A/N: Okay, now to write more...I've been looking forward to writing this chapter all day!
RaiN: She's so spunky, isn't she? I freaking love her! I like writing Isabella and Frankie together, they have such a playful chemistry...
You can sound the alarm
You can call out your dogs
You can fence in your yard
You can hold all the cards
But I won't back down
Oh no, I won't back down
Eminem ft. Pink — Won't Back Down
Isabella walked beside Frankie and pulled the warrant out of the pocket of her black leather jacket, holding it up to the manager of the mechanics garage. She tried not to glance around the establishment. What had been lively chatter had died down and there was a shuffle to get away from the cops. A ball of unease grew in her belly as she heard television screens get turned off.
"We're looking for Lyle King," she informed him, a tone of confidence in her voice. The manager, a balding man in his forties shook his head.
"He hasn't showed up for work in two days," he replied. Isabella fought the urge to stomp her foot like a petulant child, but pursed her lips.
"Where does he live?" she asked. The manager, Doug, shrugged.
"He bounces from place to place," he answered. "But he mostly hangs out with Demon."
"Where's Demon?" Frankie asked. Isabella folded her arms over her chest and glared at Doug, trying to get him to talk through pure intimidation.
"He's in the back," Doug replied, gesturing for the two detectives to follow. Isabella leaned towards Frankie to mutter quietly to him.
"This place is about as clean as a sewer," she muttered. He chuckled, keeping close to her. "I'm not just referring to the blatant violations in proper equipment care here, either."
"Yeah, this place is mobbed up," he replied. His dark brown eyes twinkled with good humor. "And I'm not just referring to their abundance in staff, either."
Her eyes rolled to the ceiling as she fought a snort.
"'Ey yo, Demon! There are some people here who wanna speak to you!" Doug called, banging on a back door.
"Who are they?" a man's voice rang out, a thick Staten Island accent. Wait a minute...
Isabella knew that voice. It was Mario Vasquez, Diego's brother. She knocked on the door.
"Open up, Vasquez, it's an old friend," she called. Silence greeted her.
"Doug, please tell me that ain't that short bitch cop from the NYPD," Mario finally said.
"The very same," Isabella replied. "We need to talk and I'm here to collect that favor you owe me."
"Pacino, you came all the way from New York to come see me? I'm touched, baby," Mario replied. The door opened, revealing the tall, buff Mexican man. His once-long hair had a buzz cut, his once clean-shaven face sporting a goatee.
"Yeah, funny how things work out like that, eh?" she said, narrowing her eyes. He had been on her side when Diego had started his obsession with her, telling his little brother to "Leave the poor woman alone, she ain't into you."
"You can't be comin' up in here like this without a warrant, honey. You know the rules," Mario informed her, narrowing his almost-black eyes. Isabella pulled the warrant from her back pocket and showed it to him.
"This'll do, right?" she asked.
"Damn, I never thought I'd set foot in a burlesque again," Isabella muttered. Frankie whipped his head around to face his partner, his eyes narrowed in shock. He had to admit, she was a bit eccentric, from her taste in music to her "take no shit" attitude, but being in a burlesque seemed a little bit much, even for her. "The End Zone" was a popular nightclub, which apparently doubled as a burlesque. It had a large stage with block letters reminiscent of "Moulin Rouge", a tragic musical Theresa had made him watch on more than one occasion. The block lights were the only lights on, besides the overhead lights on the stage.
"A girl's gotta get her way through college somehow," she explained airily with a shrug. He followed after her, hearing women belt out classic Motown tunes. The lights flickered through the club, illuminating the few leery men that watched the girls dance onstage.
When they came up to the office in back, Isabella reached out and knocked on the door.
"So, you knew Demon, huh?" Frankie commented, bringing up the conversation earlier. He could see her stiffen in the dim hallway before shrugging.
"Yeah, he was one of my old CI's back in New York," she replied. "I knew him a while back in high school."
She knocked again. "Boston PD, open up!" she ordered, planting her hands on her hips. She looked up at him. "Break down the door?"
He held up his hands. "Hey, it's your decision," he replied. She placed her hand on his chest, nudging him back. With a grunt of effort, her leg flung out and hit the doorjamb and sent the door flying into the office. A scantily clad blonde girl was parked on Lyle King's lap and she let out a squeal of horror.
"In our defense, we knocked," Frankie said. He pulled out his gun and stepped into the room the same time Lyle King went for his gun. "Drop it."
Slowly, Lyle obeyed. He was even uglier in person, in Frankie's opinion.
"We have some questions to ask you and it would be better all around to not ask them at gunpoint," Isabella said. She held up her cuffs and gestured Lyle to turn around. He slowly obeyed. Frankie holstered his weapon, his eyes on his partner. The minute her hands went to Lyle's wrists to secure the handcuffs, he lunged backwards and knocked her over. She caught the ottoman in the office and fell over, landing hard on the concrete floor.
Wordlessly, Frankie grabbed Lyle's shoulder and threw him onto the ground. He wrenched the older man's wrists behind his back and snapped the cuffs on.
"On your feet," he ordered. He looked over to see Isabella staggering to her feet and rubbing the back of her head. "You alright?"
She nodded, her eyes sparking with clear annoyance. "Breathe a word o' this to anyone and your ass is grass, Rozzili," she informed him. He chuckled and shook his head. She had called him "Freddie" earlier.
"It's Rizzoli," he corrected. She waved it off and shrugged, her hand going back to her head.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered and followed him out. "I was close this time."
Isabella planted her hands on her hips and slapped down a file. It was hers and Frankie's first interrogation as partners. He was a new detective, she needed to show him how to do it right.
"You killed a nine year old little boy," she stated, flipping over the file. "In cold blood, all because you found out his father worked for your boss. We got a warrant for your financials and found quite a large sum of money recently."
"That wasn't me," Lyle insisted, flipping the file shut. Isabella snorted and flipped it open again.
"What'sa matter, Lyle? Can't stand to look at your own handiwork?" she sneered. Her dark hair hung off of her shoulders and she knew she looked downright intimidating.
"It wasn't me and you can't prove it was," he replied.
"Oh, but we can," Frankie spoke up. "Your prints and epithelial DNA put you on the murder weapon and an audio recording match puts you at the scene at the time of the murder."
"Why did you do it, Lyle? To protect your own ass?" Isabella asked, circling the table. When she neared his chair, Lyle snapped at her and stood up. Isabella grabbed his shoulder and shoved him roughly back into the chair.
"Sit your ass down, we ain't done here," she told him.
"I'm not saying one word without a lawyer," Lyle told her.
"You won't need a lawyer, Lyle. Trust me, the evidence against you is so overwhelming, you may as well sign the confession right now," Frankie said. She smirked at her partner, glad he was stepping up more as a detective.
"You two don't know what it's like to grow up around gangs and in one," Lyle finally said. Isabella let out a haughty laugh. Oh, she knew all too well.
"Wanna bet?" she retorted. "I grew up in Queens, buddy. The gangs there were so bad that they called it Harlem's Shadow for a while."
Her eyes were on him as she leaned closer. Her hand remained on his shoulder, her arm flexed to keep him in place.
"So, why don't you tell me who hired you to kill Henry Wallace," she suggested, her voice a smooth purr.
Isabella fiddled with the edge of her jacket as everyone congratulated Frankie and herself on catching the killer. It had been their first case as a team, and she had to admit, they worked well together.
"Think you can remember my name now?" Frankie joked as they walked out of the station side-by-side. She chuckled.
"I'm still convinced it's Freddie," she replied smoothly. "Just sayin'."
"So, you worked in a burlesque to put yourself through college?" he asked. With a roll of her eyes, she knew it was a piece of information that she knew she should have kept to herself.
"It's a lot classier compared to what some of the other girls did," she defended. The chilly autumn air stung her cheeks and she shivered a bit through her jacket. "And I worked as a waitress and a bartender, I wasn't a dancer."
When she approached her truck, she turned and looked over at him. "Be safe, Rozzili," she said, giving him a wink.
