-12-

"No way!" raged Cavanaugh, still clutching the telephone receiver tightly.

"But what more do we need?" sneered back Jane, feeling her pulse-pounding.

"Geez, Rizzoli." The lieutenant forced himself to calm down. He hung up the phone and massaged his temples. "Is Singer a pig? He sure is. Does he seduce women with fake Internet profiles? Certainly. But is there any solid evidence that he's roaming the woods as a couple killer? Or that he's actually raped, women?"

"Anyway, we won't find out if we just sit around!" retorted Jane. "We've arrested quite a few others -"

"Yes. And then had to let them go again."

"Still. Maybe there's still some evidence of the rape in his house."

"You don't believe that yourself."

"And what about the car?"

"What about it? There's more than one of those. And VW driving alone is not a crime."

Jane couldn't believe her ears. "A 1986 Jetta, possibly with the same tires we took prints from? Damn it, Lieutenant, what more do you need?"

"The DA disagrees," Cavanaugh blocked. "Whether we like it or not. But there is one bright spot. We've got the green light to start monitoring the urban forest. The weather report says we'll get a clear, relatively mild night with a bright moon. Maybe the last one this year. So we'll keep Singer's observation going for another night and focus on the forest." He squinted at his watch. "We're off in thirty minutes, so we'll coordinate things from here."

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Having polished off three chocolate bars in frustration and now trying to wash down the taste with a large coffee, Jane sat at her desk. Again. Feet on the desk, Scully's text on her thighs. Frankie had left his copy in the bullpen.

Jane didn't understand why she couldn't listen to her gut. She didn't want to understand. Why did Linda Marx have to squat in a hotel room while the 'suspected' perp squatted comfortably between his pads? He was probably jerking off to his power, to his untouchability.

When the cell phone rang with an unknown number on the display, she scowled and lifted the device to her ear, expecting some weirdo who had been lured out of hiding by the reward. Instead, it was Michael Blankenship, who assaulted her with a torrent of words. He ranted about 'help' and 'support' and getting into the 'stab in the back'.

"So. What was that about?" he finally gasped heavily.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jane replied truthfully. "Can you be a little more specific?"

"Specific? Gladly. Cops showed up at my house today, along with some of my other comrades. With all kinds of questions and threats. Weapons, narcotics, forbidden symbols. Shit, what do you think we are? Neo-Nazis? Terrorists?"

"I don't know anything about that," Jane said. She had overheard that they had tried to step on the vigilante guys' toes a bit, but others had taken that into their own hands. It suited her bad mood just fine, though; she had to strain to hide her amusement. "Well?" she asked pointedly. "Do they have you by the scruff of the neck now?"

"I suppose you'd like that. But I'm sorry to disappoint you -"

"I've got other things to worry about," Blankenship interrupted her brusquely.

"So have I!" it came back angrily. "We've been shut out."

The stakeout in the woods? "You mean the stakeout?" the detective made sure.

"Yep. It's a shame."

"I think so too," it escaped her, even though she meant it quite differently. There seemed to be time and resources for everything. Just not for Axel Singer. At least she had been able to get it through that this time there would be two officers in the surveillance vehicle. Then it wasn't so bad if one took a nap. Or went to take a leak.

"Why? You haven't been excluded -" Blankenship sounded a little irritated.

Jane explained to him that homicide detectives had no business being among the plainclothesmen. Their faces were far too familiar for that. Cavanaugh had not explicitly said so, but she knew it, of course. They got officers from vice, narcotics, and others. "Basically, that's fine with me, too," the detective concluded. "After all, I think it's all an immense waste of time."

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The phone call with Blankenship had long since ended, and Jane was once again engrossed in her papers. But she couldn't quite concentrate, flipping halfheartedly through a file folder. Had Cavanaugh actually immediately acted on the idea of going after the vigilantes with uniforms? It wasn't long before she found a file with all kinds of notes. She reached for her cell phone again.

"Yeah?" it sounded drawn out. It was the voice of Michael Blankenship. "You again. Do you have a yearning?"

"Yes. That's probably it," she replied laconically. "There's something else we should talk about."

"Mm. Like what?"

"I'd rather discuss that in person." Jane cleared her throat. "You don't have any plans today, I assume."

"You suppose?"

"Normally, you'd be in the urban forest, right? But that's canceled today. So we could meet somewhere, couldn't we?"

"Meet? You mean like a date?"

"I mean a meeting. That simple." Jane suggested a bar where there was a good selection of draught beers.

"Okay, I'd love to," Blankenship said. "What time?"

"About eight?"

"Perfect."

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Michael Blankenship was already waiting for her. He was sitting in a booth in the immediate vicinity of an illuminated display that pointed to the emergency exit. I wonder if that's why he had chosen that seat. Always facing the door, not with his back to the action? Jane decided to ask him about it when she got a chance.

"There you are." He raised his beer glass, already half emptied. "Right on time."

"And you were early, according to this," the detective replied, glancing at the glass.

"I drink fast," he winked.

"I hope you'll take a cab later."

"I could, yes." I wonder how he meant that. Jane narrowed her eyes, and the explanation wasn't long in coming. "All that junk can't hurt me, "he protested, tapping his biceps in turn. "But it's a poor show, if you ask me, what's hanging around once the sun's gone."

"Hmm. That brings us right to the subject -"

"Well, but let's order something first, shall we?" Blankenship's index finger circled the rim of the glass. "One of those, too. Or are you more into gin and tonics? It's happy hour -"

"Just don't." She didn't associate gin and tonic with anything good. Buried deep inside her was the memory of a pretty bad morning after. "Now, let's be clear," the detective said after she ordered a beer. "You have quite an arsenal at your disposal. bobby pistols, knives, survival gear. And all that on an employee's salary ... How many people are in your group?"

"Eight to ten," Blankenship replied.

Jane did some quick math. "And all as well equipped as you?"

"I don't care about that. The main thing is that they stand up for the cause."

"All right, but you can't stand in unless you provide the equipment. Or are you providing the equipment?"

"Of course not. You don't lend equipment, any more than you lend women." He grinned wryly. "You only get it back damaged and dirty."

Jane groaned. Maybe she should have ordered something stronger after all. "So the others also have an off-road car, outdoor gear, and all that stuff. Mr. Blankenship, we're talking tens of thousands of dollars. They don't just fall out of the sky!"

Michael Blankenship finished his glass, wiped his upper lip, and raised his shoulders. "So what?"

"Who's paying you?"

"You know that already, or we wouldn't be sitting here together, would we?"

"I want to hear it from you. Not as a detective, just like that. I just want to understand -"

"Oh come on!" He laughed so loudly that other guests turned to look at them. He didn't seem to care, because he only lowered his voice substantially as he continued, "If there's one thing you're not, it's private. A girl like you is always on duty, isn't she?"

"All right." Jane felt offended, even though he was right in principle, of course. "Of course the meeting has an official background," she put in. Otherwise, I would never sit in a pub with someone like you, she thought, but Blankenship intervened.

"I knew that from the start. Just like I knew you drink beer."

"So. You know all that. And how, may I ask?"

"Not from the one you might want to hear," he countered. "I'll just say one thing: In-ter-net. Google yourself, you'll find three truths about yourself. First, you're married to your job. Nothing you do isn't somehow related to your ongoing investigation. Kind of like a pit bull that can't get its teeth apart."

"And second? And third?"

"You drink beer, preferably out of the bottle. And you're officially married to Dr. Maura Isles, on top of your job. A really attractive woman, by the way."

Jane looked at him for a long time, trying not to grit her teeth or clench her hands into fists when Blankenship mentioned Maura. "Now I'm going to order a whiskey first. Your treat."

For a few seconds, they glared at each other, as if jumping at each other's throats the next moment.

Blankenship started laughing and Jane smiled a little while beckoning the waitress. "Two whiskeys. But the good stuff. I've always been an outdoorsy type," he explained suddenly. "The other stuff came after. And most of the vigilante guys are the same way, you just know each other, there's nothing to it. The money thing came later, that was after we formed. My name went through the media, even though I didn't really like it at first."

Jane recalled. After their first encounter in the woods and the news of the new body discovery, the vigilantes had caused a commotion. Various assurances had circulated through the media and disappeared again. Soon, people had turned their attention to the police. If they worked properly, they said, there would be no need for vigilantes. The classic. "Hmm. So what?" she asked.

Blankenship raised his shoulders. "Then my cell phone rang, and Rodgers' office was on the line. I got an invitation, really formal. Can you imagine? Me wearing cargo pants and driving the truck next to his luxury car?" He laughed out loud. "At the end of the day, Rodgers is just a guy like you and me. With the difference that he has the necessary power and a lot of connections."

William Rodgers. Jane swallowed. She had known, but still, the confirmation hit her hard. What interest did this scumbag have in this case? A guy who usually cared so little about the concerns of defenseless women? "Why? I wonder," she muttered softly.

"Why me?"

"No. Why this involvement? I haven't exactly come to know him as a philanthropist. When did he contact you?"

"Hmm, I'd have to look that up. But it was in the summer."

Jane pricked up her ears. "Can you be more specific?"

"August or so. Three or four weeks after the July murders."

Her palms met, clapping. "Aha. So long before you and I met. Long before he held out the prospect of the reward."

Michael Blankenship's countenance grew grim. "That filthy reward! Do you have any idea how many dicks are going off now? All hoping to find out something."

Jane had to grin involuntarily. "Well, you're the very best example, when you get right down to it."

"Huh? Why?"

"You'll be lucky if Brennan doesn't sue you. False imprisonment, assault, etc. He was pretty pissed off after your assault."

"Assault," Blankenship mimicked her, waving it off. "A call to Rodgers -"

"Yes. Exactly!" exclaimed Jane. "Why is Rodgers getting so hung up on this? Do you have the slightest idea what he gets up to in his spare time? I'm just saying underage. And involuntary."

Blankenship shook himself. "Yeah, I can guess. Moneybags, that's what they are. One worse than the other. But if his dough helps do some good -"

"Then what?" Jane made a face. "The sale of indulgences has been abolished."

"Fine, whatever. I didn't mean it that way either. But money doesn't stink. And if I get money to equip myself better, and that leads to success ... so what?"

Jane eyed the amber liquid in her glass, then took a sip.

"Good, isn't it?"

"Could get used to it."

"I have to admit, the Internet isn't so smart after all," he said with a smile.

Jane shook off the feeling that he was flirting with her and frowned. "I assume you're talking about the bottled beer."

"Right. And you don't look like a pit bull, do you?"

"Oh. Thank you." Jane took another sip. "Now that that's settled, maybe we can talk about Rodgers again?"

He groaned. "You want me to find out for you why he's so into this?"

"Could you?"

"It doesn't cost anything to ask. But in return, you stop bothering my boys. We're playing on the same side, after all."

Jane pressed her lips together. She would have preferred to contradict plainly. Would have pointed out to Blankenship that he had no business interfering with the ongoing investigation, and that a close look would turn up a full dozen violations. Weapons, narcotics. Instead, she nodded slowly. "I'd rather like that none of that would be necessary."

Blankenship raised her shoulders. "Life's a bitch. And now I'd like to go to bed if you don't mind. Last night ... well, you know."

They emptied their glasses. Blankenship paid, helped Jane into her jacket, and was the first to step out of the bar to hold the door open for her.

It had turned chilly, and Jane took a deep breath of the night air. "Good night."

He raised his hand to flag down a cab and gave a curt nod. "Say hello to your wife for me."

Jane stopped abruptly when she heard this sentence only to see Blankenship get into the cab with a grin and drive away. She growled audibly and tried to convince herself that he was harmless after all.

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The moon was gloriously full and shone brightly. A circular halo lay like a barely visible veil around the glistening disk. Traffic was sparse, background noise to be ignored. The delayed Boeing roaring over the treetops was the only disturbance. Up here, where he stood, almost no one ever came. A forgotten place that belonged to the Moonshine Killer alone. The beast.

But weren't the most dangerous predators also among the most graceful and revered animals? Lions, tigers, panthers.

The Moonshine Killer breathed in the cool night air. The plane had long since disappeared and could no longer be heard. The moon had touched the soul, it was impossible to close yourself in a dark room and let this wonderful night pass. The beast felt restless. It had been disturbed. And it would not rest until it could pursue its purpose for once. Not tonight, unfortunately, that was not possible, but soon. Very soon.

You must do it.

I can't tonight...

Then let me do it.

We are one.

Like claws, his fingers dug into the old wooden railing where he stood. A splinter stabbed painfully into the nail bed, but the clinging was stronger. Never before had there been such a dialogue. Two souls fighting with each other to see who would come out on top in the end.

I'm not here for that.

The voice sounded desperate. She was trying to convince the other. But when had this one ever listened to arguments?

I will do it.

You are me, too.

I will kill.

"But not with me!" the voice groaned, startled at itself. With the aching finger in his mouth, the person called Moonlight Killer tore himself away. Back in the direction of the car. The right hand, without splinters of wood, opened the trunk.

This is why we are here.

That's the only reason.

Minutes later, the car chased toward Boston.

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At first, he didn't realize what was happening around him. He held the thick, sweaty pillow over his ears, but the knock on the door penetrated the down layer. A frantic glance at the alarm clock revealed that it was still the middle of the night. At least for him. What the hell ... he thought as the knocking repeated itself.

He flopped across the living room toward the hallway, drowsy but with an unbridled rage in his belly. "What?" he growled at the persons, of whom at first he perceived only the faces. "Detective Connolly?" His pupils dilated. "What's this all about? Do you have any idea -"

"I have a search warrant and a warrant for your arrest," Connolly interrupted him brusquely. The detective then announced a series of technicalities, only a fraction of which Axel Singer caught. His ears rushed, panic gripped him. Risk of tampering with evidence. What?

"Did you hear me?" wanted Connolly to know.

Singer nodded, though that was not at all the reaction he wanted to show. "Is there anything I can do about it?"

"At the moment, no. We'll take you into custody and search the house and grounds."

"But -"

"That'll be all for now," he heard Connolly say. And already he felt himself being pushed toward the patrol car.

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Again and again, she had glanced at the clock, the minutes would not pass. Taking dishes out of the dishwasher and putting dirty ones in. Six minutes. Getting dressed and ready for work. Three minutes. Another coffee. Did the cup always empty so quickly? Why did it take her twice as long to do these activities on all other days when she was in a hurry? Or was it her imagination? As the minute hand settled on four, Jane decided it was finally late enough to make the call. She looked up the number in her contact list, which she had saved there just yesterday.

Linda Marx answered after the first dial tone.

"Rizzoli, good morning. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Oh, I've been up for half an eternity," Linda said. Not that Jane couldn't have guessed. Still ... "Is there something important?" the woman continued.

"Yes, indeed," Jane replied, "and I wanted you to hear it from me."

"About -"

"We've arrested your neighbor. Right now his house is being searched." Jane reported in a few sentences.

Linda Marx was silent for a long time before she replied, "Do I understand that correctly? The arrest is not about -" she faltered, " ... the, um, assault, but mainly about this Moonshine Killer story?"

Was there disappointment in her voice? "Yep," Jane explained, wondering how open she should be. "I'll tell you straight: my lieutenant was against it. But Detective Connolly was able to call in a few favors."

"I see."

"It's both accusations that count. One alone probably wouldn't have been enough, even in Quincy."

"It doesn't matter," Linda said, to Jane's relief. "So is there ... so have they found any evidence yet? Otherwise, they're hardly going to keep Jesse in custody, right?"

"Give my colleagues a little more time," Jane said. "I'll keep you in the loop. Do you have to work today?"

"No. Thankfully, no. I have enough overtime for a double annual vacation."

A moment later, Jane put the cell phone on the kitchen island and went to the refrigerator, opening its door. "There must be something I can find," she said, not meaning ingredients for breakfast. Not to think if Singer had cleaned his house from top to bottom. If he returned triumphant, knowing that no one could touch him. She couldn't help but think of William Rodgers.

He and Singer were basically the same after all, except that one of them had enough power that he didn't have to knock out his girls before going after them.

Nausea rose in her, and an unbridled rage.

She winced and turned when she heard a throat being cleared, closing the refrigerator door when she saw her wife enter the kitchen. She could tell Maura was still angry with her and something was brewing, probably pretty big trouble.

She had told Maura about everything after she had tried to slip into bed unnoticed and just a second later Maura's bedside lamp was turned on. Hesitantly at first, but then it bubbled out of her. The meeting with Michael Blankenship and that she had asked Ethan Connolly for a huge favor.

Maura had lost her cool, had asked Jane if she was even aware of the consequences of her actions, that this favor could ensure that Jane would have to turn in her badge if they didn't find concrete evidence at Singer's house and that her wife and Connolly could be prosecuted for abuse of office. That the investigation into Singer was almost like a witch hunt. And above all, she had made it unmistakably clear that she was disappointed that Jane had not let her in on her plan.

The detective could clearly see that the doctor was still pissed off and disappointed and cleared her throat as well when Maura walked behind the kitchen island with one hand on her hip. "I brewed some fresh coffee."

Maura licked her lips and set the kettle on the stove, wordlessly.

Jane dropped her shoulders and groaned loudly. "Seriously?"

Maura glared at her. "Yes, seriously."

The detective snorted and took a step toward the blonde, could tell something else was bothering her wife. "Okay, look. I wasn't thinking last night. I was acting on instinct. I'm sorry I didn't think to call you and tell you I was going to be late."

"I wanted to finally have an evening with you when we didn't just talk about work, Jane," Maura said with emotion, swallowing hard. "There are other things in our lives we can talk about, need to talk about. I waited for you in the living room all evening last night and -" she faltered and closed her eyes briefly. "And when you weren't home at eleven, and you weren't answering my calls and messages, I called Frankie and Korsak to get to know if you were working late." She laughed briefly, then buried her face in her hands. "God, I even called Angela."

Jane furrowed her brows and took a step toward Maura. That now explained the myriad messages from her mother and brother on her cell phone. "How was I supposed to get from Boston to San Diego in one night?" she asked, confused.

"God, Jane, that's not the point," Maura replied louder. "When I didn't hear from you, I had all the scenarios in my head. That you were in an accident and in the hospital, in a coma. Or worse, in the morgue."

"Maura," Jane breathed, taking another step toward the doctor. "I'm really sorry." She took Maura's hands in hers. "We can talk now, about anything you want."

Maura smiled sadly, shook her head, and pulled her hands out of Jane's. "No, I can't. Not like this, when you're constantly looking at your watch," she said and disappeared back up the stairs.

"Maura," Jane said in wide-eyed surprise, taking the kettle off the stove as it began to whistle only seconds later. She gingerly set it aside and closed her eyes, then slammed her hands down on the kitchen island. "Damnit," she hissed through clenched teeth.

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Instead of going to BPD, she had gone to the forest. Instead of her work clothes, she had grabbed her gym clothes, which seemed to weigh little more than a packet of tissues.

Jane knew she had better not risk a confrontation with Cavanaugh, given her foul mood. First, she had to work up a sweat from the pores of every pore. She had waited far too long since the last time, a slog she had never wanted to let set in again. That's why she'd installed a fitness tracker on her phone. She muted the device and activated the app, tucked the phone into a specially designed pocket on her clothes, and sprinted off.

Barely back at the forest parking lot, the detective pulled out the phone to stop the tracker. But before she could get to it, a call came in.

"Are you going to answer your cell phone at some point?"

Connolly's voice sounded unexpectedly reproachful; Jane missed the ironic undertone. She was sweating, her breathing still intermittent. "Well, not with everyone," she tried a short laugh, but her colleague didn't get on it.

"If I'm going to work for you, you should be able to be in touch," he said coolly. "I've tried a hundred times because Forensics found something."

Jane swallowed, and immediately her pulse rose noticeably again. "Like what?"

"Two glasses that were different in the display case. Long drink glasses, like, pieces from the seventies. Caught our eye because unlike, they weren't dusty."

"Okay." So far, that didn't knock her off her feet.

"The drinks that go with them are behind a lockable flap," he continued. "Southern Comfort, port, some rum. Plus two vials that are ninety-nine percent roofies."

"Yes!" escaped Jane, and her fist flew skyward as if she had finished a marathon in top time. At least that's how it might look to outsiders as she stood there, in her gym clothes and all sweaty. She had just completed a little more than three miles, and only at average speed. But her spirits were suddenly lifted. No marathon in the world could feel as good as an unbroken chain of evidence. "How long will it take the lab to test the substance?" she asked.

"From the smell, it's already pretty conclusive," Connolly replied. "The definitive proof should be in the next few hours."

"And this bottle was where exactly?"

"In the lockable liquor cabinet."

"And in the liquor cabinet, were the roofies particularly hidden?"

"Not really. They were in the middle of the liquor bottles, but not like he was trying to keep them hidden."

"Excellent," she grumbled, "and always handy in case there's a victim to entertain."

"That puts a rather sinister flavor on the term nightcap," Connolly retorted. It sounded awkward, and he certainly hadn't meant it as a joke. Jane didn't want to say anything more about it either but felt the anger returning.

"Listen," she said, therefore. "I'm going to BPD right now. After the briefing, we'll question Singer."

"Was that a question or an order?" he now joked.

"Whatever you prefer," Jane returned, ending the conversation. She opened the driver's door of her car, wrapped a towel around her neck, and sank into the seat. The sweaty backs of her knees making the leather slippery, Jane rubbed the back of her neck dry. You have to be nice, she thought. Again and again, she jerked. Yet Ethan Connolly had done her a real favor. When she had informed him the night before that there was no warrant for Singer's arrest, he had put his boss in charge of the case. And prosecutor Cline. In no time at all, things had started moving in the right direction. And to thank him, you bark at him.

Jane typed a message to her colleague.

Sorry, Connolly, this case is really getting to me. And I've got Maura to deal with, too. I'll buy you a coffee later, okay?

It wasn't long before a reply arrived:

Awesome. I'll have a venti cappuccino. But with real milk please, not low-fat!