-11-

The moon shone strongly but was disturbed again and again by a group of clouds, which lay like cow spots over the night sky.

The moonlight killer had failed!

But had he really?

Wasn't it like a miracle that he was still allowed to hunt and kill, even though he made it so easy for them?

Were the police, vigilantes, and all the others out there? As the milky pane shone full force through the window, his eyes enjoyed its glow. Like a gas station for the soul, like opium for the nerves. I did not fail!

The moonlight killer doesn't fail.

If you wanted - they could have you by now. But I'll decide that for myself.

It wasn't the cops, not the hunters, not the guards who had disturbed the goings-on in the night forest. Who had prevented her death.

It had been herself, her will to live, her reflexes that had been faster than her panic. Muscles and fibers that fought back instead of freezing in fear. Instead of committing betrayal of body and mind, like often quoted rabbit in the face of the snake. What was it thinking, rigid and motionless, while the predator's jaws opened? Didn't the brain cry 'Treason, treason!" to all the organs that suddenly failed their service? To the legs that should have jumped just once more to bring the rabbit to safety. To the heart, to the lungs, which were racing in an adrenaline rush, and yet accomplished nothing that was life-saving. Shouldn't it be wriggling, thrashing, or screaming? Instead, the rabbit slid down into the darkness, dying, and when it was able to move again, it was little more than a twitch under the taut skin.

She had been different.

Was it permissible to speak of failure?

You still failed.

I didn't.

Did you kill as you should have? Did you do everything the way it should be done?

No.

It was useless.

But it was also impossible to correct the mistake.

She was alive. It couldn't be changed now. And perhaps it was a good thing.

The possibilities that arose were not the worst.

As the moon slipped behind a particularly large patch of clouds, something changed.

He felt new strength.

And a determination to push the moonlight killer to one last big leap.

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It seemed to Jane as if only five minutes ago she had laid down in bed and wrapped her arms around her wife, and for what felt like seconds she had been slumbering away, not even having arrived in her dream world. Yet she could have sworn she was imagining the ringing of her cell phone.

"Honey?" Maura turned in Jane's arms and sighed. "Will you answer your phone?" she asked sleepily.

Jane groaned, fumbled for her cell phone, and swore for the thousandth time that she wouldn't take it into the bedroom again. Or at least would mute it when she wasn't on call. The problem was that when it wasn't her phone, it was usually Maura's ringing. That was just the way it was when you shared a bedroom with your Chief Medical Examiner.

"Rizzoli," she croaked, clearing her throat as she squatted on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through her hair. The number wasn't in her contact lists. Another one of those. Virtually anyone she'd ever given her business card to could bother her 24/7.

"Mcmillan, Fitchburg PD," said a woman's voice she didn't recognize. "Sorry to bother you so late, but this is a case that concerns you."

"That concerns me?"

"Well, the Couple Killer case. The moonshine killer. We have someone sitting here, a suspect -"

All at once, Jane was wide awake. She registered that Maura was also interested in the call, so she tapped the speaker.

"... Actually, there are two of them. A patrol put the two of them, with one claiming to work for you. And the other also immediately demanded to see you."

It was hard not to notice how irritated Mcmillan seemed to be.

"Okay, thanks," Jane said, a little taken off guard.

"Ask who it is," Maura urged from the background.

"Would have done it already," Jane growled.

"Excuse me?" came a croaky sound from the speaker.

"Sorry, that was meant for my wife. Can you please tell us the names of the two people?"

There was an awkward pause. Then finally the woman cleared her throat, and paper rustled in the background. As she read the two names, a shiver ran down Jane's spine.

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Jordan Mcmillan was a stocky person, muscular and broad-shouldered, but with very feminine features. The curly auburn hair, which she had tamed into a ponytail, and the dark brown eyes ... Jane found her instantly likable. Perhaps it was because she partially recognized herself in the nearly thirty-year-old. How she had once been. But weren't such comparisons pointless? What did she know about the circumstances of her counterpart?

"Jane Rizzoli, Maura Isles," the detective heard her companion say, and Jane's thoughts returned to the present.

As they stepped into the building, Mcmillan recapped what she had described in broad strokes over the phone earlier, "Patrol officers pulled the vehicle out at an intersection after running a stop sign. The car reportedly lurched sharply and then reduced speed significantly, presumably when the driver noticed the patrol car." The woman slowed her pace briefly and shrugged. "Well. You pull someone like that out of traffic then, of course. As soon as the colleagues approached, the men shouted in confusion. The driver yelled that he wanted to go to the nearest police station anyway. And the passenger - handcuffed on the back seat - also shouted for the police. For deprivation of liberty and bodily harm. If you ask me -" She faltered. The three had reached a glass door, in front of which Mcmillan stopped. She shook her head before opening the door and saying, "No. You better not ask me." She pointed down a hallway, at the end of which were two doors facing each other. "One sits in the left room, one in the right. I'll stay out of this from now on. If you need me, Detective Rizzoli, I'll be around."

Jane thanked her and glanced after the woman. She did feel a little sorry for her. Didn't Mcmillan have to feel pretty left out? Good enough to play landlady in her police station, but that's all there was to it?

Michael Blankenship squatted wide-legged at a table with all sorts of coffee edges on it. Two empty paper cups lay in front of him, a third he passed boredly from one hand to the other. "Oh no," he snapped, recognizing the detective. "Did they kick you out of bed?"

"Not you, apparently."

"Good answer." Blankenship bared his teeth. As expected, he was wearing his hunter's outfit, looking like he'd just come from a safari. Cargo pants, vest, flannel shirt. His sand-colored army boots were covered with mud up to his ankles.

"Let's talk about what happened," the detective said, pulling back the opposite chair. She took a seat, crossed her legs, and regretted not asking for coffee, too.

"What's the big deal. Under the law, I have the right to arrest someone without a warrant -"

"If that person is caught in the act," Jane interrupted him, sighing heavily. "I know the wording of the criminal procedure code."

"Well, well." Blankenship laughed arrogantly and raised first his index finger, then his eyebrows, before saying, "According to the Federal Court of Justice, even an urgent suspicion of a crime is enough, remember that! I asked him several times to stop and identify himself. Instead, he ran faster and faster."

"Yeah. Okay," Jane said at length. Clearly, vigilante members had studied in depth by researching their rights on the Internet. Arguing against it seemed futile to her. "What exactly did you observe?"

"He was wearing black clothes and carrying a backpack," Blankenship described. "Parked south of the woods, right where I showed you the tire tracks. He didn't see my SUV."

"Why not?"

Blankenship rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "Camouflage net."

Figures. He probably owned a whole basement full of survival gear.

"Anyway, I followed him. I mean, who voluntarily hangs around in these woods? Walkers, couples - they're all scared. It was suspicious, plus he was moving like he was afraid of being seen. He was heading straight for the crime scene -"

"What crime scene?" wanted Jane to know.

"Well," Blankenship faltered.

"What crime scene? What month?"

"Jesus! Does it matter?" he retorted grumpily. "I've got a map if you think I'm imagining it. But it's out in the glove compartment. It was the crime scene with the slender tree trunks."

The location where Rose Brennan and Haskel Alperstein were found.

The July murder.

No coincidence, then, that the man arrested by Blankenship was, of all people, André Brennan?

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"I want to press charges!" snapped Brennan. His palm slapping the table to emphasize his point nearly toppled the water cup. "What is this asshole even thinking? Arrest? Arrest for was?"

Jane gave him a long look and frowned a little. "Didn't you know there was a vigilante group patrolling the woods?"

"You think that's a good thing?" her counterpart barked. It sounded downright exasperated.

"I didn't say that." She almost felt sorry for torturing the man. But the stronger the emotion, the more honest a person's body language was.

"I see, so it doesn't matter what you go through as a bereaved person? The main thing is to have your private army do the work for you, right?"

"You weren't going to the woods to grieve, were you?"

"What if I was?"

"In the middle of the night?"

"Rose died at the same time, didn't she?"

"So you know the time perfectly well?"

Brennan buried his face in his hands and groaned. When he looked up again, he said, "Midnight. Full moon. You read about that in the press all the time. I wanted to do this back in August, but I just couldn't do it then. I had to see it. I wanted to experience it. The last thing Rose perceived." His eyes glazed over.

Jane had a feeling Brennan was telling her the truth. And yet she remained suspicious, for she had seen too many good actors ice-coldly fool her. "And the backpack?" she probed further. Instead of a flashlight, a folding knife, or other paraphernalia, there had been a fillet of champagne in it. Plus a packet of plain truffles. André Brennan blew his nose into a handkerchief and said nothing for long seconds.

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For Jane, the day had begun for the second time. After Maura had telephoned Korsak about the overnight trip to Fitchburg, he had ordered the detective to report to BPD no earlier than 10:30 am. Normally, the detective would have considered this patronizing and resisted to the best of her ability, but today she was simply grateful. She missed Frankie by a hair's breadth, watching him speed away in his car as she crossed the street. Once on the third floor, her mood darkened when Korsak informed her that he was heading to William Rodgers. Alone. "You act like I can't control myself," she scolded off.

"Jane, I remember very well what happened when you made acquaintance with Rodgers. If I hadn't intervened, he might have ended up in the hospital and you in jail!"

"Bullshit! I know very well what my limits are," she continued.

Korsak cut it short. "Frankie is pulling this off on his own, and that's that. This is all about the reward, there's nothing we can do about it. Rodgers would just drag us through the mud loudly. I can do without that. And so can you, for that matter!" "Bullshit," Jane pressed out and turned around. Thirty minutes had passed since then. She'd holed up at her desk, had two cups of coffee, and gone over all her notes again, and soon the anger had faded. It was after eleven; perhaps she should talk to Korsak again Secretly, Jane had long since agreed with him. But she just couldn't stand the paternalism. Jane looked at her former partner and took a deep breath, opened her mouth to tell him that he was basically right. That sending her brother to Rodgers was the right decision instead of her. "Detective Rizzoli," a uniformed police officer said at that moment, poking his head into the bullpen. "There's someone here to see you." Jane looked at the man and smiled a little. "I'll be right there, thanks." She stood and followed the man, making wide eyes as she recognized the person she wanted to talk to. "Ms. Marx?" Linda Marx was standing in the hallway clutching her purse, and Jane could see clearly that something was bothering the woman. For that reason, she led Marx into the conference room and closed the door. Linda Marx was barely made up, she looked rushed, and her movements were erratic. The bandage around her wrist was fresh; it was smooth and flawless and held in place with a new clip. Jane sat down across from the woman and frowned. "Ms. Marx, I'm surprised to see you."

"Can you analyze a urine sample here?" the woman asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Uh, yes." Jane tilted her head in surprise, frowning. "Why?"

"Isn't it true that roofies can only be detected for a few hours?"

"It is," the detective replied, thinking quickly. "You have urine on you? From you?"

"Yes, of course." Only now did Jane notice how tense Linda Marx's bandaged arm rested on her purse. As if she were clamping it to her body to keep it safe. "I got blood, saliva, and urine. I didn't know what was best."

"Wait a minute, please," Jane gasped, "One thing at a time. Are you saying you were -"

"Raped? Yes," Linda groaned with a nod. She pulled out a travel mug from her purse and two freezer bags containing tissue and some cotton swabs. The dyed plastic gave the bright white a bluish sheen. "I ... I pulled out some hair first," the young woman confessed, laughing hysterically for a moment. "Stupid, I know. After all, it's way too early for residue in the roots of the hair. Then I consulted the Internet, and then -"

"Ms. Marx, please," Jane interrupted her, trying unsuccessfully to grasp gesturing hands. "Can we go through this in order, please?"

"What? Oh. Yes." Linda Marx ran a healthy hand through her hair. "It must have happened before midnight, I don't know that for sure. I had managed, with difficulty, to keep him from stumbling into the hallway with me." Another burst of laughter. "That fucking casserole! He claimed that I couldn't cook properly with my hand, after all. Just because I've had one delivery service or another out front lately. So what?"

"Who, Ms. Marx?"

"Huh? Oh, well, who? My neighbor. You know him!"

"Axel Singer?" Jane swallowed hard. She had sensed from the start that something was off with this guy. Just the day before, Nina had said something about fake accounts she'd found on his computer. All of them with the letter A, all of them with a preference for young, good-looking women. Women like Linda Marx, although most of them were much younger. A deep sigh rose in her. Why do guys like that always manage to...

"That's the one! And I admit, I wouldn't have put it past him. So we had dinner over at his place, it actually tasted pretty good, with wine. And then -"

"Yes?"

"Then I woke up this morning at my place. In my bed. In the same blouse, I wore that evening. I had my shoes off over there, they were neatly next to the bed, otherwise, I had everything on. On the cell phone, he even plugged it into the charger, I found this." She put her right thumb on the device to unlock it with the print, then held it under the detective's nose.

You were sleeping so soundly, I brought you over.

Dessert is in the fridge.

Thanks again for a lovely evening!

Can we do it again :-)

After a short pause, during which Jane had to tap the display twice because it darkened and would have locked again otherwise, she cleared her throat. "And you're absolutely sure -"

"That he raped me? Oh, yes!" Linda Marx gasped heavily as she explained how she had felt the pressure between her legs. A feeling in her abdomen that was hard to describe. "He fucked me, I'm sure of it. I can feel it very clearly but have no idea how he did it. Damn. Since that second glass of wine, it's all gone." Linda was silent for a moment. Then she restarted, "He buttoned my blouse wrong. I always leave one more button undone, without exception. And I got smart, even though it was pretty gross. There's a urine sample in the cup, I couldn't transport it any other way, unfortunately. And I have preserved saliva. Maybe we can still detect something. Residual traces. It's only been twelve hours, this morning it was even less."

"Why didn't you call me right away?" wanted Jane to know, even though she suspected she knew the answer.

"I didn't want police outside my house," Linda replied forcefully. A thought flashed, but the detective didn't get to finish it. Linda spoke on, "You know, I didn't want to take a chance that the cops wouldn't find anything. That he'd end up squatting over in his house and triumphing. You hear about that all the time ... Well, that's why I came to you, even though you're not in charge of that. No offense to your colleagues -"

"That's all right," Jane said with a smile. Only now did she get around to following her flash of thought. Hadn't there been a surveillance team outside Singer's house? She excused herself briefly and dialed Connolly's number. After an exchange, he confirmed that a team had been dispatched to observe. We'll get you, Jane thought grimly. She called Maura, and it took less than five minutes for a lab tech to pick up the samples. When the two women were back among themselves, the detective took the floor again, "You acted very thoughtfully, more than one might expect from a woman in your position. I hope we can prove something. Would it be okay if Forensics take a look at your house?"

Linda Marx's features derailed. "Do we have to do that? I mean, what would they find there? And won't that make him suspicious?"

"Your blouse, the key chain, the doorknobs," Jane enumerated. "There could be fingerprints everywhere. Or hair, skin particles, etc." She coughed. "Plus, there would need to be a medical exam."

"I know." Linda's sweaty fingers sifted over Jane's hand and squeezed it. "Would you ... accompany me on this? I mean, if time permits?"

Jane felt an unbridled rage. At Singer, at men, at the whole world. When would women stop being fair game? When would anything finally change? She knew the answer to that. And it was a hard one to bear. "Of course I'll stay with you," she said.

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Linda Marx had endured all the examination. Overall, she held her own, Jane found. The two sat in the cafeteria, Linda listlessly spooning on a chocolate pudding. Only a few minutes ago the first results had come in. They brought the sad certainty. Linda had been drugged with a narcotic, and sexual acts had demonstrably taken place. The injuries in the pubic area were less pronounced, as one would have expected in such a case. But traces of a lubricant had been detected. According to the doctor's assessment, the perpetrator had proceeded cautiously. She avoided the term 'cautiously' as much as possible.

"Did he ... Is there -", Linda broke the silence. "I mean, is there DNA evidence?"

Jane shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. He must have been very careful not to leave any traces."

A call from Ethan Connolly confirmed that. Aside from the fact that the observing officer must have been napping, there were no clues anywhere in the house that pointed to Axel Singer. He had done a great job.

"But ... what does that mean now?" wanted Linda Marx to know, pushing half the pudding bowl away from her. After all her bravado, she was now showing a new, almost tearful side.

"The evidence isn't legal," Jane thought aloud, eyes wide. Damn. She hadn't meant to say that. "So, of course, we have to keep looking. Unfortunately, Singer already allowed us to investigate the house, so it's going to be difficult to get a warrant. But I promise you, I'll stay on this."

"Now that sounds like something you'd hear on TV," Linda replied meekly. "Before it, all peters out."

"No," Jane said forcefully, extending her index finger in Linda's direction. "He won't get away with this, I promise you. Do you have anywhere else to stay? Is there somewhere you can go?"

Linda raised her shoulders indecisively. "I've thought about that, too," she confessed. "I'll probably get a hotel room."

Jane thought about it for a moment. "What do you do for a living?"

Linda Marx mentioned the name of a company, which sounded familiar to the detective without being able to assign it to industry.

"Not a particularly demanding job," Linda winked, "but I have flextime. That's coming in handy now."

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Jane sat on the couch in Maura's office and skimmed the files and her notes one more time. For some reason, she had a strange feeling that she had missed something important, something that would lead her further in the murder cases. She took a deep breath and looked up when she heard the rhythmic typing of her wife and realized that Maura looked as strained as she felt. Jane was about to say something when Maura suddenly looked up and beckoned someone in through the window, probably waiting outside the closed door for admittance.

The detective turned her head and gritted her teeth as Connolly hesitantly opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Am I intruding?" he wanted to know and regarded Jane with a quick glance.

Maura put on her friendly smile and finished typing. "No, not at all."

Connolly entered the office and looked at the two women and cleared his throat. "I was told I'd find you here."

Jane closed the top file and leaned back on the couch, biting back a venomous comment that it was no secret she usually spent her lunch hour in her wife's office. "Is there a usable lead on Marx and Singer after all?"

"You've got that direction right," Connolly said, giving Jane a long look. "It's about him."

"Singer?"

"Bingo. Have you read Scully's book yet?"

Jane pondered. The text was at home; she had meant to read it long ago. But then the late-night phone call from Mcmillan had intervened. "Shoot, no, it's at home on the couch."

"Have you read it?"

"Partially," she confessed.

Connolly pulled out his copy of the book and turned to a page before sitting down in an armchair. Maura had already blanked out and the latter rolled her eyes. "This boy Scully's describing. That's Singer." Then he told her about the mama's boy interrogation and the father who forbade his son to own a moped.

"Is that what Singer said?" inquired Jane with a deep frown, about to pick up the transcript of the interrogation.

Connolly placed his elbows on his thighs. "Something like that. But he grew up in Quincy. And everything just fits there. The underdog from a good home. I'm telling you, Singer and Scully didn't just run into each other, Singer knew exactly what Scully was up to."

"Okay. Let's say that's what happened," Jane reasoned aloud, and Maura regarded her silently as she did so. "What does that mean for us? Does Singer feel responsible for Scully's arrest? I thought he claimed the cop didn't believe him. What did that do to him then? Did he feel connected to the perpetrator because no one else believed him? Some kind of connection he craved as an outsider? And at the end, when Scully was arrested, did he feel superior? Is it his personal triumph that he lives in Scully's house and owns his stuff? That he gets to live on while Scully is long dead?"

"There's that other thing you don't know."

"And that would be?"

"Scully was driving a 1985 VW Jetta at the time -"

Jane looked at him for a long moment, her mind boggled.

"The exact same model Axel Singer drives. A year younger, but that doesn't change the build."

"Damn it, Connolly. How come we didn't know that?"

"Because it didn't matter. Or do you ask every suspect the make of their car?"

"Yeah," Jane muttered, grinding her jaw. There was something in the back of her mind, something ...

"The tires?" asked Maura from her desk, and the detectives looked at her. "What's the tire size?"

"What do I know? Asphalt cutters, probably. Back then, people rode on rims that were taller than they were wide."

Maura typed something into her laptop, then turned it toward Jane and Connolly. "Could this fit?"

Connolly thought for a few seconds. "I think so."

A grim smile appeared on Jane's face. Was this the indication that they were missing? Had Singer made a mistake that would now break his neck? She hastily said goodbye to Maura and followed Connolly out of the office.