Chapter IV
(Maura)
It's a beautiful Saturday morning at 10:08 AM. The sun has just begun its ascent, casting a golden glow over the neighborhood, when Jane arrives at my doorstep. In her hands, she holds a bouquet so grand that it obscures her face entirely, petals cascading over her fingers like a waterfall of color.
"What are those for?" I laugh, gently lowering her arms to reveal her visage. The sight that greets me steals the breath from my lungs—a gasp escapes as my eyes wide in shock. Jane's right cheek is an angry red, marred by scrapes and abrasions.
"What the… Jane?!" My voice trembles, laden with concern and unspoken questions.
Her gaze falls to the ground, guilt shadowing her features. "The wall kissed me. I fell over while putting on my shoes," she murmures, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, looking up through her lashes, she adds, "The flowers are to thank you for the invitation… and because I'm late… and for what happened in the park on Wednesday… and because I stood you up for our morning run the day before yesterday and yesterday… and maybe because I could use some ice for my burning cheek?" Her voice dwindles to a hesitant whisper.
"Please, come in. Sit on the couch." My tone is soft but firm, leaving no room for argument. I rake the flowers and place them in a beautiful, mouth-blown vase from Venice, its delicate craftsmanship a stark contrast to the day's harsh realities. As I gather the necessary items to treat Jane's wound, I can't help but notice a flash of violet-blue on her lower back when she bents to remove her shoes.
Jane followes me silently to the couch. With tender care, I clean her wound, applying disinfectant, soothing ointment, and finally, some ice cubes. We then settle at the dining table for breakfast, an hour of agonizing silence stretching between us. Our conversation, when it occurres, is mechanical, touching on trivial matters. Her eyes mirror the turmoil in mine, reflecting the unspoken thoughts we both harbor. Yet, as the minutes pass, the tension eases, aided perhaps by the soothing warmth of white wine, and our dialogue returns to familiar topics.
After breakfast, Jane insists we watch "Finding Nemo," incredulous that I have never seen it. Her shock turns to determination as she fills this gap in my cultural education. We spend the afternoon engrossed in the movie, laughter gradually replacing the earlier tension. By 5 PM, it is time for her to leave. As we hug goodbye — a new and significant gesture between us — Jane whispers, "Thank you, Maura."
"No problem; that's what friends are for, right?" My response is tinged with uncertainty. Friendship is a novel concept for me, an uncharted territory.
"Maybe. But you're not just any friend, Maura." Her words leave me blushing, a soft smile tugging at my lips.
"Thank you, Jane. You're not just anyone to me either," I reply, my voice soft and sincere. Her smile in response is dazzling, leaving me with weak knees and a fluttering heart.
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On Monday, the routine call to a crime scene comes, and I find myself among familiar detectives. Some of them have become more than colleagues over time—friendships, if one could call them that, have formed. I prefer working with Detective Taylor's team; they often invite me for drinks after a case and have dined at my home a few times. Practical and pleasant, these connections have their benefits.
After sharing my initial findings with the team, I pull Detective Danville aside. We have hit it off from the start; she possesses a motherly demeanor I appreciat. "Josephine, how are you? May I take a moment of your time?"
We catch up on our lives briefly before I broach the subject of Jane. Josephine's eyebrow waggle prompt me to clarify, "Jane is married. Unfortunately," I add quietly.
We lunch together, and after much internal debate, I voice my suspicions. "Could you do me a favor, Jo? Look up Jane and her husband in the system? Something doesn't add up…"
"I think her husband is abusing her, Jo. She always has excuses, but something's not right. I don't know if she still goes by Rizzoli, and I assume Casey stands for Charles. Can you do anything with that?"
Josephine nods, promising to search for Jane and her husband and email me the details. The weight of guilt hangs heavily on me that night, knowing I am prying into Jane's life. Yet, I cannot ignore the signs any longer. If Jane is just clumsy, voicing my suspicions could destroy our friendship.
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It was 10 PM, and I am still in the office, buried in the report for yesterday's autopsy victim. A short beep alerts me to an incoming email from Josephine. Heart pounding, I open the files, confronting the truth I had dreaded.
Charles and Jane Jones-Rizzoli, married for six years, no children.
Jane, two years younger than me, having just turned 32 a few months ago. She was a detective in the homicide division in Boston. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Detective in the homicide division, top of her class at the police academy, and the youngest officer to earn the rank of detective. Who would have thought? She resigned from her job in Boston five years ago and moved to Afghanistan with her husband. They came to New York a few months ago. Currently, she's unemployed. She has two younger brothers who both live in Boston. Her impeccable curriculum vitae reveals nothing more.
Charles's — alias Casey's — resume is much more interesting and paints a darker picture. He's 38 years old. A decorated and respected brigadier general. He was involved in a mysterious case about eight months ago, the files are not included, apparently Josephine doesn't have access to them. Military secrets. I roll my eyes. He was ordered back to the US afterwards. He now works at a veterans' center. I scroll down a few pages, skipping the somewhat boring part of his military career. The last pages reveal his true nature: Since his youth, he's been arrested multiple times for various violent offenses, drunk driving, physical assault, sexual harassment, and so on. But he never went to court; the charges were always dropped. So he has no official criminal record. I google his family and again raise my eyebrows in surprise. Jones is not nearly as well-known a family name as Isles, but in Boston, they seem to have considerable influence. Evidently, having money and the right friends can solve a lot of problems.
Despite Jane's absence from these charges, I was now convinced her injuries were no accidents. But what to do with this knowledge? Confronting Jane directly seemed impossible, yet inaction felt equally wrong.
I ponder and ponder until I am shocked to realize I'll see her tomorrow morning. My heart races, and suddenly the room feels too hot. What should I do? I can't decide how to address the issue in such a short time. But I can't look Jane in the eye with all this new knowledge. She'll sense something's wrong and ask me about it. And I can't lie. I decide to write a short message.
M: I can't make it tomorrow, I'm totally exhausted and still at the office. Sorry.
"Not a lie." I smile, almost proud of this clever move.
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The following evening, there's a light knock on my front door. I've just sat down on the couch after eating a light salad and grumble to myself as I go to the door, thinking of an excuse to get rid of my somewhat pesky neighbor who, I'm sure, "just wants a glass of wine." Maybe I shouldn't have slept with him multiple times...although he was always a good distraction. But tonight, I want to be alone.
I open the door, and my carefully prepared speech gets stuck in my throat.
"Jane?"
"Hi Maura." She smiles shyly and adds after a few seconds, "Am I disturbing you?"
Her voice pulls me out of my trance-like state, and I blush at my lack of hospitality.
"No. Not at all. Sorry. Come in."
I'm not sure what brought her to me, and she answers my corresponding question only by saying she was in the area and wanted to stop by. Sure, 'just in the area,' she lives on the other side of town, I think, shaking my head as I pour her a glass of red wine too.
"Fidelio. The only opera Beethoven ever wrote." It's not a question but a statement. And again, I'm amazed by the woman with those dark brown eyes, who wanders through my living room and identifies the softly playing background music as if it were a given.
She lets her long fingers glide over the books on my shelf and lingers a bit longer over a specific title.
"Divina Commedia – The Divine Comedy. Have you read it?"
I nod slightly. "One of Dante's greatest works," I add.
Standing close, I offer her the wine glass. Our fingers brush, and I close my eyes, savoring the moment. When I open them, I'm met with the depths of those breathtakingly beautiful chocolate brown orbs.
"I prefer Inferno", she whispers, her voice carrying a sensual undertone.
"So do I", I murmur, completely captivated by her gorgeous eyes. There is an intensity to them that is both frightening and mysterious in equal measure
Our gaze hold for a long, electric moment. Tentatively, I reach out, touching her bruised cheek. She flinches but then leanes into my hand, seeking comfort.
I take a step closer and pull her into my arms. She tenses slightly, reminding me of the bruise I'm sure I saw a few days ago.
Slowly, I let go and move my hand over her back to the corresponding spot on her lower back. I gently press against the spot while looking directly into her eyes, noticing her pained expression. I tug at the fabric of her long-sleeve shirt, slowly lifting it out of her jeans. My gaze never leaves hers, silently seeking her permission to examine the painful part of her body.
Her hand gently takes mine, and a soft whisper leaves her lips as she wraps her arms around me again.
"Don't, Maura. Please." Her voice is so broken, uncertain, pleading.
I don't know how long we remain in that comforting embrace. Jane gives me one last squeeze and then takes a step back.
"I should go, Maura. It's 10 PM. Casey will be back soon from his poker night."
I nod and walk her to the door.
She stands on my doorstep, looking lost again, and I take her hand. For the first time since we've known each other, she doesn't flinch.
"I'm always here, Jane. Always. Please never forget that."
Jane leans forward and kisses me softly on the cheek. It's a feather-light kiss, but my skin seems to burn where she touched it. I close my eyes, and she holds the contact a moment longer than necessary before whispering almost inaudibly, "I know."
When I open my eyes, she's already by her car.