CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maura once told her 'dying is easy. It's living that's hard.'
She doesn't remember who said it, but the quote did stick. She remembers it being effortlessly recalled at a second's notice, as if her best friend's brain wasn't impressive enough. Remembers it being perfectly suited to the situation, enough to ease her pain. Or their pain more likely, such is their relationship, their closeness.
The precise situation has been forgotten, too, but she'll never forget that look.
She can recall perfectly how hazel eyes had sparkled, glinting with wetness. How they'd glided over her face, slowly caressing without touching, etching something permanent onto her soul. She can feel the heart-swelling warmth that had suffused her cheeks that day – like so many days since - as she'd stared back through the silent pause that followed.
The image thickens her throat. She was already much too in love even then.
And Maura wasn't wrong; living one life is hard. But trying to live two is utterly exhausting.
The distorted reflection in the metal elevator door wears a long mop of snaggled hair, with trenches beneath the eyes so dark and deep she could bury a body in them. One of those things, she muses, is partially down to her lamentable genetics, but the other is a creation entirely of her own making.
It's not that she doesn't care what she looks like; it's just not a priority. Not like the morning caffeine she craves even more so than usual lately. It just didn't really register as a conscious choice when she dismissed a fight with her hairbrush in favor of using the time to pick up coffee before work.
They might mock her lousy timekeeping and poor life decisions, but she wears her unruly almost-black curls with pride.
And it's not that she doesn't know how she looks either. After all, there's nothing wrong with her eyesight. But as she leans toward her reflection for a closer study, the move only blocks more light from overhead, further contouring her weariness with lines and shadows that make her feel older than her years.
Looking a little disheveled as she steps out of the elevator is nothing new, with so many difficult homicide cases demanding all-nighters. She's put on an un-ironed shirt before, arrived in a wrinkled suit countless times. That it's now become her everyday appearance regardless of workload has yet to be mentioned by anyone of note. She suspects they're giving her a pass, too polite to say anything.
Everyone except the mouthy asshat in the corner, of course, and so it's no surprise when he shouts, "Yo, Rizzoli. Nice hair! You been sleepin' in your car again?"
He high fives his buddy and hee-haws like a mule while she merely blinks, breathes a quiet tired sigh, and continues to swagger across the bullpen.
She sets down a large cup of Boston Joe's finest and plops heavily into her chair. It takes a lot of hard work to look this bad. Much more than anyone realizes. Yet even if she came clean, there'd still be at least one idiot wanting to push her buttons.
Reclining, she props one ankle up onto a knee. "What is your problem, Crowe? Wondering how it feels to have a full head of hair? Hmm?" With one eyebrow steeply raised, she meets his stare, smirks behind the rim of her cup as she takes a sip. "If you're lucky maybe someday I'll explain it to you and your impotent follicles."
Her words aren't scientifically accurate. Maura's scolding voice tickles the back of her mind like a twitchy nerve. But the downward flick of her eyes to his crotch nail the insult right where it hurts. She can practically feel his pulse pick up as his face reddens under a snarl.
"It just seems like the only explanation for you looking like shit…" he growls, creating a hush and attracting an audience of wide eyes. "'Cos I know there isn't a man keeping you up at night."
She lets out a derisive snort that mingles with a handful of quiet snickers before putting down her coffee. If he only knew… Her dark eyes are low as she gives a gentle, pitying headshake. She can feel people hovering, waiting to see if she reacts.
She doesn't.
Unwanted onlookers don't make her squirm like they used to. She has years of experience garnering above-average amounts of attention under her belt. For being a woman in a man's field, and other more embarrassing or distressing reasons. Like when they'd called her a hero, or when she'd found herself the victim of a predator she'd mistakenly treated as prey. It all helped to form a hard crust around the soft bits that reside within. It's not an ideal way to be, but at least a thicker skin allows some of life's shit to bounce right off.
She plants her feet under the desk and flicks on her computer monitor. Stifling a yawn, she enjoys the feel of pressing her toes into the soothing gel cushions of her new insoles and then freezes, because he isn't done yet.
"Having the size of their balls continually compared to yours would make any dick run a mile."
And there it is. His insult game is as pathetic and unimaginative as her first day on the job. Why are they always too dumb to see the irony in calling her a man? Betty White has it right; he needs to grow a pair… of ovaries. And fucking grow up.
Worrying about other people's perceptions is an exercise in futility, and besides, her head is already threatening to throb just as hard as her feet. It's his funeral if he wants to showcase himself as an imbecile in a room full of witnesses.
His chosen sport of trying to make her life a misery is rooted in jealousy, pure and simple. It's not a stretch for Boston's most decorated Homicide detective to conclude, she'd put money on it. In fact, she wants to cut him, just a little, to see if he bleeds green.
It's not a theory she has chance to test though, and his playtime is definitely over when the Lieutenant's voice booms out across the bullpen from his office doorway.
"Knock it off, Crowe!" Cavanaugh barks, his gaze sweeping over everyone as an added warning to any more jokers.
When piercing blue eyes land on her all she gets is a jerk of the head. "Rizzoli, in my office."
She snatches up her coffee and dutifully follows. As she breezes past an empty desk, the pad of her index finger brushes the foot of the plastic Guardian Chogokin and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
Korsak is already waiting inside, the empty chair beside him no doubt meant for her. She slips him a quiet hey in greeting and gets a flick of bushy gray eyebrows in return. Then, as the lieutenant moves behind the desk and she turns to kick the door closed, the half-smile she's still sporting behind a curtain of wild hair turns into a grin.
A familiar, warm voice raises the hairs on her arms. "Morning, Jane."
"Hey," she whispers back, throat clogged with emotion as she sits down.
Cavanaugh's office is only big enough for two chairs this side of the desk, so he's stood behind them pressed against the wall. Every bone in her body screams at her to just act normal, but all she wants to do is stare over her shoulder at his beautiful face. She's not even listening to the lieutenant, the purpose of his meeting a total mystery. Can feel Korsak's eyes on her, sweeping her profile, probably wondering why she's still beaming in the face of Sean's serious business.
But she just can't bring herself to care.
She might be living two lives, driving herself to the brink of physical exhaustion and, quite frankly, employing some impressive mental acrobatics in order to accomplish it thank you very much, but it's worth it.
It's worth it because at least in this life, and among other equally important things, she still has her friend and partner.
In this life Barry Frost lives.
She follows him back out into the bullpen, surprised by how much his mood has darkened over the last half hour. Tries to catch his elbow as she keeps her voice low. "Hey, I know Cavanaugh has a stick up his ass about that stack of cold cases, but -"
"I'm not adding Charlotte Milson to that pile, Jane," Frost insists with an adamant headshake. "It's not happening."
"No, I know," she says softly as she sits. Winces a little at the way he drops heavily into the chair opposite. Deliberately petulant like a child, like she sometimes is when things don't go her way. She doesn't hold it against him. If anything, it'll make it all the sweeter to share what she's learned about the case. Just as soon as he's done working out his frustrations in her direction.
"We know they're connected," he grumbles, thumps his fist occasionally against the desk as he speaks. "I just can't figure out how! They didn't live in the same part of town. Didn't work in the same industry. Didn't go to the same church or gym. They didn't shop at the same grocery store. One was single and one was divorced. One went to college, one didn't. One owned her home and the other one rented an apartment. They couldn't be more different!"
After a quiet moment in which she just looks at him, somewhat amused and with one eyebrow cocked, she asks, "You done?"
He sucks a long breath in through his nose. Exhales the dying embers of his anger with a deep sigh. "Sorry."
"We can close this case, but I need you on your game right now," she states. Watches with a smile as intrigue lights his eyes and the corners of his mouth start to turn up.
"You found something," he says as he leans in and it's not a question.
She pulls their casefile open and turns several pages, needs to make it look convincing. Reminds herself she can't skip straight to the finish, has to lead them through all the necessary steps to get them where she knows they need to go.
"The same guy delivered Clear Spring bottled water to both the body farm and the restaurant."
"No," he frowns, shakes his head again. "I background checked everyone on Dr. Carlson's list. It's a woman who delivers water to the body farm."
"It is now. But I checked some stuff, too, and she's only been there ten months. Before that, it was a guy called Jeffrey Tyler. He would have had a key to the gate padlock, would have used a dolly just like whatever left the wheel tracks that Dr. Carlson mentioned. I say we find an address and go check him out."
"Alright," he says, though he sounds unconvinced. Like she's reaching, and she can see how it would appear that way. But then his fingers are flying across the keyboard and she's satisfied that the bait she dangled before him was enough to get a bite.
A lead is still a lead to a desperate detective, and it doesn't take long for him to perk up. "Got it! 138 Carrington Avenue."
"Okay, let's go," she chirps, starts to follow as he stands before changing her mind. "Wait – wait…" They didn't find him at his home the last time, even if the address was different. And there's no Nina here to call when – if – they find they need new directions.
"What – why?" Frost asks as he stands over her, clearly itching to leave.
"I want to check something," she explains, wags a finger first at him then at his keyboard. It is code for him to do the checking and he sits back down without complaint. "Run a search for family members. I want a list of every address associated with this guy before we go running all over town."
"Searching family members," he breathes, sounds unconvinced again as he gets to work. "You think it's possible he's hiding Sarah somewhere else?"
Something like that, she thinks, ignores his understandable skepticism. "I just want to be thorough," she says and flashes him a smile when he looks over. "A tiny apartment doesn't feel like it would fit his domestic fantasy."
"Mm," he murmurs, squints at the screen. "Here we go… I found his parents' address, but there are death certificates on file for both – Oh!" His eyes go wide and Jane doesn't need to imagine the information that he just unearthed. "Oh, Jane… this- this is definitely our guy."
He twists the monitor around to face her and, rather than feign surprise, she leans in and scours the screen for the parents' address as Frost keeps talking.
"His Dad hanged his Mom. Did 36 years in jail and died twelve months ago, right around the time when Charlotte was buried at the body farm."
Once her eyes find what they need she's out of her chair like a shot. Grins down at him as she clips on her phone. "You did it, partner!"
"Me? You made the connection!" he argues and she rolls her eyes. Gestures for them to head out.
"Tomato, tomahto. Let's go."
She's eager to get a jump on Jeffrey. Recalls Sammy Harper with a knife to her throat as they stride down the hallway to the elevator. Hopes they can rescue Sarah Hamilton before she falls victim to the same blade. Knows it's worth the risk to skip the suspect's apartment altogether.
She stabs at the elevator button, quietly confident. Nobody's getting stitches today, not if she has anything to do with it. Now she just has to convince Frost to -
"You know -" he murmurs as the elevator arrives, interrupts her thoughts as they step inside. "It's pretty clear this guy is twisted because of what happened between his parents. Why wouldn't his sick fantasy involve their house? The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I say we hit that first. See if he's there. And if not, we head to his apartment. What do you think?"
"I think…" she drawls, pretends to mull it over for a second but breaks into a grin. Claps him on the shoulder as the doors open onto the lobby. Breathes a sigh of relief. "I like the way you think."