She stepped out of the elevator and unobtrusively crossed the gray and pink lobby of the building that housed the 240 employees of the district attorney's office. Now, at the beginning of the lunch break, the lobby was full of people. Assistants and colleagues chatted as they waited for friends and associates to return from court, with whom they had lunch plans. Maura barely managed a nod as she passed them on her way to the parking lot.

She prayed that she seemed normal, that a little of the color that had drained from her face in the morning had returned to her cheeks. And she hoped that if she really did look conspicuously miserable, people would blame it on lack of sleep and the stress of the boogeyman case and not start speculating, as lawyers were so fond of doing. Gossip was the order of the day in the hallways of the five-story building. News of divorces and pregnancies often made the rounds before the people involved had even gotten the papers or the streak on the B test had turned bright blue. Maura hoped that her anxiety this morning had only caught Jane's keen eye; that everyone else hadn't seen her life go off the rails all of a sudden, too. She put on her sunglasses as she stepped outside into the bright midday light. No one seemed to notice. A few of the colleagues waved at her, then dived back into their conversations.

Maura climbed into her Toyota, tossing her briefcase and purse into the passenger seat. She leaned back in the driver's seat, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she drove the Toyota out of the parking lot and turned onto the road that led her to Beacon Hill.

Jane. She thought of the detective's face in her office, the worried wrinkles on her forehead. She thought of Jane's hand on hers, Jane's face, and the disappointment that flared in her eyes as Maura flinched under her touch. Of Jane's intuitively correct last words. I think there's more to it than that. There's something you're not telling me.

She had rejected the detective. Unconsciously, though, but still.

Maura didn't know what to make of it. The moment she recognized Bantling, an emotional shock wave had flooded her, numbing all her feelings. To return Jane's touch at that moment seemed wrong, out of place. Again, time had come to a standstill. It was almost like twelve years ago: She had had a boring and exciting and wonderfully normal life with a boring and exciting and wonderfully normal future, and then ... bang! ... within a second, everything was overturned. Bantling had ambushed her again. A few moments in the bedroom, in the courtroom, and her world was not the same anymore.

Twelve hours earlier, she wouldn't have flinched from Jane's fingers. Perhaps she would have leaned against the detective or otherwise responded positively to Jane's tenderness in some way. There had been something between them, an unspoken flirtation, a possibility, ever since they worked together for the task force. A wonderful, exciting tension that seemed to be growing, and neither knew when, how, or even if it would be discharged. Maura had noticed that Jane called her on legal matters more often than was necessary. And Maura also checked in with the detective more often than necessary when it came to police stuff. To keep up appearances, they would discuss some factual matter, and then their conversation would become light and fun and a little more personal each time. She was attracted to Jane, sensed the strong chemistry that existed between them, and had asked herself the question 'What if?' more than once. And it was an open secret that the detective was dating women. If she had been unsure of Jane's feelings until now, she now had certainty. Jane's concern in the courtroom and the circumspection in her voice when Maura returned from the hearing, the probing questions, and the touch at the door.

But Maura had backed off, and the detective had left. That was that, then. She had seen the mortification in Jane's look, then the surprise and confusion that the detective had so misinterpreted the situation, indeed their relationship to each other. Maura had blown it. Maybe for good. It would certainly be more sensible if she stopped thinking about Jane, but she just couldn't get the brunette out of her mind. Maura tried with all her might to concentrate on something else. This wasn't the time for relationship problems. Certainly not with a woman as complicated as Jane Rizzoli. And who then also had to deal with the arrest and prosecution of William Rupert Bantling.

She parked in the driveway of her house and walked purposefully to the front door. At the door, meowing hungrily and indignantly, she greeted Tibby II; his fat white belly all grubby from the woolen mice he caught as he mopped the hardwood floor.

"It's all right, Tibby, just a minute. Let me get in first, and then you'll get your food."

"Food" was Tibby's favorite word, so he paused his miserable mewling for now. He watched with the bored curiosity only a cat can manage as Maura locked the door behind her and set the alarm system; then he followed her into the kitchen and rubbed a fleece of black and white hair on the pant legs of her freshly cleaned suit. She dropped the files and bag on the kitchen table and refilled Tibby's red bowl of kibble. The smell was now waking Lucy, Maura's ten-year-old basset hound who was hard of hearing. She hoisted herself out of her basket and trotted sniffing into the kitchen. After a short, happy yelp, Lucy chewed her portion of half-softened dry food next to Tibby, and all was alright again. At least for the two of them. The next tough decision they faced was where to continue their nap, sleeping in the bed or in the living room.

Maura started the coffee maker and went into the guest room.

In the top shelf of her closet, way in the back, under the wrapping paper, paper bags, bows, and boxes was a nondescript cardboard box. She threw the other things on the sofa bed and pulled out the half-empty box. Its contents rustled. Then she sat down on the floor, took a deep breath, and removed the lid.

It had been ten years since she had last looked inside. The musty smell of old paper came to her. She took out three folders and a thick yellow envelope, got coffee from the kitchen, and sat down on the patio. She stared at the folder, on which were handwritten POLICE REPORTS. Stapled to the cover was the business card of Detective Amy Harrison of the NYPD. She chewed on her pencil as she thought about what she would say, how she would say it. God, how she wished she had a script she could stick to. She took another deep breath before punching the number into her cell phone.

"Detective Bureau, Queens County." There was a tremendous amount of noise in the background. Hectic, hurried voices at different pitches, phones ringing, sirens wailing in the distance.

"I'd like to speak with Detective Amy Harrison, please."

"With whom?"

"Detective Amy Harrison, sex crimes." It was hard to get the word past her lips. Sex crimes. Odd, really, because she had easily called the sexual crime units of every police department in Massachusetts hundreds of times over the course of her career.

"Hold the line."

Thirty seconds later, a gruff voice with a heavy New York accent answered. "Special Victims Unite, Detective Sullivan."

"I'd like to speak to Detective Amy Harrison, please."

"Who?"

"Amy Harrison, in charge of sex crimes out in Bayside, unit one eleven?"

"There's no Harrison here. When would that have been?"

Deep breath. Slow exhale. "About twelve years ago."

The gruff New Yorker blew a whistle. "Twelve years, Jesus Christ. There's nobody here by that name anymore. Wait a minute." Maura heard him put his hand over the receiver and call out, "Does anyone here know Detective Amy Harrison? Worked for the Special Victims Unit twelve years ago."

Someone from the background. "Yeah, I knew Harrison. Quit and left the department three or four years ago. She went to the Michigan State Police, I think. Who's asking about her?"

The gruff man was about to relay the information, but Maura interrupted him. "I heard it. And what about Detective Benny Sears? He was her partner."

"Sears. Benny Sears," the gruff voice called out, "she wants to know about a Benny Sears."

"My goodness," again the one from the background. "Benny's been dead for seven years. Had a heart attack on 59th Street in rush hour traffic. Who wants to know all that?"

"Did you hear that, too? Detective Sears died a couple of years ago. Anything else I can help you with?"

Gone. Dead. For some reason, she hadn't expected something like this. Her silence was met with an impatient sigh on the other side. "Hello, are you still there?"

"Who would be in charge of their old cases now? I need assistance with ... On a case, the two of them worked together on back in the day, twelve years ago."

"Do you have the case number? Has there been an arrest?"

Maura opened the folder and hastily flipped through the yellowed pages. "Yeah, it's got to be here somewhere ... One second ...

No, no one has been arrested, as far as I know. So, here's the file number -"

"No arrest? Then you need to talk to the cold case squad. I'll put you through. One moment." Then the line was silent.

"Detective Bureau. Detective Marty."

"Hello, Detective. I need help with an unsolved sex crime from twelve years ago. A colleague from the Special Victims Unit referred me to you."

"John McMillan handles the unsolved sex crimes. He's off today. Can he call you back, or do you want to try again yourself?"

"I'll call back tomorrow." Maura hung up. That had been completely fruitless. Then she picked up the cell phone again and dialed another number.

"Queens County District Attorney's Office."

"The extradition office, please."

Silence fell on the line, then classical music sounded.

"Investigations, Michelle speaking. How can I help?"

"It's about an extradition."

"You've come to the right place. What can I do for you?"

"I need to speak with the district attorney who handles out-of-state extraditions back to New York."

"That would be Bob Schurr. Unfortunately, he's not in right now."

Did anyone actually work in the city that never slept? "I see. When do you expect him back?"

"He's at lunch and then I think he has a meeting after that. He'll probably be back in the office by late afternoon."

Maura left her name and phone number. Then she hung up and stared at the sky. A light breeze came from the east, and the chimes began to tinkle. Envy of her peers' carelessness gave Maura a familiar twinge, but she fought it off. If being a prosecutor had taught her one thing, it was that things weren't always what they seemed. And as her dad used to say, "Before you buy someone's shoes, walk a mile in them yourself, Maura. You might not even want them then."

Her mind wandered to her parents. They were now living in the quiet northern of California and still worried about Maura, who was all alone again in a big city, a merciless city full of strangers and weirdos. Worse, now she was even working with them, among them, every day, dealing with the scum of the earth, murderers, rapists, pedophiles, trying desperately to win in a game where you could only lose. Because by the time the horrible cases came to her desk, everything was already too late. Maura hadn't listened to their advice, to their warnings, and for her parents, it was painful and tiring to have to continue worrying, where Maura was almost suicidally throwing herself into the arms of misfortune. As for Maura, the emotional distance that had grown between them since the incident was actually welcome. She had her own baggage to carry; she couldn't saddle herself with the emotional baggage of others as well. It had been the same with all the acquaintances from her old life, no matter how close they had once been. Even with Marie, she hadn't spoken in years.

She took the last sip of coffee and opened the thick folder of police reports. The corners of the carbon paper had yellowed, and the letters were fading. The clock turned back as if it were yesterday, and hot tears ran down her face. Maura wiped them away with the back of her hand and began to read about the night she had been raped twelve years ago.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Rizzoli, you there? Jane?"

The radio on Jane's belt had turned on. "Yeah, I'm here, Jim. Go ahead." Looking for an evidence bag, she walked over from the bathroom to the bedroom. "Hey, Chris, where are the baggies?"

Chris thrust a bundle of clear plastic bags, the red ribbon, and white labels into his hand, and Jane returned to the bathroom.

"We've got something really interesting here in the shed behind the house. Where are you?" Jim Fulton had a strong Boston accent that was not always easy to understand. He was one of the older guys, a studly investigator who had been with the BPD for twenty-six years and had made it to supervisor in narcotics. His experience with serious crimes and home searches made him irreplaceable.

"I'm upstairs in the bathroom. I just found a little sensation myself. Bantling has a whole bottle of Haloperidol in his drawer, better known as Haldol."

"Haldol? Isn't that what you get when you're cuckoo?" Jane could literally see him tugging at his thick gray beard, under the black sunglasses he never took off, even in the darkest shed.

"That's right, Jim. You said it. And a doctor in New York prescribed it for our friend."

Jane dropped the vial into one of the bags and sealed it.

"Hallelujah! But I think I'll top it off."

"Oh yeah, how's that?" She stuck a label on the bag and wrote her initials on it with a black pen, JR.

"One thing at a time. Looks like our friends from the FBI are about to pay us a courtesy call, Jane. They're out in the street shaking hands and patting kids on the cheek. And, of course, they're giving free interviews to the press about the status of their investigation."

Jane bit her lip and furrowed her brows. "You're pulling my leg, Jim. Please tell me that's not true."

"I'm afraid it is, my friend, I'm afraid it is."

"Who is it?"

"Let me see. By the way, the beach boy standing guard at the front door asked them for their business card! Can you believe it? He wouldn't let them in, and now they're out on the lawn raising a ruckus. Remind me to call Chief Jordan to give the kid a bonus."

Jane was back in the bedroom now, looking out the window. It was true, the two Blues Brothers from Interstate were now standing next to the bougainvillea on the manicured lawn in their dark sunglasses, acting important. Talking frantically into their phones and taking notes. They looked like Mulder and Scully, in drag. In the running text of the live recording, MSNBC and CNN viewers would now get to read: FBI agents take over the case from Massachusetts state authorities. Or better yet: police are once again getting their asses kicked by the FBI.

Of course, they had parked in front of the house in such a way as to block the forensics cars.

"So, Jane, I've got their cards here, it's an Agent Carl Stevens and an Agent Floyd Carmedy. Do you know these guys?"

"Yeah, I know them, Jim. They were messing with me yesterday on the interstate. I'll go down and talk to them. We didn't invite the FBI. And if they're not on the guest list, they're not coming in. Tell Chief Jordan to double the bonus and make sure his guys keep the riffraff out."

"Okay, Jane, you're the boss. And I'm jolly glad of it. Because there's another guy coming in from the Bureau right now who wants to play along, and I don't want to be the one to tell him he's going to have to stay out, unfortunately. His business card says Special Agent in Charge Mark Gracker. If you look out the window, he's the one giving the speech on the lawn right now."

Damn. Gracker. Jane closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "All right, Jim. I'll take care of the Feds. I'm coming down now. I just have to give the lieutenant a heads up that there's probably a tornado going to blow over him this afternoon." The lieutenant was Sean Cavanaugh. Jane's boss. He'd be delighted if she told him she was playing a pissing contest with the FBI's Special Agent in Charge. The good thing about Cavanaugh was that he disliked the Feds as much as Jane did; he just couldn't say it out loud at his post. Publicly, he would criticize the cockfighting between the agencies, but when the cameras were off and the doors closed, it would be he who told Jane to get even with the FBI idiots. Cavanaugh, after all, had been lieutenant when Gracker had taken credit for him in the organized crime case.

"But before you go out, Jane, do I have a few more things for you or have you already forgotten that I was going to put one on?"

"Well, I hope the good news comes now. And against the one just now, it must be really good. Shoot, Jim, make my day."

"Oh, don't worry, I can easily do that. Looks like we found blood down here in the shed. And maybe even a murder weapon. Yippee."

Jane instructed Masterson and Bowman to hurry up with the DVD s and the bath, leaving Korsak with the Armani suits in the closet. Then she went out onto the lawn in front of the house. The young BPD cop was still standing guard at the door. He looked angry.

In black suits, black ties, and black sunglasses, Stevens and Carmedy stood outside on the lawn, taking notes. Stevens was also holding a cell phone to his ear, but Jane suspected it was just a show for the TV cameras across the street. She knew Stevens from a joint Organized Crime Task Force. He probably had his mother on the line asking him what he wanted for dinner.

Across the street, next to the FBI's fleet of black Ford Tauruses blocking the brick driveway, stood FBI Special Agent in Charge Mark Gracker. And standing next to him was Channel 10 star, Lyle McGregor. Gracker made a serious, scowling face. Lyle was beaming.

Jane didn't want to be rude to interrupt Gracker during his live interview, only to tell him that if he wanted to play in the sandbox with the other kids, he'd have to get a federal search warrant. She let Stevens chat with his mom and dealt with Mulder, aka Carmedy, first. Like a lion, the weakest victim first.

"Hello, Floyd. Floyd Carmedy, right? From the Bureau? I'm Detective Jane Rizzoli with the BPD." Let's be clear from the outset whose territory this is. Here, you're not FBI agent Carmedy. Here, you are simply Floyd. Jane extended a hand to him.

Floyd Carmedy shook it. "Detective Rizzoli. Nice to meet you. Are you leading the investigation here?"

"Yes, that's me, Floyd, that's me. What can I do for you?"

By now, the spotlights had turned away from Gracker and were on a forensics technician who was moving a large black plastic bag out the front door.

Gracker had to have noticed Jane. He put his black sunglasses back on and struggled across the lawn on his short legs. The heels of his black leather loafers sank into the grass.

Floyd was about to say something, but when he saw Gracker in the corner of his eye, he put on the brakes and respectfully took a step back to give Gracker his rightful place in the circle.

Mark Gracker strutted up, his chest proudly puffed under his black suit, his black tie dangling over his beer belly, and pushed in front of Carmedy. "Detective Rizzoli. I've been trying to reach you all day. We need to get inside," he explained in a grave voice.

He was a good six inches shorter, and Jane could see the top of his head, where the hair was thinning and the pale skin showed through. She glanced in the direction of Lyle McGregor and his camera crew. Had Gracker tried to reach her through the media? Hoped she was watching the noon news? "Hello, Mark. Long time no see."

Mark Gracker's pale dough face turned red, and he pressed his lips together. Jane knew how Gracker hated being called by his first name. No matter where, no matter by whom. Probably even his wife had to call him Gracker when they were screwing.

"Yeah, it's been a while, Jane. You know I'm an FBI Special Agent in Charge in Boston now, right?"

"Yeah, I heard. Congratulations. Must be a lot going on with you guys."

"Yes, it is. A lot going on with you guys, too, though. The FBI has to look at the crime scene, and that little shit from BPD out there won't let us get through." Gracker stepped from one foot to the other, trying to stand on his tiptoes, obviously uncomfortable with the size difference with Jane.

"Hmm. That's a problem. You know, we only have a search warrant from the local authority, and after that, only local employees have access to the subject of the search. I'm afraid the Federal Bureau of Investigation doesn't show up on that. We won't need your assistance on this one."

Small beads of sweat appeared above Gracker's thick upper lip. "You know the Siban murder is under our jurisdiction. It was committed on federal property. The FBI is taking over the investigation."

"That's awesome. Congratulations. But Bantling was arrested for the Prado murder." She emphasized the name Prado as if she were teaching a preschooler how to spell. "And we're here because of clues we've gathered in the investigation of this case. If we find anything that somehow connects him to the violent death of Siban, I'll get back to you."

Gracker was now dark red in the face. Where was Lyle with his camera when they really needed him? "So you're forcing me to apply for a federal search warrant?"

"Yes, I'm afraid there's no way around that. And the house is, of course, open to the FBI at any time ... when we're done here."

"I think I'm going to have to call Lieutenant Cavanaugh on this one."

"Lieutenant Cavanaugh has already been briefed on the situation, and he apologizes in advance if any of this causes any inconvenience to the FBI. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work." Jane turned around, leaving a stunned and pissed-off Mark Gracker on the lawn. Scully and Mulder stared blankly around, trying desperately to look important in front of the cameras that were now focused on them again. Jane walked up the steps to the front door and said quietly to the young BPD cop, "Good job."

"What an ass!" the Beach Boy muttered.

Then Jane turned again and called across the lawn, "Good to see you again, Mark. And congratulations again on your promotion." Then she reentered the house.