-13-

Korsak looked at Jane over the rim of his glasses and frowned as his former partner, freshly showered and in work clothes, sat down next to him in the conference room. "You have an audience with the chief of police later," he whispered.

Jane rolled her eyes and growled softly.

"Dr. Isles has discovered something," Cavanaugh announced tersely, and Jane watched in amazement as Maura rose from her chair with a petrified expression and stood beside the lieutenant. "She, too, has read Scully's book. In short, there are discrepancies in the sequence of events."

Again, the detective's heart pounded, and amazement was also written on the faces of Frankie, Korsak, and Connolly. Was this what Maura had wanted to talk to Jane about last night. Jane swallowed hard and a uneasy anticipation of what was to come germinated inside her.

Maura smoothed out her beige blouse and looked at the detectives one by one, her gaze resting briefly on Jane before she said clinically, "The book describes that the perpetrator first threatened his victims with a firearm. He forced the man to tie up the woman with duct tape and then handcuffed the man. He then began to undress them one by one. First the woman, then the man. And that's where the mistake is."

"Why?" asked Frankie suddenly, clearing his throat as the others looked at him in wonder. "Because he stripped her tied up?"

Korsak raised his shoulders. "It stands to reason that someone threatening two victims would tie them up first."

"May I continue?" asked Maura, unusually sharp and probing, and the men fell silent. "You may be right, but that's not the point. I also found adhesive remains on the wrists of the male victims. Except on the decomposed one, of course. And in the Quincy case, the marks were clear, too."

Jane gritted her teeth before saying. "So our copycat did sloppy work," she snarled thoughtfully. "Are there any other discrepancies?"

"No, Detective Rizzoli," Maura said sharply, and the three men looked slowly at Jane. "But the description in the book is so clear, anyone who's been involved with Scully's case really should have noticed."

Jane understood the little sideswipe and frowned, knowing that she could possibly win the battle, but not this war. "At least someone who's been deeply involved in it for specific reasons," she added. "That's what you're getting at, I suppose."

Maura pursed her lips and took a deep breath. "Indeed. I'm referring specifically to Axel Singer."

Cavanaugh cleared his throat while Connolly had already slipped out of the room.

Frankie gathered his papers, opened his mouth, and pointed to the door before wordlessly leaving the room.

"We'll leave you to it then," Korsak said, following the young detective, and Jane slumped her shoulders. Traitors.

"There. See," Maura finally said.

Jane stood up slowly and furled her eyebrows. "What do I see, Maura?"

Maura's hands waved around the room, where only the two women stood. "This is what happens to my authority when you go behind my back!"

"Oh, bullshit!" Jane wanted to wave it off with a laugh, but the laughter caught in her throat. "Gee, Maura," she said after coughing the messed-up laugh away. "Just because I love you doesn't mean I have to agree with everything you do or say. Or do you see it differently?"

Maura pressed her lips together and took a deep breath.

Jane approached her and took Maura's hand in hers. "Let's talk about this tonight, okay? About anything that's on your mind."

Maura tried to avoid eye contact. "Okay."

"I should go after Axel Singer now." Jane let go of her hand again.

Maura forced herself to smile. "Do what you do best."

Jane walked to the door and stopped abruptly, a strange feeling creeping over her. "I love you, Maura."

The doctor took a deep breath and nodded with a put-on smile, though she didn't say the words back.

Jane looked at her and her heart stopped, but she didn't address it before she left the room.

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Not on the phone!

Michael Blankenship had insisted on that, and he was completely indifferent to the detective's repeated references to her important appointment.

"I'll tell you personally, and only you. That's my condition. When I don't care."

Was it a power play? Jane suspected so. Guys like Blankenship ticked like that. He Googled you, she remembered. He'd checked her out for vulnerabilities and put her to the test. Power play. Time and again, men like Blankenship crossed Jane's life. Was he hoping she'd throw it all over just to meet him?

Would he enjoy it when he handed her his information, that she bowed to his condition? And what had he found out anyway?

Jane simply had to know. And she needed to know before she met Singer. Every piece of the puzzle was important.

She was still in doubt as she steered her car into the parking lot of the mall. How many times had she stood there, she wondered. She had probably never come here as reluctantly as she did today.

Blankenship's truck was just a stone's throw from the glass facade, from whose portal people kept emerging while others disappeared inside. Most of them were hectic and tense. There was no question of strolling. Outside, a handful of young men and women loitered in front of the ashtray. All of them in brash looks, but that's how people dressed these days, she guessed.

"Couldn't stand it, huh?" joked Blankenship. He had stayed true to his style. In his hand was a brown envelope.

"I don't really have time, that's what I said," she replied with a gesture toward the envelope. "Is that the information?"

Blankenship grinned and fell silent.

"Jesus, please let's skip this shit!"

"All right." He took a step toward her, and in the next second, she felt the paper.

Her fingers tore the envelope apart; why had Blankenship had to tape it shut, too?

Two photos emerged. One showed a little girl, the other showed ... It took Jane only seconds to recall the name - Sophie Brennan. With trembling fingers, she pointed to the face. "That's -"

"Rodgers' daughter!"

"I was going to say something else. She's the widow of a murder victim." Jane swallowed. "William Rodgers? Are you sure about that?"

"Well, of course. It's one of his dark spots in the past. And probably one that hurts him quite a bit, too."

"Why?"

"Sophie doesn't socialize with her begetter. The two have never met. Rodgers doesn't like to talk about it, even though it's not really a secret anymore. Sophie is an adult, she has her own life, her marriage is childless. In short: no youthful sins, no grandchildren in sight, no affairs. Nothing of any interest to the tabloids."

"What was Rodger's interest in her?"

"He supported her financially. Wanted her to get along. That's all."

"His typical posturing as a philanthropist," Jane said in a snide undertone. She would never forget the face William Rodgers had shown her. After that, she thought of Sophie Brennan. Of all the trips she had taken with her husband. "So he put up the reward to find the murderer of his illegitimate daughter's unfaithful husband."

"Seems so."

"And then? If she had no other contact with him -" Jane fell silent as she thought of her unofficial father-in-law, the man who didn't even hide the fact that he would have killed her just because she was a cop. The man who had divided Maura and her for a time.

"There's another secret," Blankenship admitted with a clouded expression, and Jane came back to the present. "But I'm not supposed to say."

Jane snorted. "I come all this way ... Now, out with it! This isn't a game!"

"Forget it. If this gets out, Rodgers will know I slipped it to you. And then he'll fuck me." Michael Blankenship turned and walked away.

Jane remained transfixed. The next moment she walked after him. Reached him when he already had his hand on the door handle of his car. Tugged at his jacket, but he levered himself out of the grip, disappeared inside, and hissed, "Keep your hands off her or you'll lose it!" The heavy door slammed, and the engine roared to life.

Jane kicked the door. She regretted it the very next moment when the tip of her foot slammed into the bulky side sill. The stinging pain made her hunch over.

For an indeterminate while, she perceived nothing, until at some point a strange voice entered her ear.

"Hey. You okay?"

She felt a hand on her shoulder. And there were several voices speaking to her.

"Did he ran over your foot? The guy with the truck?"

"We got the license plate."

Jane looked up. The brash late-night pubescents from the ashtray. A curly redhead with a lot of metal in the most unusual parts of her face held a cell phone up to her ear.

"That guy noticed us," another laughed. Southern. Full beard. With a shirt way too tight. "Probably got his pants full."

"You okay?" a third person croaked, blowing a wisp of smoke in Jane's direction.

"I'm fine, thanks." Jane screwed up her face. "Just my foot hurts."

"Did he run over you?" came horrified from the redhead. Tattoos peeked out everywhere her skin disappeared under her clothes.

"I kicked his door."

Three pairs of eyes widened.

"Wow!"

"How cool is that!"

But Jane didn't have time to bask in her newfound prestige. She straightened up and fumbled for her cell phone. It was in place, as were the contents of the envelope. "Did you guys see where he went, too?" she asked the group.

"I'm telling you, he's scared shitless!" the Blackbeard announced.

"Because he's waiting back there," the smoker added with a meaningful movement of her head.

Jane's head flew around. Indeed. Blankenship had stopped, just a few yards short of the parking deck exit. And at that moment, the truck's driver's door swung open.

"Thank you, good job," she groaned. "Please wait for me, I'll be right back." With those words, she hurried off. And she tried to ignore the pain in her right ankle. "What the fuck?" barked Jane as she reached Blankenship.

"Sorry," the latter muttered. "I had the shits. That Rodgers -"

"Save it," she interrupted him with a cutting wave of her hand. "But now get the hell out with the information you have!"

"Okay, look." Her counterpart looked around as if he feared someone might overhear him. "I went to Rodgers', as we agreed, and told him I was in trouble. The cops and stuff. Something I had to tell him. And that I'd like to know why he was sponsoring all this. Of course, he dodged. After all, up until now, I'd never asked, I'd always just been happy to get the money."

"Which is true," grumbled the detective, but Blankenship didn't elaborate.

"I told him about last night. When I confronted Brennan. Rodgers didn't like the way that went at all. But I was at least able to make him believe that I was going to be in trouble explaining myself to the police. And that there must be something I can throw at you so we can all get back to doing our jobs."

"And that's when he gave you the photo?"

"He went behind his desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out the photo. Said there was no record and nothing to connect him to his daughter. He said, 'If you must you tell the cops why I have such a personal interest in the case.' But in no case did he want the matter to be spread about. If only for Sophie's sake. Then he put the picture back again."

"And then?"

"Jesus. Then came a call on his cell phone. One look at the display, he got nervous and told me to wait and not touch anything. Rodgers stomped outside and slammed the door. His voice drifted away." Blankenship cleared his throat. "Well. And I went to the drawer to snap the photo. Simply because the opportunity presented itself. It's always better to have something in hand."

"Go on."

"I took a few shots, and that was all for now. My ass was on fire, I slid the drawer shut again. There were all kinds of stuff in there, mostly drugs. And something that looks like an obituary. Except it has his name on it."

Jane swallowed hard. Feverishly, her brain tried to sort out the new puzzle pieces. Good deeds. Medications. An obituary. Before it clicked, Michael Blankenship took the floor again.

"To make a long story short, I looked all this up on the Internet. They are typical agents used in cancer therapy. And I have the obituary in the camera memory of the cell phone."

"Let's see." Stunned, the detective skimmed the lines. It spoke of short, serious illness.

Rodgers was obviously anxious to come clean with the world because he would be leaving it in the foreseeable future. Damn. However much he might have deserved hell, this was a bitter pill to swallow.

"Send it with all the photos," she said in response. "I'll make sure to keep your name out of everything."

It was obvious that he didn't give that statement too much credence. Nevertheless, his fingers ran over the display, and a moment later Jane's cell phone announced the arrival of a new message.

She returned to the entrance of the shopping center, where indeed the group of young people seemed to be waiting for her. All eyes were on her. A smile settled over the detective's face. Hadn't she judged the group prematurely?

Jane rummaged in her bag until she found what she was looking for. A little wrinkled, perhaps, but it would serve its purpose. "Thanks again for helping me," she said.

"You're welcome," the redhead grinned. She had green googly eyes, and neither the color nor the metal disfigured her. Some people just looked good, Jane thought. She held out her hand with the business card. "Here. If I can ever return the favor ... Just call or write a message."

Not three seconds later came the first word 'Wow' followed by a 'Really?'

"Homicide? Seriously?" the black beard asked.

Jane nodded and winked at him. "Yeah, seriously."

"Sweet."

"Well, to be clear, there's nothing I can do about murder either. So you better check in with me before you get carried away."

Everyone laughed up, including Jane, then she got serious again. "Honestly, I owe you guys one."

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Axel Singer made no secret of how outraged he was by his arrest. His expression remained petrified as Jane and Korsak entered the room one by one.

"We're recording the interrogation," Jane explained, pointing to an overhead camera in the corner.

Singer folded his arms and remained silent.

"Mr. Singer, please tell us your name, date of birth, and address."

Nothing.

How she hated this. These power plays, this stonewalling. Next, he would ask for his lawyer. "Are you still waiting for your legal counsel? At least then you could answer our questions about you."

"Counsel?" Singer breathed heavily. "What do I need a lawyer for?"

Jane exchanged a quick glance with Korsak. Connolly had told him what he was arrested for, hadn't he? Right?

"There are serious charges against you," Korsak replied meaningfully.

Singer laughed out loud. "You don't seriously think I'm the moonshine killer, do you?"

"You never know."

Jane winced. Had her former partner really just said that? She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes as usual. She furrowed her brows when she looked at Singer. "You own a gold VW Jetta."

Singer nodded. "That's right."

"We've never seen cars like that around here. Where is it?"

Singer grinned before answering, "You've probably seen, though, that my house has only a narrow driveway. No garage. The car is parked down the street in a public parking lot."

"Why there?"

"Why not?"

"But you drive it regularly."

"Christ, yes. It never -"

"Even to the woods?"

"Into the woods?"

"We found tire tracks," Jane replied. "And we're going to compare those to the tread on your tires."

Singer bit his lower lip.

"What size tires do you have?" asked Korsak. Jane had seen him out of the corner of her eye composing a message. Probably to Maura or a lab assistant.

She looked at Singer again. "You do realize, that we don't need a court order to examine your car since it's in an open parking lot, right?"

"They're still the original tires. I always order them on the Internet. But what does that matter?"

"Another clue," Jane replied.

"Like the unsent e-mail?"

"Or the Rohypnol, for example," Korsak cut in again.

And again Singer laughed, this time shaking his head. "Roofies? At my place?"

"Yes. In your living room. Locked in the liquor cabinet. With your fingerprints all over it." Korsak paused before continuing, "Maybe you should call a lawyer after all."

"No!" Singer pounded the table. His eyes flashed, and he looked like he was about to drool like a Mastiff. "I seduce women. So what? I make myself look younger to do it, but who's always honest in their profile? So far, really, everyone who's gone to bed with me has done that willingly."

"Except the day before yesterday."

"The day before yesterday, I was alone."

Jane fervently hoped Korsak didn't blurt out Linda Marx' name.

"You know we're watching your house," Korsak said instead.

"I guess everybody can see that. So?"

"And you still claim you were alone?" Korsak cracked a grin. "The officers were at their post the day before yesterday, too."

If Singer was worried, he skillfully hid it. "Good for them."

"So you were home all evening and had no visitors?"

"I was home and I didn't have a date."

"And your neighbor, Ms. Marx, would agree with that?"

This time Singer didn't laugh. Instead, he contorted his face into an incredulous grimace. "Linda. A date?" He flipped the detectives the bird.

"Anyway, she was clearly seen entering your house," Korsak triumphed. "Would you like it with a photo and a timestamp?"

"No. That's okay." Singer shook himself. "But Linda Marx. Please." Then he faltered. "Wait a minute -" He frowned. "Is she claiming -"

"Ms. Marx didn't claim anything," Jane quickly interrupted him. She didn't want to draw attention to Marx. Not yet, anyway. "We want to hear it from you."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever. Fine me. She came over, we had a glass of wine, and ate some chips. End of story." Singer seemed to want to say something more but didn't.

"You sure?" asked Korsak.

"Yeah. I mean, sure, Linda's a hottie." Singer squinted in Jane's direction. "No offense. But I can't end up with her. So be it. But other mothers have beautiful daughters, too."

Jane left the interrogation room. She couldn't, she didn't want to listen to this guy anymore."

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What exactly had brought her here, she didn't know. Maybe it was that uncertain gut feeling. A zone of feeling that rarely let her down.

Jane sucked in the mild air through her nose. She stood by her car, looking at Singer's and then at Marx' house. The officers and forensics were so far through with their search; a few more clues had turned up, but they had to be examined first. The old Jetta had also been taken away to be forensically examined. All of this would take some more time. Jane was breathing heavily. At least Axel Singer could be held in custody that long.

"A nice spot, actually."

Jane winced. She knew the voice but hadn't expected to hear it here. "Ms. Marx? What are you doing here?"

Linda Marx was wearing comfortable clothes and had little makeup on. She gestured down at herself with a bandaged hand. "I ... I need to get a few things. Didn't pack enough in the rush."

"Okay. Do you want me to walk with you?"

"That would be nice." The young woman nodded and smiled shyly. "If I don't keep you from anything."

"The colleagues have packed everything, including the car," the detective explained. "The examination will take a while, I just wanted to take a look around myself."

"Yes. All right. Thanks." Linda Marx faltered. "And him?"

"Axel Singer remains in custody for the time being. He can't run into you," Jane assured her.

The two entered the house. It smelled musty; immediately Linda opened the kitchen windows. "If I don't air this place out every day ... Well, it's an old house."

"Do you want to stay here? I mean long-term?"

"Why, yes." Linda's gaze flared. She cleared her throat, apparently surprised herself by this reaction. "Why should I back down? Just because I'm ... over there ... You know. I don't want to leave. It's my home."

Jane left it at that. Ms. Marx would figure out for herself how to deal with her trauma. There was no point in trying to talk her into it at this stage. Besides, she seemed robust enough to handle it all. The main thing was to get Singer convicted, Jane thought, gritting her teeth so hard it cracked in her jaw.

"Axel told me something weird, by the way," came from a distant part of the living room.

Jane's gaze followed the voice, and she saw the woman just pull two books off the shelf which disappear into a cloth bag. "And what?" The detective stepped into the middle of the living room. But Linda had long since headed for the bathroom.

"The car," chimed in, and in parallel, closet doors flung open.

"The Jetta?", Jane stood in the doorway.

"I think it was about the real Jetta."

"About Scully's car?" Jane remembered that the car had never been found.

"That's right. Axel was pretty drunk. I know him when he's like that. That's when he's bubbly, and it's usually bragging."

That didn't just fit the image the detective had of Singer. A man who embellished his age and profile pictures in order to get young women. It also fit with the fact that he had supposedly been sitting by the window the day before, pretty hungover. "Let me guess. Bragging about his Scully collection."

Linda screwed up her face in disgust. "Exactly. Disgusting."

"What did he say about the Jetta?"

"He said the car never left the property."

"But there's no garage -"

"That's not what he meant either." Linda raised her shoulders. "Unfortunately, he didn't say anything more about it, except that he had his own theory about it. He'd keep it to himself, though."

Jane shook her head. Typical. She excused herself and pulled her cell phone out of its holder on her way out. She couldn't reach Korsak so she called her brother.

"To what do I owe the honor?", Frankie greeted her over-friendly.

Jane rolled her eyes; she wasn't in the mood for banter. "It's about Scully. The vehicle. Do you have the files at hand?"

"Sure." There was a rustle. "What do you want to know?"

"Did they search the property then?" Silently, Jane counted the seconds while Frankie searched for the answer.

... twenty-eight, twenty-nine ...

"Here. The house has only one shed. The car went missing. Our guys searched in the proximity of the last crime scene, among other things with police divers in a pond. Also, a nationwide manhunt. But by then Scully had long since been arrested. So the whole thing petered out, at the latest after his arrest.

"Didn't he have a wife?"

"Yes. That's why the divers. They feared he'd killed her. But there was no evidence of that."

"Except that she had disappeared," Jane interjected.

"Exactly. That's why the manhunt for the Jetta. After all, it stood to reason that she'd made off with the car." Frankie coughed. "Why is that so important all of a sudden?"

Jane reported to her brother what Linda Marx had told her. "Is there any footage of the property?" she asked finally, without too much hope.

"No aerial shots or anything," Frankie said. "But I'm happy to look up what we have. Don't expect too much."

"That's okay," Jane replied, taking her leave. She wasn't expecting anything, exactly. The house, the driveway, the neighboring houses, nothing seemed to have been changed here in thirty or forty years. No new construction, no demolition. At most a fresh coat of paint, a different fence. Here and there a fountain or pond.

Immediately she hurried into the garden, ran through it once to the rear end, where meter-high thickets grew over a hill. Nothing. She let her eyes wander over the other half of the garden. No pond there either, no swale, no nothing.

And who could bury a clunky car in the garden without any of the neighbors noticing. In 1989, when there was no Internet, people had become even more concerned with the lives of their fellow man than they are today.

Jane stood on the hill as far as the brush would allow. Only the roof of the neighboring house was visible. A raised wall blocked the view.

The cell phone rang. The display revealed it was Maura. "Hey."

There was silence for a moment. "Hi."

Jane took a deep breath and closed her eyes, rubbing her tense neck. "What's up?" said Jane, sounding so put off that it startled herself. "You got something for me?"

"Yes. Nothing good, I'm afraid."

"Shoot."

"Are you on the road, or can you come to my office?"

"I'm in Quincy right now. I'll be with you in thirty minutes."

"Okay."

Jane ended the call and frowned deeply before turning to leave.