Well, it's been a while. I had this idea a few days ago and had to get it out of my head. I hope you enjoy, and would love to know what you think!
As Jane Rizzoli stepped off the five and a half hour flight from Seattle-Tacoma to Boston Logan, she wondered how anyone ever managed to look glamorous after air travel. Her hair had become even wilder, the circles under her eyes even darker than when she'd left her home at five that morning, as the sun had begun to creep up beyond the horizon.
Standing by the luggage carousel as it whirred into life, she pondered the thought that perhaps it wasn't the flight that had given her more than just a passing resemblance to a post-nap Rip Van Winkle. The last few months had taken their toll on her and, if she was being honest with herself, she was surprised she had survived at all.
Don't think about that.
She sighed as she spotted her bag, a beaten up, dark purple suitcase that had been with her on pretty much every trip she'd ever made. One of the wheels was barely hanging on but, even if she could afford to replace it, she was loathe to. Too many memories.
Jeez, Rizzoli, you're getting sentimental in your old age.
The bandages on her hands did little to protect her palms from the pain of grabbing the handle and hauling her bag off the carousel, and she had to stop to catch her breath once it was done. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to cry. She hadn't cried the whole time, and she wasn't about to do it now in the middle of an international airport.
Unclipping her phone from her belt, she made her way to the arrivals lounge. As she was about to make the call, she spotted him, looking suitably older and more haggard than when she'd last seen him all those years ago. A little more rotund, too, but with the same kind, mischievous eyes.
"Jane, it's great to see you."
They stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure on how to proceed, before Korsak wrapped his arms around Jane and squeezed. She patted him on the back gently, allowing herself to enjoy the affection.
"It's good to see you too, old man."
"Old man? That's how you repay me? I'm wounded." He nudged her shoulder and grabbed her suitcase, leading them out of the airport and across the car park to his Buick. The trunk squealed as he hauled it open, struggling with Jane's case as he threw it in. She winced as the wheel finally fell off, biting her lip to avoid saying something she'd regret.
"I'll buy you a new one," he said sheepishly, mopping his brow, in a hurry to get out of the sun. It was an unseasonably hot June in Boston, and Jane could feel her shirt sticking to her back in the afternoon haze.
Grateful that the air conditioning in Korsak's old car worked fairly well, Jane sunk back into her seat and closed her eyes as they set off.
"Afraid we'll have to go straight to the crime scene, it was called in a couple hours ago."
"Another Phantom victim?"
"Can't be sure, but it seems that way."
Jane hummed in response. It was no use complaining about a busy day, especially not when Korsak had organised almost every aspect of her transfer from the Seattle Police Department to BPD.
"What else am I gonna be doing? Buying house plants and stocking the refrigerator?"
"That's the spirit." He turned the volume on the radio up a little, the jolly beat of Creedence Clearwater Revival's Have You Ever Seen the Rain filling the car.
He chanced a look at the bandages on her hands, eyes quickly flitting back to the road.
As they continued their journey into the city, she hoped Korsak would hear her silent prayer and refrain from bringing anything up about the events of the last few months. The darkness of the Sumner Tunnel loomed up ahead, and Jane took a deep, shaky breath.
She was back.
xxx
The case, as Jane understood it, was a real stumper. There had been two victims so far, including the one they were heading towards, and precisely zero evidence of substance that might give them a lead. Korsak had been right when he'd said they needed her and her experience with brutal serial killers when he'd been selling Boston to her as a real, legitimate option.
The thought that this case would be anything like the ones she'd experienced made Jane shudder, so she forced herself to think of something else. Besides, she was desperate to get out of Seattle, and though Boston probably wasn't ever going to be top of her list, it was home.
"Signed these out for ya," Korsak said as he reached over the the glove compartment. He handed Jane her new badge, gun and holster.
V825.
Jane ran the tips of her fingers over the raised lettering. This was who she was now. With the new badge number came a fresh start and, as she fixed the holster to her belt clumsily, checking the gun's clip and slotting it in to the holster snugly, she decided she wasn't going to waste it, in spite of all the challenges she'd be faced with for even stepping foot in the city again.
A young, fit man in a light grey suit stood with his hands pressed against the wall, body convulsing as he threw up on the grass. Jane rolled her eyes, but attention quickly shifted away from the poor man and at her as she got out of Korsak's car.
Uniformed officers stared at her – at her hands, more like – as they walked to the front of the apartment building. She shot them all daggers in response, satisfied when they scurried away, looking terrified.
"If you need to step out at any time, no one will think any less of you for it," Korsak whispered, his head tilting towards Jane and away from anyone who might overhear them.
"I'm fine," Jane snapped, striding past him and up the stairs, following the familiar hushed sounds of crime scene hustle and bustle. The door to apartment 2A was guarded by an officer who truly looked like a teenager, and Jane grimaced, grabbing her badge from her belt.
"Detective Rizzoli," she offered, not waiting for a response as she strode past him and into Della Quinton's apartment.
A huge pool of blood spread out across the living room, under the couch and out the other side. Splashes of red covered just about every surface, and Jane sucked a hot breath in. She had seen her fair share of gore and was proud – and disturbed – to say that she was mostly desensitised to it, but the rage that fuelled this murder shocked her.
Whereas outside the apartment building had been abuzz with reporters and bystanders, neighbours who were trying to get their five minutes of fame by explaining how they 'lived just four floors above the poor woman', inside the apartment grew eerily quiet as Jane made her way through to the bedroom. Korsak had reached the top of the stairs by this point, breathing heavily, and Jane made a mental note to get him to work out with her at least twice a week.
She nodded at him, an apology for her attitude downstairs, and he nodded back, face grim as he surveyed the scene.
Della Quinton lay in her bed, her hands resting upon her stomach, her legs out straight. Blood had seeped from the gaping wounds on her face and soaked the pillow beneath her head, her red hair matted in thick clumps. In places, Jane could see the milky white of bone.
She tried to ignore the dull ache of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. At 35, Della Quinton was the same age as Jane, and there was something about sharing her age with a murdered woman that sent a shiver up her spine.
Aside from the obviously horrific sight of the body, the apartment was pristine. Della Quinton was obviously a very tidy person.
Interesting, Jane thought, that the killer had taken the time to move Della's body from the site of the murder to her bed. Posing her like that was risky, particularly after such a brutal attack.
This killer was confident in their ability to shrink into the night once the deed had been done. That thought made Jane shudder even harder.
"You good?" Korsak's voice was clipped.
"You said the building manager called it in when one of the neighbours told him they'd heard strange noises in the night?"
"Yeah, he let himself in earlier today, saw the blood and ran straight out to call us."
"So he had access to the apartment. He still around?"
"He's outside being seen to by ambulance crews. Don't think he's used to seeing all this," he gestured toward Della. Jane nodded in response, careful to avoid blood spatter and the crime scene markers as she made her way out of the apartment.
"Neighbours are out there too," Korsak shouted at Jane's mop of dark hair as it bounced with her down the stairs.
The day had somehow become even hotter in the ten minutes or so she'd been inside, and Jane struggled to get out of her jacket.
"Christ, even my elbows are sweaty," she murmured, throwing the jacket on top of Korsak's car, confident no one would be tempted to steal it. She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, grateful for the slight breeze against her now bared neck.
Scanning the area, she honed in on the gaudy red and white of the Boston EMS van. A man no more than five feet in height stood next to two paramedics, who were offering him a bottle of water. His white hair hung beneath his shirt collar, and stuck to his neck in a way that made Jane feel nauseous.
"And so I said to the cops, that was a lotta blood, something seriously shady musta gone down here last night," he drawled as Jane approached, standing behind him until she'd had enough of listening to him. She cleared her throat; he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston Homicide," the words felt foreign in her mouth, but not entirely unpleasant. "You the manager of this building?" She flicked a thumb towards Della's apartment block, then stuck her hands over her belt buckle, a stance she'd always found comforting because of how confident it made her feel.
"Jimmy Costa, pleased to make your acquaintance," he stuck out a hand, which Jane ignored, his eyes glued to her bandaged hands.
"You told my colleagues one of the tenants here reported that they'd heard some strange noises in the night, did they say what kind of noises?"
"Ah, just bumps and groans and stuff," he blushed, realising too late the implication of his words.
"What time did they say they heard all this?"
"About half five, or thereabouts."
"And what time did they report it to you?"
"Just gone seven this morning, when I arrived. I like to get here early, ya know? Make myself useful."
Jane checked her notebook, full of scribbles made during the remainder of the drive from the airport.
"And yet you didn't call 911 until almost midday. Why the wait?"
"Regrettably, I didn't go into Ms Quinton's apartment until just before then. I had a busy morning, and I thought she'd just had her gentleman caller over again, ya know?"
"I see. Are the neighbours who spoke to you still here?"
Costa looked over Jane's shoulder, quite the feat for a man of his stature and considering Jane's taller-than-average height. He pointed an arthritic finger across the courtyard.
"There they are, the hot blonde and her girlfriend, though I hear they only got one bed, if you're picking up on what I'm putting down."
Ah, Jane thought, I see.
"Thank you Mr Costa, once you're done here make sure you see one of the uniformed officers and give them your number, in case we need to speak with you again."
"You got it," he saluted, and Jane was glad to be wearing sunglasses as she rolled her eyes.
She turned on her heel, walking alongside the long line of police tape that was holding back a sizeable group of onlookers now, towards the neighbours Costa had pointed out. Suddenly, a hand gripped the top of her arm. Fuelled by instinct, she grabbed the hand and twisted the arm it was attached to into a most uncomfortable position.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She hissed at the person, who she now recognised as the vomiting man from earlier. Realising he was probably less dangerous than a butterfly, she released him, stepping back with her hands on her hips.
He flexed his hand and straightened his tie, before clearing his throat. Jane fought the urge to tend to her own throbbing hands.
"Sorry about that Detective Rizzoli, I didn't mean to startle ya," he chuckled, running a palm over the top of his head.
"And who are you, the Exorcist?"
"Ha, well, technically I'd actually be Regan MacNeil, the girl who's possessed, if you're referencing the whole vomiting thing. The exorcist was actually the good guy…" he trailed off when Jane cocked her head to the side.
"I'm Detective Barry Frost, I believe I'm your new partner." He seemed unsure of what to do next.
Jane closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Well, Detective Barry Frost, it's your lucky day. I'm currently too hot and too sweaty to kick up any sort of a fuss, which should give you enough time to get out of my face before I recover enough to tell you how I really feel."
Frost gulped and started to turn away, before stopping himself.
"Ha, yeah, I know I'm not anyone's first choice as a partner, but I'm great at technical stuff and I have a ton of ideas about this case, oh yeah."
"That is so great- Barry, was it?"
"Yes ma'am, Barry Frost." He stuck a trembling hand out. This time, Jane took it. The poor guy looked like he was about to shit his pants as well as throw up his lunch again. If it meant that much to him, she'd shake his damn hand.
And, she realised, he was the first person she'd encountered that day who hadn't stared at the bandages.
"I was only messing with ya, Frost. Say, know where I can track down a decent cup of coffee round here?"
"There's a place a couple streets away, it does a nice latte. Want me to get you one?"
Jane rummaged in her pants pocket, pulling out a twenty.
"Just a large drip coffee would be great, don't bother leaving any room in there. And get yourself something, too, and Korsak. You know what he likes, I'm sure. But no donuts, got it?" He smiled at her, a wide grin that took Jane by surprise with how lovely it was, and started jogging – actually jogging – in the direction of the nearest coffee house.
Maybe he's not such a dud after all, Jane thought as she continued her stroll over to the neighbours, stopping when she saw a woman approaching the tape.
"Damned reporters," she mumbled under her breath as she turned towards the woman. Jane's attention was drawn to the woman's shoes, which had to have a heel of at least five inches, a bold choice for crime scene reporting. Actually, and Jane really needed to start being more honest with herself, she was captivated by the woman's legs, which were toned to perfection. Maybe she'd get lucky her first night back in Boston, wouldn't that be a hoot?
"Sorry, ma'am, but this is a crime scene, not Project Runway. You'll have to wait with all the other reporters," Jane threw her most dashing smile at the stranger, hoping she would acquiesce with a blush and offer her number to talk about the case of course.
It was only at this point that Jane looked at the woman's face, really looked at it, and while she certainly wasn't disappointed with how attractive a face it was, the speed at which she recognised its features barely gave her brain time to realise who she was looking at before she let out a strangled sort of noise.
"Maura?" It came out more as a breath than an intelligible word. Embarrassingly, she thought she might throw up, able to force it down only when she realised vomiting at a crime scene would put her at Frost's level.
"Doctor Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner. I believe this is my crime scene," her eyes narrowed, she pushed the police tape up, stepped under it as if it was a move she'd practiced 10,000 times, and proceeded to glide towards the apartment building.
All around her, people gazed at her in wonder, which was only right, Jane supposed. Maura Isles had only grown more beautiful in the years since they'd seen each other. Jane found herself getting even hotter.
After a few moments, Jane regained the ability to move again, and sprinted after Maura. She reached her just as one heeled foot stepped over the threshold of the apartment building. Mercifully, the entrance was empty of anyone else.
"Maura? It's me, Jane."
Maura avoided eye contact with Jane, but faced her nonetheless. She gripped the handle on her bag tightly, knuckles white against the leather.
When she said nothing, Jane continued.
"Can we… talk? It's been a long time-"
"Yes, Jane, it has been a long time. I've had no desire to talk to you for the last seventeen years, and that hasn't changed just because you've shown up here today, masquerading as some sort of mature, professional member of society. Now, please excuse me so I can get on with my work."
Her eyes shone with fury, so much so that Jane put her hands up in front of her instinctively, regretting it almost instantly. She whipped her hands down, hiding the bandages and that conversation behind her back.
For a moment, she saw regret and… was that concern glimmering in Maura's hazel eyes? But it was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and Jane had almost no time to register what was happening before Maura was halfway up the stairs.
Well, fuck.