CHAPTER ONE
Raucous, squawking seagulls bob up and down on the surface of the water, rising and falling, each foamy white crest lifting them higher than the last, as a large boat cuts a path through the hungry flock.
Though its top speed is normally impressive, today it limps along, the feint smell of burning oil chasing its looming shadow through the small harbor toward the dock.
Once tethered, the luxury cruiser is blindingly out of place next to a short string of weathered and rusting fishing boats. They are nestled opposite a large warehouse building, with no choice but to take refuge beneath giant letters that read 'Nahant Bay Fertilizer Plant'.
The acrid smell of the dying engine is suddenly something the owner wishes was the only scent assaulting her nostrils. The foul odor of dead fish is so strong she thinks she might vomit into her bloody mary. The first call her husband makes to the mainland confirms her worst fears; they're going to be stuck here for a while.
"Garrett!" she bawls from her sun lounger. "I cannot fester in this maggot pit by the sea with nothing to do. So, while you repair your silly boat engines, I will do some remodeling. I've sent for a plumber."
Mr. Fairfield won't actually repair anything himself, of course, heavens no. The extent of his involvement started and ended with that phone call to a local marine mechanic. With his priorities in order, he carries on lining up his putting swing with the little white ball that sits atop a long strip of artificial turf.
"Whatever, love. I'm busy," he mutters, adjusting his dark sunglasses. With his clumsy, untrained swing, the ball misses its target by a country mile, dropping off the open upper deck and plopping into the dark blue below. "Fuck."
oOo
A beaten old pickup truck sits in a dusty work yard, the perimeter of which is peppered with scrap metal and pipes of all sizes. Some tangles rise like sculptures, half-finished works of what at least one person would dare to call 'art'.
Its owner, a tall, dark-haired woman is tinkering with an electric pump inside of a small plastic children's swimming pool. At the flick of a switch, the spaghetti-like formation next to her, a mass of coils molded from copper pipe, suddenly springs to life, sucking up the water and spurting it into the sky.
"A-ha!" she whoops, punching the air. "It works!"
"Nice one, Janie," a male voice drawls from across the yard, generating a scowl. "Now you just gotta finish it on time!"
Frankie lumbers lazily over to her as the door to the rickety wooden shack that serves as her business headquarters clatters closed behind him.
"Yeah, well, you could lend more of a hand now and again, y'know." She snatches the note that he is holding out to her. "I could get a guard dog if I wanted someone just to sit around the yard and do nothing."
A dark, bushy eyebrow lifts as he tilts his head to the side but he doesn't rise to the bait. "A job came in. Wrote it down for you." He points at the paper before using his fingers to make air quotes. His voice is comically high and haughty. "Apparently it's 'time sensitive'."
Stuffing the note into a pocket, the brunette grabs her toolbelt off the ground with one hand and dusts it off with the other, getting ready to leave.
"What about Mrs. Talucci's water feature?" he asks, looking over at the abandoned project that sits in the middle of the yard.
But she's already at the truck, throwing her toolbox and toolbelt into the back. She climbs behind the wheel, turning to lean out the open window as the door closes, "You said 'time sensitive', Frankie, so I gotta go. I can't turn down any jobs right now, y'know."
It's still very early and the more she hustles the more jobs she can complete. Sticking out an arm, she waves a hand in the air making vague circles at her younger brother, "Since I got the pump working it just needs attaching to the base and it's all set. You know where Mrs. Talucci lives."
"But -" he whines, getting a face full of dirt as the truck speeds out of the yard. Yelling fruitlessly, he thumps his fists against his thighs as he watches her drive away. "I gotta go, Jane! And you're not even paying me!"
oOo
Jane leaves her truck in the warehouse parking lot and makes her way through the harbor on foot. It's an inconvenience having to carry her tools all that way but what the hell, she considers it a blessing, an impromptu workout of sorts, since she's getting a bit… soft, she thinks, around the middle.
She smiles warmly at the first dock worker that makes eye contact before looking down at the note that lists her customer's information. "Hi. I'm looking for the… Auras Smile?"
He points her past the visible fishing boats, "Dock five. Can't miss it!"
"Thank you." Jane turns and starts to walk down the boardwalk. There sits an enormous, gleaming white yacht the likes of which Nahant Bay has never seen in her lifetime. "Holy… shit," she breathes in wonder.
There are other workmen milling about and a giant hatch is propped open on the side of the boat. She can see its internal organs pretty much, though they're not as familiar to her as those beneath the hood of her truck.
The truck has seen better days and has been repaired so many times she could take apart the engine piece by piece and put it back together blindfolded. There are belts and bolts, pumps and pistons, valves and rubber hoses. It's doubtful she could do the same here with the engine of a luxury seafaring vessel, it'd be like… performing an alien autopsy, or any autopsy for that matter; she wouldn't know where to start.
Jane makes her way onto the boat at the rear where the deck is level with the edge of the dock. The large open space is painted with a giant H and the brunette's eyes go wide as she stares around her feet. She's never met anyone with enough money to buy a brand new car, never mind a yacht and a helicopter.
"Hello! Mr. Fairfield?" she calls. "Anybody home? Hello!"
A man comes into view above her on the upper deck. "What do you want?!" he gruffs.
In crisp, white chinos, aviators, and a navy polo shirt he's holding a scarily large, silver revolver, and though he doesn't point the lethal weapon directly at Jane, she still takes a wary step back.
"Nice gun," she gulps, "looks expensive." It's not what she meant to say but her brain is busy pushing images of a memory she'd rather forget behind her eyes.
"Thank you. I have several," he boasts, his chest puffing out visibly.
I bet you do, she thinks, clearing her throat. Classic overcompensation. "Somebody call for a plumber?"
Groaning, uninterested, the man waves the gun around irresponsibly as he gestures behind him. "That's my wife's department."
"Could you tell me where your wife might... be?" But the man has already disappeared from view.
"That's helpful," she mutters, rolling her eyes before making her own way further into the interior of the boat. With any luck - not that Jane has much of it these days - she won't come across anyone else who looks like they want to shoot her for trespassing.
oOo
Below deck she finds a gorgeous blonde woman lounging on a chaise in just a swimsuit and a thin, silk robe.
Hazel eyes sweep her from top to toe, judgment oozing from every pore of creamy, freckled skin. "You're the plumber?"
The brunette nods, eyes glancing down at her torso as the other woman rises to her feet. It clearly says so on the front of her coveralls - Rizzoli & Sons Plumbing, Swampscott, Mass. "Jane Rizzoli," she replies, sticking out a hand for a shake that never comes. Mrs. Fairfield, I presume?
The blonde simply raises her chin, just a fraction, but it's enough.
At 5'11", not many people can ever truly look down their nose at Jane Rizzoli but, at what she estimates is a decidedly average 5'6" plus kitten heels, Mrs. Fairfield throws her the snobbish look with ease.
"You're late," the woman barks, haughtily sauntering away. "References?"
Jane follows on instinct. "Well, no, not really. You see, I just moved back into the area... But I've been doing this kind of shi - work - for years. Lots of experience." Wide eyes investigate the interior decor as they weave through the cabin. Everything she sees - every piece of furniture, every painting, every vase – looks like it cost more than her house and truck combined. "Wow. This is... This is just beautiful!"
The woman gestures a hand and wiggles her fingers like she's afraid she'll catch something unpleasant. "Try not to touch anything."
The brunette nods again. "Oh, I won't." She has one hand on her toolbox while the other is pushed firmly into a pocket. She'd learned that lesson the hard way by taking her clumsy kids to visit their Uncle Giovanni at his antique pottery store. It took her three months to pay for everything that got broken that day.
"Susie will keep an eye on you."
Jane has no idea who Susie is. What is it with these rich people and withholding information? "Maybe you'd like to take my fingerprints and get a DNA sample before I get started," she snarks.
The woman stops abruptly and turns, clearly not amused.
Stopping just short of bumping into the blonde, Jane holds her free hand up in surrender as she chuckles, "Just kidding."
There's no attempt to grace her with anything even resembling a smile but Mrs. Fairfield does observe their proximity with a sneer. "Don't walk so close to me!"
"Okay!" Jane blurts. It's more of a shrill squeak than anything else but the other woman doesn't even blink. Jane stays rooted to the spot as the blonde moves away, just stares at her back and mouths the word wow. She considers forming an escape plan, making an excuse to leave, but depending on the specifics of the job this could be worth a lot of money and she feels there's no real option but to stay and find out.
With the woman now at an appropriate distance, Jane dutifully follows. I hope I don't regret this. "Where exactly is your plumbing problem?"
"The en suite," the blonde states impatiently, as if that's akin to providing Jane with detailed, exhaustive, hand-drawn directions.
Eyes roll under dark tapered eyebrows. "Uh-huh." Give me strength. Jane follows obediently into the master bedroom.
Mrs. Fairfield crosses the room and opens another door, gesturing for Jane to come closer so she can take a look inside. "In here. Now, as you can see, this is totally inadequate. I need all new fixtures immediately."
Scratching her head, Jane drawls, "Uh, I thought this was some kind of emergency."
"It is," the woman shrieks before launching into a tirade. "The finish is unbearable. Water spots are impossible to remove. I simply can't keep the cleaning maid down here twenty four hours a day and since we're stuck in this godforsaken place instead of New York -"
Jane has no choice but to interrupt - the blonde isn't talking to her anymore, it's mostly devolved into mindless ranting - but she puts on a warm smile so as not to appear rude. She almost touches a hand to the woman's arm to get her attention before she remembers it's liable to get torn off. "Uh... Hey, I'm sorry. I understand now. You want me to remodel your bathroom."
The blonde scoffs, her face reddening, "Isn't that what I've been explaining in some detail? Is English your second language?"
Jane presses a fist to her mouth to smother her words, "Is evil bitch your second language?"
Nose crinkled, Mrs. Fairfield sniffs, leaning into the brunette. "What is that foul odor?"
Shaking her head, Jane lies easily, "I don't smell anything." In truth, her senses are locked onto Mrs. Fairfield's perfume. It is sweet like honey but she knows that's not what the blonde is talking about. She has showered this morning, like every morning, and though her tight white vest is pristine her coveralls have admittedly seen better days.
They are saved from any awkward mention of laundry and how hard it is to get out the stench of blocked drains by a woman in a black server's uniform who appears in the doorway carrying a tray of food.
The blonde throws up her hands, "Oh, Susie, finally!"
Jane helps herself to a better look around the bathroom as Mrs. Fairfield pops something black into her mouth.
It is a good sized room and her creativity sparks to life in an instant. "You could have a wet room in here maybe," she ponders, almost to herself. Anything she could do, and she could do plenty, is absurdly unnecessary. There is absolutely nothing wrong with the room, its layout, or its fixtures to begin with. The most exclusive hotels in Boston probably don't have bathrooms this nice. But she isn't about to argue with the soulless woman and her platinum credit card.
Mrs. Fairfield's attention remains elsewhere, allowing Jane to breathe easily just for a moment.
"What is this gelatinous muck?! Susie, when I tell you to pack staples, must I specify that you are to pack good caviar and not this five dollar fish bait!"
"Yes, ma'am," Susie replies, monotone and apparently devoid of any personality.
Jane watches open-mouthed as the blonde closes her eyes and seems to get lost in her own vacuousness.
"Caviar should be round and hard and of adequate size. And it should burst in your mouth at precisely the right moment." It's not so much the words themselves, but the way she says them that is almost obscene.
"Yes, ma'am," Susie repeats, now visibly wilting.
Mrs. Fairfield snaps her fingers impatiently in Jane's direction, "Plumber!"
"Yeah?"
"You have precisely two days. I suggest you get started." Gesturing a hand at Susie's tray, the woman turns and walks away without even bothering to look at the diminutive crew member. "Throw that out," she orders.
Susie's chin falls to her chest, embarrassed, and Jane feels a warm flush on her behalf. "Yes, ma'am."
The heartless blonde is almost to the door when she calls shamelessly, "And watch her."
Baring her teeth, growling, and squeezing her free hand into a painful fist makes Jane feel momentarily better despite the deliberate rudeness and blatant distrust. She's not the one with the power here. It's an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling.
Susie's already made herself scarce as Jane sets the heavy toolbox down on top of the bedroom dresser. Without any detailed specifics from Mrs. Fairfield, she decides just to get on with the job that she's mentally sketched, self-motivating by way of a silent chant; I need the money, I need the money, I need the money.
oOo
Jane's still working hard several hours after making the trip into town for materials. She can see Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield out on the deck through the blinds at the bedroom window. The woman is reclined on a sun lounger, where she's been since Jane returned, while the crew fetches and carries to her every whim. The brunette doesn't mean to keep watching as she works but it's a bit like observing the zoo's reptile enclosure; these people behave differently, foreign and exotic, and their particular strain of poison is maybe a little bit dangerous, but she just can't stop.
Mrs. Fairfield is on the phone. "Mais oui! Bien sur! Oui? Ecoutez, Jean-Jacques. Je vous telephone..." She sips from a very full martini glass. "I know it's more than the last one I purchased, but it's the cutest little painting. I simply must have it. You'll do the bidding for me?" She takes an olive between her teeth, pulling it from the cocktail stick that had been stirring her drink. "But of course! No more than $700,000 okay?"
Jane shakes her head. These people are unreal.
Another uniformed crew member is operating a skeet launcher at the bow. When she catches sight of Mr. Fairfield again he's holding two revolvers this time, one in each hand and is strutting about the deck like a fucking mob boss wannabe.
"Pull!" he booms and two bright orange clay discs fly into the sky before arcing away. He lets off shot after shot from alternate hands, but the discs continue to glide, falling down into the surf still perfectly intact. "Shit!"
"Garrett, I'm on the PHONE!" the woman bellows. In truth, Mrs. Fairfield has already slammed down the handset in annoyance but he hasn't noticed.
"I can't hear you, sugartits!" he sings, like he hears just fine but doesn't give a damn before roaring in return. "I'm fucking shooting here! Pull!"
Two more discs soar effortlessly overhead and this time, through sheer luck, Jane reasons, rather than actual skill, one shatters, showering the deck and Mrs. Fairfield with shrapnel and dust.
It's mere seconds after the blonde stops screaming at her husband that Jane hears the main cabin door slam and she ducks away from the window before she gets caught spying. She can't help but snicker to herself. She's glad she didn't ditch this job immediately; it's the most entertainment she's gotten in a long time.
oOo
Jane is sitting on the end of the bed eating her lunch when Mrs. Fairfield saunters into the room. She removes her fingers from her mouth with a pop and gulps her food. "Hello."
Unresponsive, the blonde moves past her, bending over to retrieve something from a low drawer. Jane stares, her eyes wide as she takes in the non-existent back of the woman's two-piece. There is nothing but a tiny string holding on the top part, and the bottom part... dear lord... disappears completely between firm, round buttocks.
Nothing is left to the imagination. The woman inarguably has the most killer body Jane has ever seen and the plumber's eyes are busy studying what looks like a birth mark when Mrs. Fairfield speaks again.
"Forks were invented so humans could at least make pretence of separating themselves from the apes."
"So were thumbs," Jane mumbles, stuffing another handful of food into her mouth.
The blonde stands and turns around with a sneer, "What did you say?"
Jane shakes her head, "Nothin'. Just..."
The front of the bikini is nothing short of deadly. And even though the blonde has just wrapped a sarong around her hips, covering her upper thighs somewhat, there is no shade from the glare of her twin assets. She is magnificent. Taut abs, defined shoulders... and the bitch is blessed with perfect, pert, round breasts.
Jane chews energetically and gulps again, licking her lips as her brain suffers yet another misfire, "... my stomach... grumbling."
Tutting, Mrs. Fairfield turns and leaves, "Well, try to control your bodily noises so I can hear myself think!"
Dark, burning eyes follow her ass as it sashays regally out of the room. Alone again, Jane lowers her Tupperware bowl onto her lap with one hand and slaps her cheek hard with the other. "No. Stop it," she growls. "It's just a job." A huge sigh follows, "Get it done and get out." The sooner the better.