both.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Maura murmured.

“Yeah, uh, thanks, Constance,” Jane said, suddenly nervous.

Constance smiled softly at both of them, inched forward like she wanted to hug Jane. Jane gave her a smile in return, stepped forward to embrace her.

It was only kind of awkward.

“I knew you’d take care of our girl,” Constance murmured in her ear. “I’m very happy for you both. Maura deserves a family who loves her, a person who loves her for who she is.”

Jane felt that odd little swell in her chest, that strange urge to cry. “She has it,” she mumbled thickly. “And so do you, Constance.”

She blushed a little at her own words. They felt corny, sure, but also true.

She pulled back, reached for Maura’s hand again. Laced their fingers together.

“Come on,” she said, glancing around at the smiling faces of her family, at Maura’s eyes, shining with happiness. “Let’s eat.”

 

 

Notes:

thanks again to all of you for coming on this delightful journey with me; I'm sorry if it didn't wrap up exactly the way you wanted, but how often does life do that; NOT VERY

anyway, for real, lmk if you'd be into a Victorian AU; I'm prob gonna do it anyway, but would love your support.

thank you thank you thank you <3