It was five o'clock in the evening when they sent Jane Rizzoli home. She and Frost were dead on their feet, no longer making progress on the case which had photos of dead bodies, bags of evidence, documents, and maps spread out on the table and taped to the walls. They worked together in a strange sort of harmony. Jane's experience in the cybercrime unit worked to their advantage, allowing her to dominate the databases and hacking for their aid.
The lead was simple. The appearance of Dr. Maura Isles made the lines clear. All the victims; the taxi driver, the teacher, the teenagers, and the nurse at the hospital all tied back to the mob boss' daughter. Someone was tracking her down and taking blood to answer his questions.
The nurse who delivered her.
The taxi driver who drove the car that day; the car for Paddy Doyle to go to the hospital, meet his daughter and take her away from her mother.
The young teacher who studied art in Constance Isles' class at the University. So close she even babysat the professor's daughter - who Constance once confided the girls' true parentage too.
And the teenagers. They'd only wanted the boy. He'd had his appendix removed a month before – by none other than Dr. Maura Isles. Confirmation that she was working at St. Vincent's hospital.
Lori was just caught in the crossfire. Her parents were ready to pull the plug. An unnecessary tragedy.
All the bodies were dumped in Southie. Because, Jane reasoned, it was Paddy's turf. A message. Not to the police but the mobster himself.
But who?
That's as far as Frost and Jane got before they fell asleep at the table, no longer aided by coffee. She thanked him before they left. Apologized and assured gratitude. He gave her a ride to her Jeep, still parked at the original crime scene. She had two tickets on her window and Jane rolled her eyes. She would get them taken care of by Frankie tomorrow.
She drove home in a daze, nearly surprised she made it without any accidents. Her body was fatigued beyond rest. She was weary on her feet, heavy and ungraceful as she climbed the stairs. She struggled with the keys in her pocket, taking a few tries to successfully enter her apartment.
Jane instantly threw her jacket – truly Frost's jacket – off and slipped out of her shoes. She tripped over one of her sweatshirts, and braced herself on the couch cluttered with more dirty laundry. She glared at the mess. The liter of liquor and dishes on the coffee table. Jane burled her way into the equally disgusting kitchen, eagerly pulling open the refrigerator door, grabbing a beer, popping the top and…
She froze just before the can hit her lips. The cool aluminum and smell teased her.
"Fuck," Jane groaned.
She slammed the full beer to the counter in anger.
Sobriety was going to be a bitch.
After the day she had, after the new blood, the hostages, the near heart attack and case, Jane Rizzoli would have killed for one more sip of beer.
"I don't need it," she muttered.
Jane hastily empty the beer into the sink. She crushed the aluminum in her uncasted hand like a victory. She watched as the golden brew swirled down the sink.
She was suddenly reminded of Cavanaugh's words. Of Maura's disappointed face. Of the pamphlets she threw in the trash when she left the hospital.
Jane Rizzoli wasn't an addict.
In haste she went back to the fridge, quickly pulling out all the beers she could manage under her arm and dumped them onto the counter. She emptied the fridge of all the beer. The freezer of all the vodka. The stash of bourbon in the cupboard, the whiskey on the coffee table, the two bottles of wine, and the lone bottle of scotch she kept for special occasions.
She poured them all down the drain, ignoring the sweet smell. Ignoring the salivating in her mouth. The lust for one last drink.
She didn't need it.
Jane wasn't ready for sleep. Her head hurt too intensely, she was sweating, still riled from the day – still itching for something to soothe her.
She started by taking out the trash – three bags worth plus the cans for the homeless man in the alley. She took out plastic wrap, did a poor job of sealing up her cast and scrubbed all the dishes in the sink. She took the plates and coffee mugs from the living room and her bedroom, even found one in the bathroom, and scrubbed those clean. Jane rounded up the laundry, put away the equipment in the closet, organized the coffee table and…
Fuck she cleaned the whole damn house and she was still going crazy.
She cleaned the toilet and the shower and the sink. Mopped the kitchen floor. Vacuumed. Changed the sheets. Rotated the laundry. God help her, she was considering dusting.
She took Frankie's advice next. Jane blasted the heat in the shower, yanked off her clothes and allowed the steam to momentarily take her away. Much like the alcohol in the sink, the other poisons of the day drained away from Jane in the shower. Sweat, dirt, and blood circled down the tub. She had to wash her hair twice to get all the flesh and blood out. She scrubbed vigorously, washing away the day, the hostages, the blood, the guns, the drugs, and violence. Washing away everything that made her feel like she was going to burst from the inside out. She was crazy.
Jane finished and dried up, suddenly a little woozy from the humidity in the bathroom. She put on a pair of clean shorts and a t-shirt and checked her watch in disappointment. It wasn't yet 8 o'clock.
She could watch the game.
Yes, she would watch the game. What game? She wasn't sure. Any game. Any game in the world.
It was golf.
"Great," Jane hissed.
She kicked her legs up on the spotless coffee table and switched the channel to highlights on ESPN.
This is fine. Jane told herself. I'm fine. I don't need anything. Just here in my apartment. But a drink would be nice. Just one drink. You could have one, it wouldn't hurt anything.
"No," Jane snapped. She got up to her feet and paced.
Think of the case. That will keep you busy. Who would kill Maura Isles? Couldn't be Paddy himself. He seemed to go to extreme trouble to make sure they led separate lives. An enemy of Paddy's? An enemy of Maura's? Perhaps a drug addict she wouldn't give a fix. Yeah, even Jane thought she might snap at kill the holy doctor…
"Dinner," Jane decided.
There was nothing in the refrigerator. She found some spaghetti in the cupboard. A little bit of meat sauce too. It was expired by a few weeks but it couldn't hurt. Jane sniffed for confirmation. It would work.
She hovered over the pot of water on the stove, watching desperately as it boiled. Focusing on the ripples, then the slow bubbles, then the full blown boil. God she needed something. Her face hurt. Her hand hurt. More than that, her entire body was jittery and unhappy. She closed her eyes and breathed.
Jane never got around to eating.
As she poured the Ragoo into the sauce pan, watching as it heated and boiled, the red topping suddenly filled her with nausea. A nausea that had been building. The crimson sauce like blood. The smell suddenly hit her as rancid and stomach curdling.
She leaned over the sink not a second too soon, heaving the few contents of her stomach into the drain. It was mostly the Chinese food her and Frost had for lunch. She coughed and choked, gripping onto the counter as a dizzy spell hit her. It made her puke again.
Jane flipped off the burners and collapsed to the kitchen floor, knees pulled to her chest in defeat. Sweat beaded her brow, her body ached, her head pounded. The sour taste in her mouth and stomach would have made her sick again if it wasn't for the fact that her stomach was already empty.
Just one beer. Just one hit. One line.
She got up with determination, pulling herself up with her uninjured hand. She went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face and grabbed Frost's police jacket from the bathroom floor. Her hand trembled as she reached into the pocket.
The white baggie called to her.
The powder that seemed to solve all problems.
She needed the pick me up.
She needed the high.
"Fuck Rizzoli," Jane hissed. "Pull it together."
In haste she dropped the baggie from her hand like it was on fire. It fell into the toilet, sinking to the bottom of the bowl. Jane flushed it with force, giving a shaky sigh as it disappeared.
Told you. I don't need it.
Just as quickly as the cocaine flushed away, Jane was back over the toilet, dry heaving this time against an empty, upset stomach. When she finished she wiped her brow and mouth, drank a glass of water and waited. She glared at herself in the mirror.
What happened to you? This isn't Jane Rizzoli.
Water dripped off her chin into the sink. She shook her head. "I've got to get out of here," she whispered.
Jane cleaned her face and pulled her dark hair into a clean bun behind her head. She went to the bedroom with determination, ignoring the cramps and dizziness. Her hands shook as she rifled through her closet. She pulled out a dark suit and a crisp powder blue button up. The struggle to get the clothes on around her cast was difficult. She cursed as she tried to clasp the buttons, pull on socks and clip on her bra.
She was out of breath by the time she finished. Jane grabbed a pair of boots, the ones with the heel, and zipped them up. Clipped her badge onto her leather belt, grabbed the gun from her case and holstered it.
Jane paused in front of the mirror.
She looked pale and sick but strong. Part of her was still there. Perhaps she could crawl back. She could be the detective again.
She hadn't worn the clothes since…
You got to stop doing that. Forget it. That was eight months ago. Eight months you wasted.
Jane grabbed her keys from the dish by the door and left the apartment behind. It was drizzling outside but the light mist of rain was refreshing. She pulled in long inhales of cool air, soothing her burning body. It was a temporary, sweet relief to the stifling confines of her apartment.
She yanked open the squeaky driver's side door and hopped in. Her destination was clear even if impulsive and ridiculous; she was going to Beacon Hill.
When she arrived she almost turned back. They would think it strange she showed up at ten o'clock when she'd already been awake for more than twenty-four hours.
I'm on a case. Yeah, I'm on a case. I don't need an excuse. Dr. Isles is part of the investigation. And I wanted to make sure she was okay.
"Jane," Frankie said in surprise. She gritted her teeth as he noticed her. Two marked cars were parked outside Maura Isle's Beacon Hill home. One officer was posted at the front door and rest took rounds about the house. It was six officers in all. Jane was impressed by the numbers on the doctor's detail. "What are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd see how things are going," Jane answered.
Frankie Rizzoli's brow stitched in confusion. He leaned against his car in surprise. "Well, everything's fine," he told her. "You okay? You look sick or something…"
"I'm fine," Jane glared.
"Sorry, I'm just saying…" Frankie mumbled. "You should be getting rest Jane. You've had a hell of a few days."
"I came here to see Dr. Isles. I've been thinking about the case," Jane reasoned.
Frankie's face softened with sympathy. Since they were children, Frankie knew his sister well. He sensed the reasoning for being out of her apartment. "Can't sleep," Frankie said. It wasn't a question but a fact. He glanced up at the house. "I don't think the doctor can either. Lights have been on all night."
"Hopefully she won't mind a little company," she replied.
Jane started up the cobblestone walkway, admiring the house on her way. It was a large, beautiful home, like most in the affluent Beacon Hill area. Jane guessed at least two stories, among the balconies and modern architecture. The officer didn't ask for credentials as Jane approached the door. She thought of the crime scene the night before. This recognition was much better.
She lingered at the door for longer than necessary. She stared at the black barrier, considering the doorbell, then a knock, then the doorbell again. She looked over her shoulder. Or she could go back. Back home. No that was not an option….
"You going to go in?" the officer asked.
Jane gave him a nasty look and opted for the doorbell.
She spent the entire time waiting for the door to open with the thought of turning back and running. But when Maura Isles finally appeared, Jane couldn't move. The woman was more beautiful than she realized.
Her golden hair was in full curls, bouncy and generously spilling over her slender shoulders. Flawless, elegant make-up accented and made her features pop under the light. She wore a silk blouse and a black pencil skirt. Her feet were bare and Jane's eyes couldn't help but trail up her perfectly toned, porcelain legs. And her breasts. Jane tried not to let her eyes linger to long on the view, a view not available when the doctor was in scrubs, but now the breasts stared back at her and…
"Detective Rizzoli?" Maura was shocked.
Jane hoped that she hadn't been staring or silent for too long. She cleared her dry throat. "Hi," she greeted. Jane swallowed hard and on second thought of the woman's outfit suddenly blushed. She didn't even know if Dr. Isles was married or living with someone. She could have a date, roommates, a party inside…"I'm sorry. I hope I didn't catch you in the middle of something."
Maura quickly shook her head, a hand still on the doorframe. The draft from outside teased her hair like a runway model. "No, no. I just wasn't expecting to see you," she answered.
"Yeah," Jane said. She nervously glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't planned this part out. It seemed like such a good decision on her drive over. Seemed brilliant as she slipped into her best suit. But even Jane couldn't decipher the true reason or meaning behind her visit. "I just, I wanted to see if you were doing okay. I didn't mean to barge in on you. I was just going over the case and had a few questions."
The doctor shifted nervously. She scaled Jane Rizzoli up inconspicuously. At the hospital the detective had been a wreck. Messy and rather unprofessional. But this was a woman. The suit fit her strong, lean body. Each line of her shoulders, arms, the muscle in her legs. She stood tall and proud. Maura filled with an excited flutter at the sight of the imposing woman. This was Jane Rizzoli. This was the woman who saved her life and took down two gunman on her own.
"I uh…" Maura paused. "Would you like to come in?"
"I don't want to impose. We can do this tomorrow. I just," Jane hesitated. "I just couldn't sleep."
"Me neither," Maura admitted. She opened the door wider. "Come in, detective…"
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