"Got a hot date tonight, Jane?" The older man raised a bushy gray eyebrow at her, nodding his head toward the phone in her hand. "This is the millionth time you've looked at it in the last hour."

He didn't point out that she had also gone to the bathroom to brush her hair and put on makeup. He knew which buttons to push, and prescribing any semblance of femininity to Jane was a large red one that read, "DEATHWISH."

Jane had the text already written out, she just couldn't bring herself to hit the send button. Her finger would linger over the send button and she would exasperatedly throw the phone in her desk drawer only to retrieve it again a minute later.

Jane: Hey, Maur. I gotta cancel tonight. See you at work tomorrow?

After Frost's note, her dinner with Maura suddenly seemed so much more momentous.

Choose Maura.

The unthinkable had, suddenly, become very, very plausible. It was a choice—not just a taboo. Did Maura want her, too? Just thinking about it made her palms sweat. She continually wiped them on her black pants as the thoughts raced, unbidden, through her head.

The ME was rich, gorgeous and cultured. What could Jane possibly bring to the table? A gun and an exhaustive knowledge of plumbing. Great. She would surely follow the gorgeous ME around at charity benefits and fancy dinners only to embarrass her with her blue-collar upbringing and complete dearth of social graces. She would never be able to afford to buy the ME a big, fancy engagement ring with a five-carat diamond; or a bottle of ungodly expensive wine from the 17th century; or pay the mortgage on Maura's house…

Did Maura even have a mortgage on her house?

The clock on the wall of the bullpen was ticking ever closer to the six mark and instead of solving murders or finding answers to her future, Jane simply came up with a plethora of new worries and questions.

She turned her questioning mind to the case at hand, a welcome distraction. She let her mind skate over the facts, letting it lead her. Dali. Eccentric. Surrealism. Mustache. Masturbator. Persistence of Memory. Candian Circus. Painting. Cane.

She typed in "Dali" to the records search. A multitude of results popped up. Cases of graffiti, a tattoo parlor's needles infected with HIV, faked paintings and an unfortunate heart attack at a gallery opening all yielded nothing in Jane's book.

Huffing, she jabbed at the backspace key. On a whim, she typed in the word "cane" and "mustache." A few results popped up, but one from Florida caught her eye. It was the mugshot of a man in his fifties. He had an enormous salt and pepper mustache, carefully tapered with wax on the ends. His lifeless, watery blue eyes stared at the camera carelessly jaded—almost bored. His heavy eyebrows sat under a head of salt and pepper hair that was combed scrupulously to one side and gelled down. He looked comically like something out of a Marx brothers movie.

"Hey, Korsak! C'mere." Ever the Italian, Jane motioned with wide, sweeping gestures for him to cross the room to her. "Look at this," she said, clicking on the picture. He quickly minimized the tab of the cat video he had just loaded. "Reginald Gets a Bath" would just have to wait.

Name: Michael Cordone

Height: 5'7"

Address: 43 Star Island Drive, Miami Beach, FL

Crime Incident: Assault

Weapon: Cane

Case Notes: Brought in on charges of assault made by Jorge Robinson, an employee at his home. The victim had been beaten violently with what appeared to be a walking cane. Robinson claimed his employer had confronted him, claiming he had "moved a framed picture of his grandfather." The accused has a history of mental illness.

"Damn, he's loaded!" Korsak said, making note of the ritzy South Beach address. "Probably why he got out on bail and the charges were dropped." The disdain in the South Boston native's voice was undeniable. Though a generation apart, Jane and Korsak had had similar upbringings in blue-collar South Boston households. She smiled up at her former partner: their shared distrust of the rich was something she always appreciated.

"I think it's time for a BOLO, Korsak, don't you?" Jane smiled. This was one of her favorite parts of a case. It signaled a time when things were finally starting to weave together and she would soon have a suspect in her interrogation room.

In short, sharp words, the detective barked the BOLO into the radio she had pulled from the belt at her hip. She was about to put the radio back in its holder when she suddenly depressed the button again, "And look out for trucks carrying particularly large objects. He may be with a painting that's 8 by 15 meters."

It was a gut feeling. But she decided to check in with a few of her contacts that were a bit familiar with the less legitimate methods of art dealing. She knew a guy named Desperaux whom she was pretty certain would know if a massive Dali painting had been smuggled into the city.

She quickly punched in the number of her CI.

"Jane," he answered jovially. "How's my second favorite detective doing?"

Jane couldn't help but smile at the greeting. For a notorious art thief, he really was a very pleasant guy to talk to. "Peachy," Jane responded sarcastically. As much as she liked the guy, she had a reputation to keep up. "Now do you know anything about a certain ginormous Salvador Dali painting?"

"Oh, don't sound so accusatory, Jane! Dali's not my style. Plus, Canada is a brutal place. Wouldn't even venture there for a Monet." His words were muffled by occasional crashes and loud exclamations in the background.

Jane rolled her eyes at Desperaux's blasé attitude toward the famous painting. She couldn't help but be impressed, though, by his seeming omnipotence in the underground art world. "Hey, where are you? It's a little loud."

"Oh, I'm in Santa Barbara visiting an old friend of mine. We're currently at a bowling alley. It's a jolly good time! Hold on…it's my turn to put on the blindfold…"

Jane groaned. Only Desperaux would do blind bowling. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten kicked out yet.

"I managed a spare!" Desperaux said gleefully into the phone. It was impressive feat, to say the least. Jane's amusement quickly faded, however, into her usual impatience.

"Look, do you know where the painting is or not?" Jane demanded.

"Yes, yes, of course. A lovely gentleman got into contact with me just yesterday asking if I was interested. His name was—"

"Johnson Engel?" Jane offered, having clicked open the email sent from secretary Allen and perused the bios of her three vics.

"Right you are!" Desperaux commended. She could hear the crash of bowling pins in the background.

"Well, he has met a rather unfortunate end. Whoever has the painting now will probably be pushing up daisies soon, too. Tell me what you know."

"I hear that a man by the name of Carson Buchanan is an interested buyer. You might want to check there first. But you didn't hear it from me," Desperaux said, suddenly businesslike.

"Thank you, Desperaux. I really appreciate it. Call me when you're back in town and I'll have my mom send over her famous lasagna." The art thief was a sucker for her mom's cooking.

With that, she jabbed the end button on her cell and jumped out of her chair. "Get me a search warrant and meet me at Buchanan's place? Call for backup—I'm heading over there right now."

She grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair and swept out of the bullpen, her long legs taking her to the elevator in four long strides. The adrenaline of the chase starting to hum in her veins, she all but ran to her cruiser, almost crashing into her favorite ME as she fished in her pocket for the keys.

The doctor's back hit the driver's side door of the car and she stood there, trapped, between the car and Jane's well-muscled body. Only inches apart from her friend's face, Maura caught the all-too-familiar pupil dilation and subtle way Jane's breathing momentarily stopped. Their eyes were locked on one another's, but slowly—deliberately—Jane's eyes trailed down to the ME's lips.

Jane wanted to know.

Were her lips as soft as they looked? Was Maura's tongue as dexterous as her fingers? Were her fingers as dexterous as they had proven while tending to Jane's wounds? While saving Frankie's life? Would she grab Jane's hair, or would she run her fingers down Jane's back? Would she moan? Would she whimper? Would she cover Jane's top lip or her bottom lip?

Again, the questions proved endless. In reality, these questions were simply a diversion from the one question that had always stopped her from answering them. Will this ruin us?

Shit.

All the nerves she had felt twenty minutes ago were back, coupled with a dizzying wave of nausea and a sticky, sinking feeling of guilt. She wasn't even sure exactly why she felt guilty. It was just a natural Catholic knee-jerk reaction to anything she was contemplating doing.

"I, uh, lead…gotta go…chase bad guys," Jane said lamely, trying to formulate an excuse for why she couldn't go have dinner with Maura but finding herself utterly floored by the tantalizing closeness of the ME's mouth. Her fingers betrayed her inner conflict, moving into the slight space between them to ghost over the slightly parted lips. She could feel the warm, moist breath of her best friend, and it sent shivers down her body and into her core. She pulled back her hand abruptly, terrified by the things happening to her body.

"Well then," Maura said, pointedly sliding out from between Jane and the car. Jane didn't miss the brief flash of disappointment that flicked over the doctor's face. Somehow, it gave her a slight jolt of hope. "Let's get going. You know I love to see you in action."

Jane's stomach dropped at the sexually charged words of her best friend. It made her legs feel like someone had kicked her behind the knees, making her wobble a bit as she awkwardly slid into the driver's side of her cruiser.

Many exclamations from the law-abiding ME and a few disregarded red lights later, Jane pulled up to the condo of Carson Buchanan. She and Maura were the first on the scene, so Jane told her to wait in the car.

"Send Frankie or Korsak or someone up as soon as they get here, okay?" Jane asked, strapping on her bulletproof vest. She had a nagging feeling that things were about to go down.

She scoffed as she entered the swanky Back Bay condo building. The marble floors and fancy chandeliers in the lobby made the South Bostonian in her want to throw up. She punched the button for the 9th floor, tapping her foot impatiently as the flashing buttons on over the top of the door ticked their way closer to the last floor.

Ding!

The doors opened to reveal a small corridor and an ornate mahogany door numbered 900. She knocked loudly, shouting, "BOSTON POLICE, OPEN UP!" She didn't have a warrant yet, but Korsak would be arriving shortly hopefully with one in his hand.

Nobody answered. She tried the door handle, which depressed easily, and swung the door cautiously inwards.

The place was a wreck. An overstuffed white armchair was turned on its side next to an identical one that was upright, but backwards. Papers and office supplies were shoved off a desk, photos and books shoved off a long row of built-in bookshelves.

"This is Boston Police!" Jane shouted into the ransacked condo. "Is anybody here?"

She moved to the right, where she saw a small hallway and a couple of doors. Hand on the handle of the first door, Jane heard a sound behind her.

She turned, pointing her gun as she whipped around. A man, about 54 years of age, was crossing the wide living room and making his way for the door. His hand curled around the curved golden head of a black cane. He hurried with a slight limp, leaning some of his weight on the instrument.

"Michael Cordone, put your hands up. You are under arrest—"

The older man just smiled, shoving the standing white armchair toward the detective and making a dash for the open door and the sole elevator.

Jane cursed, jumping over the armchair and running out the door only to see the closing of two reflective metal doors.

"ARGH!" She slammed open the door marked "STAIRS" and proceeded to run down nine flights. Panting, she burst into the lobby and ran at full speed across the polished marble floor, ignoring the affronted looks of the couple she nearly knocked over.

"Which way did he go?" Jane demanded, opening the driver side door and sliding into the seat.

"Who?" Maura asked, cocking her head in her usual adorable way.

"The old man with the mustache and the cane, Maur!" Jane exclaimed, hands moving instinctively to her wild curls.

"Oh," Jane loved the way Maura's eyes would light up when she was enlightened. "Southwest."

"Maura, get out of the car," Jane demanded. She unclicked the seatbelt of her ME and started pushing the blonde.

"No!" Maura said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Out of the car, now! I'm about to go on a high-speed car chase and I can't be worrying about you. Now, OUT!" Jane reached over Maura and opened the door, literally shoving the Medical Examiner out of the cruiser. She hated losing the precious time following the semi, but she would not risk losing her best friend.

Maura gone, Jane quickly spun the cruiser around and made a sharp right. She could see a monstrous 16 wheeler a couple of blocks ahead, and she was sure that it held both the painting and her suspect.

She glanced into her rearview mirror, catching sight of the cute ME standing defiantly on the corner and straightening her dress after the ungraceful car exit. A smile spread across Jane's face as she flicked on her cruiser lights.

Maura was something to come home to.

A/N: Shalom! I know it's been awhile. School just started and I've been swamped with lots of fun things like paperwork and figuring out my post-grad life. Well, anyhow, I hope you liked this chapter. I'm so pumped by all the followers and readers and reviews I'm getting :)

And I hope some of you guys got the Psych reference. I loved Desperaux in the show, so I just couldn't resist putting him in here!