"Good Tuesday morning to ya, Dr. Rizzoli," said a nurse with her hair in a bun and pink scrubs on her stocky frame. The doctor in question towered over her at 5'10" to her 5'2".
"How's it goin', Deb?" Jane answered, tossing her hand up in a wave. She winced at the sunshine pouring in through the window at the end of the hall they met in –three hours with a stabbing victim had her locked away in the OR for most of the morning. Her sight took some adjusting before she reached out and stopped Deb in her tracks. "Hey, sorry, did the social worker come by to check on 142?"
"I believe so. His number was on the board when I went to change out the IV," she responded. Jane nodded to her and waved goodbye as she walked away.
When the surgeon walked into the hallway that housed room 142, the sight of Nina, her trauma nurse, strolling out of it, shocked her. "Hey. What're you doing here?"
"There is a handsome-ass man in there, Jane. He came into the ER after your bowel perforation looking for Mr. Brannon. Says he's police," Nina explained. "I was about to go on lunch, so I told him I'd escort him personally," she finished, shimmying. "I also told him I'd call the surgeon to come meet him, since I knew you were heading up here anyway."
Jane rolled her eyes. "He in there waiting to talk to me?"
"Yup. Turns out our patient's name is indeed NOT Roy Brannon. Guess that's why they had a devil of a time trying to locate him," said the nurse. "I'm going back downstairs to eat my salad – gotta look good for my new man." With a look tossed in the direction of the door and a simper, she headed toward the elevator.
Jane shook her head and entered the room. "Oh god, ew," she said when she saw the policeman inside, someone Nina definitely knew.
"Hey, I'm ya brother, and that's how you greet me?" Frankie complained, his arms out away from his sides, suit jacket folded on his arm. He had already sweated through the armpits of his shirt.
"Sorry, it's just that Nina… you know what? Nevermind," she sputtered. "What did you need?"
"You fix this guy up?" He asked, taking out his memo book. They both surveyed the man in the hospital bed – neck brace to stabilize his cervical spine fractures, tracheostomy that allowed him to breathe, drainage bags on either side of his face from his jaw surgery, and a gastric feeding tube. He was one hell of a mess.
"Me and a team of a few others, yeah. Why?"
"He looks like hell, Janie."
"You bashin' my work, little brother?"
"No! No, I'm just sayin'."
"Yeah, he's in pretty bad shape. We're still not sure if he's gonna make it."
"That's why I'm here," Frankie said. His brown eyes glistened darkly with his determination. The old Rizzoli bulldog remained the same whatever they did – it fed on passion, not a particular occupation. However, something else sobered it in this instance, in Frankie – worry? Fear? Jane couldn't quite place it.
"You're here because we're not sure if he's gonna make it?" she wondered aloud. If she were obtuse, more often than not, she could get him to open up on his own.
"Yeah. You have any percentages or anything? Chances of his survival?"
"Not really. We don't even know what the brain damage will be if he does regain consciousness." She replied, crinkling her brow in interrogation, asking no questions but demanding answers all the same.
"So it could be awhile before I can talk to him. Unfortunately, he's the only one who saw his attacker. We've been askin' around, and we think we know who wanted him dead. But there's no way to prove anything without him talkin," said Frankie, fidgeting, looking anywhere but Jane's face.
"Honestly, even if he does wake up, and even if he isn't cognitively impaired, he might not ever talk again. The guy who beat the shit out of him REALLY beat the shit out of him – his voicebox was all mangled. Why you wanna talk to him so bad? If he's in your neighborhood, I don't see him doing a lot of talkin' anyway."
"Great," Frankie sighed. "If he doesn't make it, I'm gonna have to hand this over to homicide."
"So? Not that I ever want to see a patient die, but if that happens, it'll be a case off your caseload – you've never had a territory problem before. I can see if the surgeon who repaired it is in today, if you'd like to talk to her. She can probably tell you more about the extent of his vocal injuries," offered Jane, her hands crossed in front of her pelvis, white coat sleeves riding up just enough to expose her wrists.
"That'd be great," He said, nodding his head. He turned his back to her and stared out the window to the busy BMC courtyard.
"Ok, give me a minute," Jane replied, stepping out of the room and toward the nurses' desk.
Deb had returned to it to finish some paperwork. "Hey Doc, everything ok?"
"Yeah," Jane answered. "Can you get me Dr. Isles in Head and Neck, though?"
"Of course," Deb consented. She punched a few numbers on the landline, held the receiver up to her ear, then handed it to Dr. Rizzoli. "It's ringing."
Maura Isles, much to her own amazement, stood at the radio center of the trauma bay talking with Nina Holiday, steeped in what must have been her tenth extra-curricular conversation since Saturday's basketball game. She wondered how long it had taken her to get to ten before that day; the breakneck pace would have disoriented her if she didn't find herself enjoying it so much. "I will have to say I'm surprised that Jane plays so well," she said to the other woman who worked on the paperwork for their patient about to transfer to the intensive care floor.
"Why? Girl, have you seen that body? Part of it might be genetics, but Dr. Jane Rizzoli is a specimen because she chooses to be," as the nurse laughed, Maura blushed.
Nina noticed. "Jane and I both played basketball in high school, but she has kept a religious dedication to athletics since then, while I… have not."
"She is very… built," Maura responded, still fifty shades of pink.
"She's fine. You can say it, Dr. Isles. It ain't gonna kill you," Nina knew it was a stretch, knowing so little of Maura and assuming so much about her sexuality, but she also knew an appreciation for a body when she saw one, and dammit if Jane wasn't stubborn about her dating life.
"I suppose she is aesthetically pleasing," Maura answered, regaining some semblance of self-control through her detached language.
"You damn right," Nina replied. The phone at her desk rang only one half of a time before she answered. "Trauma and emergency services, this is Nina," said Nurse Holiday, picking up the receiver.
"Why am I talkin' to you?" The voice of Jane Rizzoli filtered through the phone.
"Well speak of the devil," Nina sassed right back. "Who are you supposed to be talking to?"
"I called Head and Neck for Dr. Isles, and the girl on the other end told me to hang on. Next thing I know, I hear your lovely voice."
"They must have patched you through because she's standing right here, just finished up a trach. You wanna talk to her?" Nina asked.
"Yes please," said Jane in a syrupy tone.
"It's for you," Nina held out the phone for Maura, who took it, but placed it on her shoulder before answering.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Jane."
"Hello?" Maura said, nearly dropping the receiver before cradling to her ear.
"Hey," Jane said right back. Dr. Isles felt her body release some tension at the sound.
It felt sinfully informal, but she said it right back. "Hey. What did you need?"
"You remember I told you my brother was a cop?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well he's here now, in our patient's room, asking questions about when he's gonna be able to talk to him."
"Oh, well I'm not confident in saying that he'll ever be able to talk again. I don't even know if he's going to live yet."
"I know. That's what I told him. But I think he'll feel better if he talks to the surgeon that performed the procedure."
"You want me up there? To talk to your brother about the procedure?" Maura asked, curling the cord around her finger. Her mouth curled up in amusement because Nina performed an exaggerated sigh of disappointment.
"More about how that procedure doesn't guarantee much of anything," Jane answered.
"Alright, I'll be right up."
"Thank you. And Maura?"
"Yes?"
"FYI, he's bein' weird. I mean, Frankie's weird, but today he's… fidgety. I think there's somethin' he's not saying about our patient, but don't let it bug you."
"I won't… Tell him I am on my way."
"Ok." Jane confirmed, and then they hung up.
"You're in for a treat, Maura," Nina said, leaning over the counter at the desk on her elbows.
"What do you mean?" The ENT asked, handing her the phone's receiver.
"I mean Jane's brother is almost as handsome as she is. Look at them next to each other and you'll really see the resemblance. Plus, he's got that whole dedicated to his job thing goin' on," Nina said.
"Apparently that's a family trait," Maura said. "Well, I am needed upstairs, so I am going to have to talk to you later."
"Sure thing. Looks like we've got a pretty slow day, so maybe you and I can have lunch," the nurse said offhand as she returned to her work.
Maura tried not to let her face betray the fact that such a comment was a big deal: she quickly turned and waved, careful to hide her visage as she boarded the elevator.
As she rode to the fourth floor, she conjured up an imaginary Frankie. He stood taller than Jane, thin, dark, and serious like her. Despite the fact that she knew he was a detective, she continued to picture him in a beat cop's uniform.
When she exited she could have laughed at her error. He was taller than Jane, but maybe by an inch, and he carried more weight on his frame than she had thought he might, mostly in muscle. His complexion was lighter, too; she was more tan than he. From the moment Maura entered the room, she noted the fidget Jane spoke of. Despite all that, she still marveled at the similarity in their eyes, and in their mannerisms.
"Ah," Jane started as Maura waltzed in and held out her hand to Frankie. "Little Brother, this is my colleague, Dr. Maura Isles. She performed the internal fixation of Mr. Brannon's larynx. Dr. Isles, this is my brother: Detective Frankie Rizzoli."
Maura took his meaty hand and shook it in her own. Such a contrast to the lithe precision in Jane's fingers. "Hello, nice to meet you. I understand that you may have some questions for me?"
"Yes, I… actually, I want to know if and when I'll be able to talk to this man about his attack," sputtered Frankie. He blushed and refused to look Jane in the face.
"Well, Detective, I can't say for sure that you will. The procedure that I performed on Mr. Brannon was very invasive: it involved screwing three metal plates into the cartilage of his larynx. I also had to reapproximate his vocal folds, which were disturbed in the attack. This means, that even if he woke up tomorrow, and even if he did not suffer partial or complete vocal fold paralysis, he would still have to wait at least two weeks before we even consider removing the tracheostomy tube. And all of that is predicated on the assumption that he has a enough cognitive ability remaining to communicate with you," Maura explained. She stood tall as she spoke, gesticulating only when necessary, and maintaining eye contact with Frankie throughout. Her outfit of gray pencil skirt and white Givenchy blouse affirmed her authority, and her open toed heels bestowed a certain confidence about her. Jane swallowed harshly at the visual.
As did Frankie. "That's… that's very honest of you, thank you," he said, his voice full of genuine intention.
"You're welcome. I find it best, especially with the authorities, to be as blunt as possible. We've been having trouble locating the family, so you are the first person to come here asking about him, I'm afraid."
"Well, I think my colleagues and I are close to trackin' his family down. We'll do our best to notify them of the situation and refer them here should they have any questions."
"Thanks, Frankie," Jane said with a frown. "The whole situation's just sad, you know? I'll try and call ya if his condition improves or changes," she added, putting a hand to his shoulder as she walked him out. The hand grew stronger, more present when he looked back at Maura, and remained there until he stood at the elevator.
"Thank you for your time, sis. I'll call ya later? Maybe we can catch a game soon," he said. The pressure of her fingers against his shoulder lessened, but didn't leave until the doors opened and he stepped inside.
"Hey Maura, you wanna get coffee sometime?" Jane turned to the other surgeon as soon as her brother left.
"I'm sorry?" Maura said, flabbergasted.
"I just feel like we're gettin' to be friends, ya know, and as such we should probably hang out at some place that isn't this hospital," Jane elaborated. The both of them walked toward the stairs, and they had descended two levels before Maura remembered to say yes.
Four hours later and Jane once again trekked her way through the BMC grounds to make it to Maruccio's. Lunch had come late on this 12 hour shift, and she fantasized about her turkey on wheat as soon as she had gotten the call to meet here. Thus her knee bounced as she waited at the table for Mikey to bring her order, and she glanced at her watch every twenty seconds or so to time the grumbles of her stomach.
"They starvin' you over there at BMC, Dr. Rizzoli?" Mikey asked as he rounded the counter into the miniscule dining area. He placed the tray with her footlong sub in front of her, and chuckled when she immediately began to unwrap it.
"You'd be starvin' too if you had a day old banana and shitty hospital coffee for breakfast, Mikey. Don't get me wrong, Trauma's my passion, but these middle of the week mornin' shifts are killin' me," Jane barked with a smile.
"You mean you don't just do trauma?" He asked, genuinely interested. He often showed enthusiasm about her career, and didn't hesitate to ask her questions.
"Nah, it's sort of a dying field, at least as a specialty. I do general surgery, too," she said around a mouthful of sandwich.
"It's funny, we're not so different sometimes. I gotta have three shops, you know? Can't just have one and make enough money anymore. In that way we're the same," he said. She shrugged as if to say those're the ropes, and he nodded before disappearing again to leave her in peace.
She heard the bell of the door not long after that, and saw her lunch date amble through the entryway. "Tommy," she breathed, standing up to hug him. He obliged, and she felt his hands squeeze the deep muscles of her back in a hello too long coming. She imagined he could feel her doing the same.
"Hey sis, thanks for meetin' me. Glad you still come to this place! How are ya?" He asked, running a hand through his messy, but stylish, brown hair: the only Rizzoli sibling to have anything but black hair and brown eyes. He wore a flannel shirt over some plain jeans and boots, giving the appearance of having just left work.
"I'm great, little brother, just great. Especially now that I get to look at your mug," she laughed, pinching one of his cheeks. Despite the fact that he swatted her hand away, his blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "How about you?"
"I'm… mostly good, Janie. Things've been lookin' up for me lately, but that's what I came to talk to you about. Do you mind if I order a sandwich first, though? I haven't eaten anything since that apple I had for breakfast," Tommy asked, shuffling towards the counter where Mikey had reentered.
"Sure," Jane said simply. She saw it then: the tiredness in his gait, his tense hands and forearms, the bags under his eyes. Something stressed him, and she already hurt for him.
He ordered a hot meatball, his eternal favorite, and joined her with it and a bottle of coke in his hand. They ate in silence for a short while, until Jane could no longer handle it. "So what's up, little brother?" she asked.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Mikey had left earshot. "I'm in a little bit of trouble, Janie."
Her heart sank. "What, like money trouble? You been gamblin' again, Tommy?" She interrogated, fearing that his old demons of addiction had returned.
"No! I haven't been gamblin' alright? Or drinkin'," he nearly shouted, until he remembered his need to be cautious. Jane breathed a sigh of relief, but within moments, tension filled her thorax again. "It's somethin' different… a little more serious."
"What is it, then?" she growled.
"You know that guy you operated on on Friday? Beat all to hell wit 4?"
"Yeah…" Jane said, reserve bleeding through. Then a light bulb went off. "You didn't fuck up that guy Brannon, did you? Was it you that beat the shit out of him?" She whisper-yelled.
"No, it wasn't me," he said, and when he saw tension leave her again, he continued, "but that don't mean it's all good, either. Man, I sorta fucked up," he said. He moved his gaze toward the window behind Jane's head to gather his thoughts.
"Well then what the fuck happened?"
"I sent the wrong guy. I sent the young guy," he stated, opening his eyes wide, hoping she would understand.
"Jesus… you had him pulverized?" Jane said, amazed.
"No. Well, yeah, but the kid was supposed to do a whole lot more than that."
"Christ, Tommy. You ordered a hit? Who the fuck are you?"
"Look, I got the orders, ok? I didn't cook up the idea on my own or some shit. That guy, his name ain't Brannon either, it's Flannery. You remember Victor from the neighborhood? Victor Lasorda? Well Flannery raped his wife and sister while he was gone on some business. All because Flannery knew he was Patriarca affiliated. Then, I guess shit went down with his own people and they wanted him dead, too. That's why the Irish and the Italians put the hit out!" He rose slightly out of his chair and gesticulated at his sister.
She slid back into her own chair. "You know, Tommy, we suspected, but this is the first time you've ever admitted that you're mixed up in this shit. What the hell's this gonna do to Ma?" she asked with a voice more on autopilot than anything else. "And how the hell are you gonna put Frankie in the position to have to arrest you?"
Tommy gulped. "That's the thing. If Flannery somehow lives, then we got way bigger fish to fry than Frankie. That's why I need you to make sure he doesn't-"
"Excuse me?! You askin' me to risk my medical license and my sweet ass freedom to save you from your hit gone wrong? How in the fuck are you even serious right now?!" Jane raised her voice.
Tommy put out his hands as though to tell her to be quiet, and she snarled. "Look Janie, I ain't askin' you to save me, I'm tellin' you so you can help me save the both of us. With Flannery alive, sooner or later, his guys are gonna find out, and they'll know you're my sister. They're gonna come after me, and then they're gonna come after you because they're gonna think you're helpin' me out!"
"They're gonna think that especially if I kill him, Tommy!" Jane retorted.
"No, they won't! They think he's already dead, and they want him dead. They're gonna think we double-crossed them to keep him alive for intel! Who do you think gave him the fake name and ID? I gave it to the kid to plant on the body for when he got rid of it – Brannon's a guy the cops suspect for four murders of our guys AND their guys and ain't no one gonna bat an eye when he's dead. It's the only thing buyin' us time now," Tommy explained.
"The fuck it is, Tommy! Frankie already knows his name ain't Brannon!" cried Jane, panic setting in.
"He does?! Jesus," Tommy sighed. "Well fuck. That means he probably has a beat on me too. Look Janie, I'm gonna figure this out. And I'm gonna keep you safe, ok? I just had to try," he reasoned, running a hand over his suddenly exhausted features.
Jane remained sitting for a few seconds, stunned. "I can't believe you have the balls to ask me what you just asked me," she said finally.
"Look, sis. I didn't wanna involve you in this. I didn't want to involve anyone in this. The guy was supposed to go down. He wasn't supposed to live," Tommy attempted one last time.
"You think that matters? You're mafia and OUR BROTHER is an organized crime cop. You know how fucked up that is?"
"Yeah," he said without much expression.
"Tommy, I gotta get back to work. I don't care what the fuck you have to do, just make this go away," she threatened, and he thought to himself how much she reminded him of his superiors. "And after it all blows over, which it better, think about your life choices. Think about Ma and Pop, and me and Frankie. And then do yourself a favor and get out of this shit," she said, and then left before giving him a chance to respond.
She walked back out into the cool air again, this time with a coat on her shoulders, and pulled out her cell phone. She scrolled to the newest saved contact and pressed the call button.
In two rings, the person on the other line picked up. "This is Dr. Isles,"
"Hey Maura. Listen, things have kinda changed on me, and I need some alcohol. Any chance you'd wanna make that coffee a drink instead?"