Rizzoli & Isles Stepping Off Of Precipices

**Stepping Off Of Precipices by ChuckieEgg**

_**Disclaimer:**__ Rizzoli and Isles were created in literary form by Tess Gerritsen and brought to television by Janet Tamaro and TNT. I am not making any money._

Prologue

Detective Rizzoli has garnered some odd information from spending so much time hanging out with Doctor Isles in the morgue. She knows, for example, that this particular bridge is precisely forty metres high and that there is deep water below. She also knows that most of the suicides from this location that end up on her one of her friend's cold steel tables have gotten there because of the _way_ they've hit that water.

Cause of death is usually either straight-up blunt force trauma or an incapacitating injury, caused by same, and swiftly followed by drowning. Detective Rizzoli has attended enough suicide calls in her career - and witnessed enough failed talk-downs - to know that jumpers tend to hit the water full-bodied and flailing, tumbling out of control like rag dolls. In addition to knowing that that is definitely a dumb strategy, she also has an idea of what the right one is.

Like most cops, she works irregular shifts and has a shitty sleep cycle. Like most cops, she's not exactly well-paid and doesn't have the choice of premium cable channels. Whilst lying on her couch, insomniac, at stupid o'clock in the morning and randomly flicking, she's caught at least half an hour of Red Bull cliff diving and she's seen how those guys do it; feet-first into the water, arms tucked in and no pointed toes. Admittedly, she's a little fuzzy on the exact heights that the divers were jumping from but forty metres sounds about right, plus it's not like she needs to go for style points by doing fancy tricks.

Wescourt slipped and his arms were wind-milling as he tried to save himself; there is definitely no way he is going to hit the water without some kind of injury. Rizzoli isn't even sure of his chances of avoiding instant death. It's all going to depend on whether he strikes the water headfirst or not. If he lives, he's highly likely to be too injured to swim, so she will have to reach him quickly, before the current starts moving him away from where he splashes down and before he drowns.

The unfairness of it is galling to her; Wescourt had decided to live, he was inching his way back towards safety before his dress shoes slipped on the metal beam. He'd flung out a desperate hand, swinging and missing hers by inches that felt like miles, and she'd gaped impotently in response to his panicked and outraged expression. She's definitely pissed off that she couldn't grab him and Rizzoli can't discount that she's also feeling some extra sympathy for the guy; being convincingly framed for the murder of the person you love has to be enough to affect even the strongest of minds. She has faith in her gut conviction of his innocence and has at least found some evidence in his favour, although not enough to identify the real killer. There's also an odd sense of fellow-feeling from their earlier conversation in the lift, where she'd pushed at him, trying to understand how he worked.

The detective in her had attacked the notion that Paul Wescourt was genuinely in love with Danielle Mitchell until he'd displayed enough emotion to convince her. She'd attacked the notion that the two lovers wouldn't simply run to be together and to hell with the rest of the world, until his pained talk of doing the right thing for everybody had become believable. It's the last thing he said though, that sticks with her.

"Maybe love always ends with somebody getting hurt."

"God-I hope not." She was surprised at the passion of her involuntary response.

His sidelong look had contained compassion as well as grief "Me too. For your sake anyway."

All of these factors; the little, dangerous knowledge, the frustration that an innocent man was falling to his death and her empathy, could reasonably have weighed in on Rizzoli's decision to jump off of the bridge. She's wondering if she should be worried that all these of these thoughts have occurred to her onlyafter she stepped calmly off of the ledge.

She hears Maura's scream; the sound of her name ripped from the doctor's throat tears at her heart. She bitterly regrets that the other woman has to see her do yet another lunatic thing and berates herself for letting the CME accompany her to anything other than a secured crime scene with an already cold corpse. This is the part of herself that Jane isn't sure she can explain to anyone else who isn't a cop, even her genius best friend; the spur of the moment act-or-don't act decision where there isn't time to think things through and she has to trust herself to jump in the right direction. She'd be lying if she said she'd never wondered if she drew the line in the right place or if she said she'd never guiltily worried about what that means for those she loves.

Chapter 1

Just as Rizzoli is starting to be amazed at the sheer number of thoughts possible whilst plummeting between the bridge and the water (and wondering what goes through the heads of those people who actually _mean_ to die), she hits. It's like taking the biggest sucker punch of her life; an immense shockwave drills into her body, starting at her feet and travelling all the way up. The air is knocked out of her lungs an instant before she submerges and it takes everything she has to restrain her body's need to gasp. She's disoriented, her bones are still humming from the force with which she struck the surface and she's travelling downwards at an impressive rate, bleeding off momentum into the depths of the river.

She can't see anything at all through the water and she has no idea which way is up. Panic will not help her so Rizzoli quashes it quickly. Her limbs have lightened, are floating, so she guesses she has stopped falling. Her natural buoyancy should bring her back up to the surface but her gun is dragging heavily at her left hip. She unclips her holster and lets it go reluctantly. The radio is definitely screwed, so she dumps this too.

She still can't tell whether she's rising to the surface or not and Rizzoli can feel the fear she's pushed away returning. Heel-to-toe, she kicks out of her boots and then struggles out of her jacket. She's definitely rising now, chest burning with the need for air. Suddenly, she can see the surface of the water; six or so feet above her and shining like a pane of glass. She uses the last of her strength to pull towards it with long, wide strokes of her arms.

Rizzoli breaks the surface gasping greedily for air, sucking it into her lungs, heedless of the painful way it cuts at her insides. She tries her best to hold each breath in for as long as she can, to recover quickly and not hyperventilate. She's casting her head around looking and listening for her objective; Paul Wescourt. Moonlight and municipal lighting provides enough light over the river that she has some visibility but she can't immediately see him. Paddling to keep her head above water, eyes scanning back and forth, Rizzoli's becoming frustrated enough to consider diving back down to see if she can spot him drifting underwater. Then she spots an arm and the top of a head, rising and falling through the swell about fifteen metres to her right. Moving as quickly as she can whilst keeping a fix on his location, she strikes out towards him.

When she gets there, Rizzoli actually does have to dive down a little to get him. Wescourt is having trouble keeping his head above the water; he's moving jerkily, using only his right arm and leg; the left-hand side of his body seems to be useless. She slides behind him, getting her right arm under his right armpit, trying to stay away from his injured side and supporting his head against her chest and shoulder. She keeps his head above the water and lets him cough and splutter for a while, until his the rhythm of his breathing evens out.

"Paul? I got ya. You're gonna be fine." He groans weakly in response.

"Can't move my left side...can't keep my head above the water." His voice is faint and slow.

"I can help you, but I need you to stay awake. We've got a job to finish; we're going to get out of this and we're going to find Danni's killer." her tone is firm and she deliberately uses his pet name for the dead woman because she needs him to summon up whatever reserves he has left.

She begins to swim, holding Wescourt in the classic lifesaving position. She sets out for the nearest river bank but then spots a flat rectangular buoy and changes direction to aim for it; it's a better option than trying to reach the river bank and finding a way to haul a badly injured man ashore. It's a long slow grind to get there and by the time Rizzoli has struggled most of Wescourt's bodyweight onto the buoy her limbs have a heavy leaden feeling. She rests her cheek against the rough plastic, one arm keeping her tethered beside the near limp weight of the former prosecutor. She fumbles a hand clumsily to his right cheek and pats roughly, twice.

"Hey." She pats him again. "Hey? Paul? You still with me?" He shifts a little and mumbles, not entirely lucid.

"Hang on. We got help coming; someone saw me jump." She sighs guiltily thinking about it. "I hope she's OK."

"You jumped off a bridge and you're worried about the person who_ watched_ you do it?" There's knowing humour in Wescourt's thready voice and, although his pallor is waxy, his eyes are open and trying to focus on her.

"She's...not a cop. She shouldn't have to see me do stuff like this." Jane avoids looking him in the eye as she says this but she can't stop the emotion from creeping into her voice.

"Why did you come after me?" He sounds honestly curious.

"You were coming back in. It was unfair that you slipped; it pissed me off." It sounds juvenile when she tries to explain it out loud, although Wescourt is trying to nod and seems to understand the spirit of her answer.

"Thank you Detective."

Rizzoli is lying prone in the bottom of a harbour patrol zodiac, with her head propped against the inflatable rubber side. The boat is hustling through the water, leaving a wide, white wake whilst Rizzoli is stationary and exhausted. Some of the boat's crew have formed a knot of activity around Wescourt; he's being wrapped in a shiny heat blanket, his injuries are being assessed and updates and instructions are streaming back and forth over radios. She's content to leave his care to those with more energy, having used the last of hers convincing the harbour cops that she has no major injuries so that they'll let her alone to just lie there and recharge

"We'll be landing in two minutes." One of the harbour cops is leaning over her; the name tag on his vest reads Donnovan. "There's an ambulance waiting for your guy to take him straight to Mass. General." She grunts an acknowledgement. He hesitates before leaving; "I don't know if you're brave or crazy but he's gonna live."

When they get to the quayside, the EMT's are waiting as promised. Wescourt is stretchered off of the boat and swiftly transferred to the waiting vehicle. At this point Rizzoli is happy enough for him to become someone else's responsibility for a while. She waves away Donnovan's offered hand and steps shakily over the side of the zodiac forgetting, until her sodden socks touch the concrete, that her boots are now at the bottom of the river.

Jane's searching the quayside, she doesn't have to look for long; Maura's Prius is pulled up haphazardly next to the ambulance, heedless of parking restrictions. As soon as the boat lands, the other woman is outright running towards her, despite the five inch heels she's currently sporting. Maura's eyes are reddened, swollen, and her usually impeccable mascara is smudged and ruined. Jane feels a sharp pang of remorse, knowing she's the cause.

The smaller woman flings herself into the brunette's arms, hands sliding around her waist and head burrowing into her chest. Jane's arms rise of their own accord and wrap themselves tightly around Maura's back. The blonde is shaking and Jane can feel the hot weight of tears against the skin of her chest. She feels guilt but, stronger still, is the urge for comfort. She isn't sure whether she's taking or providing reassurance as she presses the long length of her body against the other woman and rocks with her slowly, murmuring wordless, soothing syllables.

The EMT's and the harbour cops are well-used to emotional displays at incident scenes and just work around them without intruding. By the time Korsak and Frankie arrive, pulling up in Korsak's cruiser, Maura has calmed a little. She's dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex from her purse, although the front of her blazer, slacks and elegant burgundy silk blouse are now soaked through with transferred water.

"Jane; I'm so sorry, I-I don't know what came over me-" she stops as Jane reaches out and rubs her shoulder gently.

"It's OK. I'm the one who should be sorry." Jane's voice is hoarse but she injects it with as much sincerity and as she possibly can.

"Janie! Doc!" Vince Korsak bustles over, swiftly followed by Frankie. Both men have concerned looks on their faces. "What the hell happened?"

Chapter 2

"I can't promise I'll never do it again." Jane's utterance is unexpected and startles Maura. They are sat on Jane's couch, backs resting on opposite armrests and legs entangled. They have showered and changed into comfortable sweats. A grease-spotted pizza box is empty on the table between them and the television, muted to a low buzz, provides the only flickering light in the room. Maura chooses to stay silent and sip her wine, patiently watching the brunette's angular profile. It is a technique she has seen Angela employ; Jane will reveal more if she simply bides her time.

"I stopped this case from claiming one more life." A twitch of the mouth; "I didn't have long to decide whether I'd jump or not." A small shrug, "I usually don't have long to decide if I'm going to act. I really did think I had every chance of surviving." The justifications tumble out one after the other but Maura can see from Jane's tense shoulders and fixed expression that she hasn't yet said what she needs to. She gives Maura a watery glance and then looks away again before she finally vocalises the root of what's bothering her. "I'm afraid that if I keep putting you through nights like this, I'll drive you away. You'll decide I'm not worth the effort." Jane's voice is raw and quiet. Her eyes are firmly fixed on the floor.

Maura feels a sharp lump in her throat; it's true that she worries painfully whenever the other woman is in danger but she can't imagine ever wanting to walk away from her. She urgently needs to not just to state that to her friend but to have Jane believe it. She tries to be both honest and reassuring.

"Your selflessness is one of the things that I admire about you; I can't ask you to stop being who you are." The blonde states this firmly. Then, honestly; "I can't stop being scared either, or thinking about how much it would hurt if you ended up on one of my tables." She can't prevent her voice from catching as she admits this and Jane's expression twists painfully. "_All_ of the fear is outweighed by the joy of knowing you, of having you in my life." Maura says this passionately and the brunette finally does look back up at her. "We've both been through so much since we met and we're both still here. I have faith in that." The doctor is deliberately trying to broadcast sincerity with her eyes.

"Me too." Jane seems to take strength from this; her voice is warmer, more definite than before, and she manages a shaky smile as she reaches out and squeezes Maura's hand. The blonde can see something in Jane finally relax and she watches with satisfaction as the tension recedes from the fine lines of the other woman's face. The detective lets out a wide yawn.

"Come on." Maura stands and tugs at the hand she is still holding. "I think a little rest is in order."

Maura wakes, habitually, an hour before the alarm. She's grateful that they stayed at Jane's last night; she is sure that sleeping in the same room as the lanky brunette, subconsciously aware of the rush of her breathing, and thus her very aliveness, is all that has allowed her to rest so soundly after the events of the evening. She rolls over onto her side and props her head up on one hand, taking the opportunity to study her best friend unobserved. Jane had fallen into bed face first and, this morning, she remains asleep in the same position; face down and sprawling, with her black shock of curls flung unevenly over the pillow. She is wearing shorts to sleep in and has kicked off the covers against the heat. Maura spends still minutes admiring the long, lean lines of Jane's tanned legs against the background of white cotton sheets. Eventually she slips quietly from the bed.

In the living room she opens the curtains and slides a sash window upwards to let in a little of the fresh morning air. It's early and peaceful; the inevitable summer heat hasn't yet set in for the day and the traffic is sparse and quiet. Maura settles, cross-legged on the floor, and begins her morning meditation. It does not surprise her when the no-mind state she's striving for proves elusive, difficult to attain. She's too joyful to exert her usual discipline; joyful that Jane has survived another danger, this time miraculously unscathed. Each thought of the lanky detective provokes another, self-propagating, distracting her further away from the calm plateau that is her goal.

Maura accepts that her relationship with Jane is at once both the most simple and the most complicated relationship that she has ever had with another human being. It's simple because she loves the other woman unconditionally and it's complicated because unconditional means not wanting or forcing more than Jane will freely give and take. The emotional ties between them indisputably run both ways and there are many tight and tangled threads binding them together, from their mutually-supportive professional symbiosis to the way that they have each wound their own definition of family tightly around the other.

This makes what they are to each other hard to describe to anyone else; they are more than friends but less than spouses, although here had always been a strong physical attraction between them. The flirtatious undertones of their interactions have never led to the logical outcome but remain an ever-present feature. Maura knows that, for her, this is a form of honesty; a way of constantly reminding Jane, without pushing too hard, that this final intimacy would be willingly shared. The doctor opens her eyes and runs her fingers through the loose tangles of her hair, abandoning her attempt at meditation. The purpose of the practice is to clear her mind, to combat her innate tendency to overthink, and today it clearly isn't working. She rises to her feet and pads off in search of some fresh clothing.

Maura's timing is excellent; she is has just reached the foot of the bed when the alarm goes off.

"What the-owww! I hurt like crap." Wincing as she hits the off button, Jane's normally husky voice is a high whine.

"Hmm…remember that the next time you think about jumping of a forty metre high bridge." The detective collapses limply back onto the mattress, seemingly affronted at the lack of sympathy.

"Not helping Maur!" Jane whinges.

"There are some analgesics-"

"Mmmpff!" The brunette buries her head even more deeply into her pillow and Maura takes pity on her.

"-_painkillers_ and a glass of water on the bedside table." She waits patiently as Jane fumbles the pills off of the table and swallows them down.

"Is that…coffee?" Jane's bleary brown eyes sharpen almost lustfully as she notices the cup in Maura's hand.

"Yes. Ah-uh." She takes a deliberate step back, out of easy reach. "You get the coffee when you've drunk all your water." Maura's expression is firm but she can't prevent the teasing note in her voice; the look the detective gives her causes her to react playfully.

"Fine." Maura watches Jane lever herself stiffly up against the headboard, mock glower at her through a curtain of dark curls and chug the remainder of the glass defiantly, without losing eye contact for a second. The blonde can feel herself biting her lip trying not to smile at the detective's childish response.

"Hydration is important Jane." She allows herself a satisfied smirk as she hands Jane the coffee mug. "Go and take another shower; it'll help loosen up your muscles and give the analgesics time to take effect. I'll head down to the deli on the corner and buy us some breakfast." An accusing tilt of the head; "You have nothing at all in your kitchen."

"I have Lucky Charms!" Came the token protestation.

"And barely enough milk for two cups of coffee." Maura tosses the rejoinder sweetly over her shoulder as she exits the bedroom, unable to keep her hips from swaying. She's pleased when Jane holds the mug poised at her lips and openly watches her go, dark eyes burning above the china rim.

Chapter 3

"What have we got?" Rizzoli perches on the edge of her desk and swigs her coffee. Nina has followed her into the bullpen and picked out a chair. Korsak and Frankie are sat at their own desks, swigging their own morning coffees.

"One body and one prime suspect, who we now have evidence was framed. No motive and no other suspects. Plus a link to a murder that a guy already went down for." Frankie sums it up succinctly.

"What if Wescourt was the target all along and Danielle was the means?" suggests Rizzoli. He seems more likely to be the type to have enemies than a young bartender, plus someone had made a real effort to make sure his prints were there at the scene.

"If we're going to think of Wescourt as the target, then we have to consider his wife as a suspect. She finds out her husband's having an affair and-" Korsak's hands make vague circular motions in the air "-crime of passion."

"Are you sure that's not your own tragic romantic history talking?" Frankie's jibe is swift. He takes every opportunity to point out that Korsak must be spectacularly bad at marriage to have run through three wives.

"It's statistically common. And I least I managed to persuade three women to marry me." huffs Korsak, glaring at Frankie. "How many have agreed to marry you?" Rizzoli smirks but tries to keep the pair of them on task.

"Carol Wescourt didn't know about the affair until we arrested her husband." She points out. "Why go to the trouble of setting the crime scene up to match the Hess murder? Is the killer trying to make some kind of a point?" _Surely, _she thinks_, there has to be a reason for mimicking the earlier murder?_

"Revenge maybe?" Korsak mulls her idea over. "The perp, or someone he's close to, blames the prosecutor for the conviction?"

"Why the prosecutor?" Criticises Frankie "Why not the cop that closed the case? Or a witness that testified against him?" Rizzoli has to admit internally that her little brother has a point but there's no way she's saying that out loud.

"Wescourt didn't use his own name to sign the hotel register and we don't know which room he stayed in." She reminds them both. "We need to go and talk to him again anyway." Korsak nods in agreement.

"I got the call from the hospital just before you walked in. He's awake enough for questions. You and I" he indicates Rizzoli "go to the hospital and then try again for that warrant. You two", looking at Frankie and Nina, "start digging through the trial records."

"Check out his office staff too." Adds Rizzoli "They seemed awfully quick to abandon Wescourt when we arrested him; find out if anybody stands to get a promotion with him out of the way."

Jane is silent on the drive over to Massachusetts General. She ought to be shuffling through the facts of the case in preparation for the interview but instead her thoughts are wandering whilst she stares vacantly out of the window. She can't help being dragged back to the memory of the glorious vision of the curvaceous CME exiting her bedroom, smiling back over her shoulder, hazel eyes glowing brightly.

In spite of the stereotypes associated with tough women who carry guns, Maura's the first woman that Jane's ever been attracted to. Initially she'd found it profoundly uncomfortable, like some kind of bizarre second puberty, focused on just one person. In the early stages of their friendship, she'd pushed it down, ignored it. Now, well, she can't quite pinpoint exactly when she just accepted it. Part of the detective knows that she is already more intimate with Maura than she has ever been with anyone else, sex be damned, and that the physical act would almost be a formality. _Yeah, _she mocks herself internally, _an awesome, mind-blowing formality that you've come to really, really want and have no idea how to ask for._

The detective knows that this morning marks a change. She isn't quite sure why she hadn't felt the need to hide her appreciative look but knows some final barrier has dissolved. She _is_ sure that the smile her look prompted had been one of pleasure. The memory of it has her shifting in her seat a little. Korsak's string of curses and half-slap of the car horn startle her out of her daydreams. The steel and glass of the hospital entrance is closer than she realised. Whilst her fellow detective gestures angrily at other motorists, Rizzoli puts her professional head on and tries to get her shit together.

"Ward nurse says he's in room 715." Korsak announces cheerfully. Rizzoli peers at the hospital signage, trying to make sense of it and sighs. She hates hospitals; the overwarm air and the smell of soft, bland food bring back anxious memories. They troop along the corridor until they find it. As the detectives enter the hospital room, they see Wescourt is awake but not alone; Carole Wescourt is fussing around her husband's bed, pulling small bottles of fruit juice and mineral water from an expensive-looking leather shoulder bag and arranging them on the bedside table.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?" Rizzoli announces their presence. The red-headed man gestures down the length of his body with his right hand; his left is tightly pinned against his body in a dark blue fabric sling and the bed sheets are tented by a metal structure that keeps them away from his left leg.

"A little sore but, all things considered, not bad. Thank you detective." His intonation makes it clear that he's not just thanking her for asking.

"We have a few more questions." Rizzoli gets right to the point. She sees Wescourt's eyes dart quickly sideways. It doesn't take a genius to see that he's going to be unwilling to give her details about his illicit love affair in front of his wife. She fixes her gaze on the other woman. "We're going to have to ask you to step outside Mrs Wescourt."

"I thought you believed my husband was innocent." Carole Wescourt isn't budging.

"We do." Korsak's voice is calm, reassuring. "We're looking for the real killer but your husband is still officially under bail conditions for this offence. We do have to follow procedure." And then, with smooth sympathy, already escorting her towards the door, "We'll take up as little of his time as we can." He shuts the door gently behind her and Rizzoli shoots him a grateful look. They both turn their attention back to Wescourt and get down to business.

"We haven't found any reason why anyone would want to kill Danielle. But somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to frame you for her murder." _And to stage the murder scene so that it resembles the one from the case that made your career._ Rizzoli doesn't mention this piece of information; they're currently keeping it under wraps. "We know she came to court for every day of the Jasmine Hess trial. Wasn't that a bit careless?" Wescourt shakes his head at her assumption.

"She didn't come to the trial because of me. We met during the Jasmine Hess trial."

"You met Danielle during the trial, not before?" Korsak asks.

"Yes." Wescourt nods.

"If she wasn't attending court to see you, why was she there?" He turns his head towards Rizzoli as he answers.

"She knew Jasmine Hess." Wescourt gathers the energy to explain further; "Jasmine and Danni were school-friends in their early teens. One day Jasmine just vanished; Danni said she cried for weeks. She found out later that Jasmine's mother was in an abusive relationship. She skipped town and took her daughter with her to escape, they changed their names and started a new life." The prosecutor sips at a plastic cup of water. "Danni spotted her in some pictures on a social media site and recognised her. She tracked Jasmine down, managed to get an e-mail address. They were supposed to meet up the day after the murder. She came to the trial every day because she never got to reunite with her friend." Wescourt slumps back against the pillow, eyes closing. Rizzoli can see droplets of moisture caught in his copper eyelashes as he struggles not to break down.

"I'm sorry Paul; I know this is hard." She pats his uninjured leg lightly. "Did anyone threaten you during the trial?"

"No. I exchanged some words with the defendant's father but didn't think anything of it; it's normal for the family of the accused to be convinced of their innocence, especially when it comes to murder." She can see from the set of his mouth that he's noticed she's focusing on this particular trial.

"Got a name?" Korsak interjects.

"Eriksson, Craig Eriksson." Korsak scribbles in his notebook and Rizzoli continues.

"Any threats lately? From other cases or your personal life?"

"No." The lines on his face are becoming more pronounced; Wescourt is getting weary.

"Last thing;" she promises "When you signed the register at the Walden hotel, you used a fake name. I need that and the room number."

"Fifty-seven. I signed in as 'Paul Smith'."

"Thanks. Rest up and I'll let you know as soon as we find something." Rizzoli tries to make her voice sound reassuring. Korsak nods politely and the two of them take their leave.

Chapter 4

They're sat in downtown traffic, en route to the Walden hotel, fresh from the courthouse. Wescourt's already been charged and bailed and the judge isn't inclined to let those charges drop. They'd managed to convince him to leave the case status as open; it's a technicality that will allow them to continue officially working the case on the state's time. Korsak is driving and Rizzoli sits in the passenger seat, drumming her fingers idly on the dashboard to the beat of whatever prehistoric rock song Vince's default radio station is playing.

"Jane?" He startles her out of her reverie.

"Hmm?"

"Nina came to see me this morning." Rizzoli can't predict where he's going with this, so just gives him a questioning look. "She felt bad about letting the Doc back you up last night; she thinks she should have gone with you instead." He hangs it out there and waits for her reaction. Rizzoli frowns.

"Nina's an analyst, she's not a cop any more than Maura is; she has no reason to feel guilty."

"She was a uniform; she's carried a gun and gone on callouts. She passed the detective's exam." Korsak looks sideways at her. "There was an incident during her last week as a uniform; she shot and killed a suspect. Right after that she turns down a detective slot in Chicago and takes the analyst job here." Rizzoli chews her lip. Now she knows where this is headed.

"She's having a change of heart?"

"Uh-huh." Korsak gives her a casual affirmative, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Was it a clean kill?" She asks.

"Yes. I reviewed the file. It was by the book. I'm leaning towards giving her a try." Rizzoli considers it; the pain of losing Frost has started to dull a little and they are short-handed, despite Nina already plugging a gap in their technical know-how. An extra detective, even a green detective, would give the team more flexibility.

"I don't object." She can't bring herself to give a ringing endorsement but it satisfies Korsak and he lets it drop.

"Why this particular hotel?" Rizzoli changes the subject. Korsak chuckles;

"The Walden is the Boston rendezvous of choice for rich folk who are up to no good. Somewhere plush that takes cash and doesn't keep many records. If we raided the entire hotel, I guarantee at least half the people we'd surprise would have friends in high places." Rizzoli raises dark eyebrows.

"Frankie said the manager was kinda dodgy." Hunting for a parking space, Korsak doesn't reply.

When they get inside, they don't even have to approach the desk; the hotel manager spots their overloaded belts and badges and scurries quickly across the floor to meet them. Rizzoli dislikes him immediately; from his fine, fussy over-combed blonde parting and conservative glasses down to his sober charcoal suit and polished wing-tips. He's - she searches for the kind of word Maura would use - far too _obsequious_ for her taste.

"We'll need access to room fifty-seven." Rizzoli announces, without preamble.

"Do you have a warrant, detectives?" He smiles insincerely.

"I don't need a warrant;" Rizzoli steps into his personal space "this is a public place. Now take us up there." He visibly shrinks away from her and does what he's told. There's some small satisfaction when they enter the bathroom and their suspicions are confirmed. The colour of the flush handle matches the rest of the bathroom fittings but the shape and style doesn't. They're now sure of how Wescourt's fingerprints ended up in Danielle's flat.

"Well, at least we were right about one thing." They both pull on latex gloves and Jane unzips her toolbag and gets to work.

"Crime lab got tool marks off of the first handle." Korsak supplies "Hopefully they'll get matching marks off this one."

"We still need to find a wrench to match them to." Rizzoli narrows her eyes and focuses as she gives her wrench the final, gentle, twist and eases the fitting free. Korsak slides the brass handle into an evidence bag and seals it.

"Let's get this back to the crime lab and break for lunch." She nods.

"Good call. I can swing by the morgue and see if Maura's free."

"Is Doctor Isles okay after last night?" he asks carefully, as they're walking out.

"Do you think I was wrong to let her come with me?" She's genuinely unsure what he'll say.

"Honestly?" Vince snorts "I'm not sure you could have stopped her, given that she wasn't likely to be in any physical danger, but that wasn't what I meant." Jane quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at him and he elaborates. "A willingness to risk your life for others can really put a strain on a relationship. Taking risks in the line of duty was one of the things that forced my second marriage onto the rocks."

"Maura and I aren't married." She points out the blindingly obvious calmly, aware that she's deflecting. Korsak makes a dismissive gesture.

"Not the important point here."

"I scared her good but we talked it out she's nice enough to forgive me." Jane huffs, thinking back to her conversation with the blonde before bed last night. She'd die before admitting it to Vince but she's touched that he's checking up on her.

"See; we're _modern _cops talking about _feelings_ isn't so hard." The grizzled sergeant rewards her more sincere answer with a cheerful, teasing grin. Rizzoli pretends to scowl and they drive back to the precinct in comfortable silence.

"If you've returned to continue haranguing me Detective Crowe, I assure you I _will_ submit a formal complaint to Lt. Cavanagh." Doctor Isles' voice is icy and she deliberately does not remove her gaze from the open chest cavity of her current subject until she has made the final snip and removed the heart, cradling it safely in one hand. When she does look up, her hazel eyes are fierce, expecting the blustering, middle-aged detective who, seconds ago, had been rudely ordering her to rush her autopsy. What she sees is Jack. Jack her boyfriend. With his eyes wide, his mouth agape, swaying on the spot.

"Oh my god…Maura…" His face is white, one hand is rising towards his mouth and Maura can predict the next event with absolute certainty. Most of her brain is paralysed by the sheer implausibility of the situation. Reflex kicks in, her free hand rises and points and she yells automatically.

"SINK! Now!" Before he has a chance to move, Jane Rizzoli and an unfamiliar man with a gold shield at his belt burst through the autopsy suite doors both with weapons drawn. Jack vomits directly onto his shoes. There's a long moment of stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Jack's retching. Rizzoli holsters her gun slowly, looking utterly confused, and the unfamiliar detective follows her cue. Jack turns on his heel and sprints for the door as fast as he can move. Doctor Isles places the heart she is still holding carefully in a stainless steel bowl and then snaps off her latex gloves.

"Would someone mind telling me what on _earth_ is going on?"

"I found a text message from Jack saying he wanted to surprise me for lunch." They're sitting in the Dirty Robber and Maura is eying the burger Jane insisted she order, knife in hand, carefully calculating the optimum angle from which to cut it in half.

"Figures. I asked some questions when you were finding out that evidence report for the detective from Stationhouse 2." Jane raises her eyebrows significantly. "Detective Jacques." She pauses, partly for dramatic emphasis and partly to chew her way through a small cluster of French fries.

"Searching out." Maura corrects absently. Then, as she slowly catches on to the fact that it's her turn to be teased; "Are you going to enlighten me or not?"

"Have you broken a mirror recently Maur? Maybe kicked a black cat?" The doctor doesn't bother to restrain her impatient pout. It has it's intended effect; Jane's lips curl up at the corners, then she makes a giving-in gesture with her hands and lays it out.

"Ok, ok. Detective Jacques rang ahead before he came to pick up the report, so the front desk knew he was coming. Jack turns up, asking for you, and the cop on the front desk makes an assumption." She rolls her eyes sarcastically as she says the word. "He gives Jack directions to the morgue thinking he's a cop. Before he checks his ID, a perp from a drug bust kicks off in the lobby. The desk cop gets distracted, buzzes Jack straight through and runs off to help." Jane pauses for a bite of her own burger.

"At which point, the boyfriend with whom I've carefully only ever discussed the _outsides _of puppies walks in to find me bending over an open cadaver with a heart in my hand." The doctor's eyes widen in understanding. She covers her face with her hands and her shoulders begin to shake. She feels the brunette reaching out and stroking her shoulder, concerned, until she lets the laughter spill through her fingers.

"At least you seem to be taking it well."

"I'll be fine Jane; Jack was nice - perhaps a bit _too_ nice to cope with the 'Queen of the Dead'" Maura sounds out the air quotes with her inflexion, solely to provoke the fond smile the detective gives her "and we hadn't been seeing each other very long." Maura shrugs. As the doctor wipes her eyes, still grinning, a loose end occurs to her; "That still doesn't explain why you and Detective Jacques ran in with weapons drawn."

"Detective Jacques turns up, I overhear the desk cop querying it and I thought…y'know; evidence thieves, serial killers, mobsters…the usual." Jane's busily inspecting the table-top, looking faintly embarrassed.

"Jane, _Jane._" Maura runs a hand up the brunette's arm and rests it there until the detective's brown eyes are willing to meet hers again. "Thank you for having my back." She says sincerely. Several seconds pass before the doctor realises that her fingers have been unconsciously stroking gentle patterns on the firm skin of the detective's bare forearm and several more before she realises that Jane hasn't broken eye contact or shifted away. There's a light flush to the brunette's cheeks that suddenly makes her swallow.

Jane's cell buzzes, startling them both. She checks the screen and her forehead creases apologetically.

"It's Korsak; sorry, I gotta go. Catch you later?" She nods and Jane flashes her a wide smile, replete with dimples, before getting up and heading back to the station. Maura sips at her ice water, suddenly in need of a little cooling. This is the second time today that the Italian has looked at her with open arousal. It's an escalation of their ordinary, already flirtatious interaction, or perhaps simply an evolution. More importantly, it's an invitation.

Chapter 5

Jane's a little light-headed as she makes her way back to the bullpen. Jack's messy departure from Maura's love-life feels like the cosmos granting her a giant favour and the CME's lack of upset at the turn of events had made it hard for her not to grin like an idiot throughout the entire meal. The skin of her arm still tingles. Frankie's at his desk, stuffing the last few bites of a pastrami sandwich into his mouth. He washes it down with a gulp of bottled water and beckons her over.

"Is Maura ok? I heard about the mix-up in the morgue." She nods at him.

"She's actually taking it pretty well; even saw the funny side." Frankie looks relieved and she cuffs him lightly on the arm, pleased that her brother cares. Korsak chooses this moment to walk back in carrying a manila folder. He waves it at them.

"Results from the crime lab; the marks on the second flush match the first."

"Still gotta find the wrench." Rizzoli points out lazily; she's feeling replete and full after her lunchtime burger. Sensing that her head isn't fully back in the game, Korsak gives her a teacherly glower over his reading glasses before turning to Frankie and Nina.

"What did you two dig up on the trial?"

"The perpetrator's father; his name is Craig Eriksson." Frankie brings up a DMV license photo on the flatscreen. The man in the photo is in his fifties, he has a solid slab of a face with receding reddish-blonde hair. "It's noted in the court records that he was warned for disruption several times and the judge threatened to charge him with contempt."

"There's more." Frankie adds "He got in Wescourt's face outside the courtroom too. Uniforms wrote up an incident report but let him off with a warning." Korsak nods sagely.

"Wescourt mentioned him by name. Anything else?"

"Yeah." Nina replaces the DMV photo with digital map and an address. "As of eight weeks ago Craig Eriksson and his wife Judy moved from Jackson to Boston. They're now living in Jamaica Plain."

"All right." This Eriksson seems worth looking into. Rizzoli stretches and grabs her jacket. "Let's go and check this guy out."

The Eriksson house is a white, wooden-walled two-bed, set up on bricks. The white paintwork and it's sea-blue trim are neat and well-maintained. Rizzoli wonders if this is the work of the Erikssons or the previous owners. Although tidy, the small front yard is an uninspiring square of closely cropped grass with only a rusted chain-link fence to mark the boundary. Rizzoli and Korsak climb the porch steps and Rizzoli reaches out and pushes the brass button of the doorbell.

Rizzoli guesses the age of the woman who answers as about mid-fifties. There are dyed red highlights in her straight, shoulder-length brown hair and she's wearing jeans and an off-the-shoulder cream sweater that fails to conceal the extra weight she's carrying around her waist and hips. Her eyes flick immediately to the gold shield displayed on Rizzoli's belt.

"Detectives Rizzoli and Korsak, BPD. Are you Mrs Eriksson?" The other woman nods. "Is your husband here ma'am? We'd like to ask him a few questions." She steps back and lets them both into the hallway without protest.

"He's in the living room." They follow her through, refusing the offered coffee or tea with shakes of the head. Eriksson's sitting at the dining table with an open laptop in front of him. He stands as they enter the room and Rizzoli notes that his DMV photo doesn't do him justice; the receding blonde hair and weathered face were accurate but he's also at least six-five and probably weighs in at around two hundred and twenty pounds. Crushing the throat of Danielle Mitchell and posing her on the bed would be a piece of cake for a guy this size. All four of them settle on the three-piece suite.

"Detectives Rizzoli and Korsak, BPD." She restates their names for his benefit.

"Is this about my son?" He's polite but there's an undercurrent of worry in his question.

"Not directly, no." Rizzoli feels tension ebb from both of the Erikssons at her answer. She decides to get straight to the point. "Where were you two nights ago?"

"Out to dinner with some friends." She's watching him carefully as he replies and sees nothing in his face to suggest a lie.

"We're going to need their names and contact details." Korsak states flatly, maintaining the pressure.

"I can give you that." Mrs Eriksson pulls out pad and pen from the drawer of a drop-leaf writing desk and begins to write. Her husband fumbles in his back pocket, pulls out a misshapen leather wallet and extracts a clump of receipts. Eriksson shuffles through them and holds one out to her.

"I paid by card; this is the receipt, you're welcome to it." His pale blue eyes regard her steadily. "Are you going to tell us what this is all about?"

Rizzoli lays the morgue headshot of Danielle on the coffee table.

"Have you seen this woman before?" Both Erikssons look at the picture; Craig Eriksson's mouth tightens and his wife outright flinches as they realise the photo was taken post-mortem.

"No." His wife shakes her head in agreement.

"She's been murdered." Rizzoli pauses, continuing, "She was involved with the lead prosecutor from your son's case and we think she may have been murdered to get to him."

"We've got reports on file that say you and him had more than one confrontation." Korsak's statement hangs in the air and the implication is clear.

"Sam, our son, kept telling us he was innocent until after he was convicted." It's Judy Eriksson that volunteers the information. She winds her small fingers into her husband's large hand as she talks.

"I wanted to believe him. It blinded me." Rizzoli can hear the hint of shame in Eriksson's voice. "I was angry at the prosecutor because I didn't want to look at the evidence and see that my son had done this terrible thing." He looks her directly in the eye as he continues "Sam is guilty and it's right that he's punished but he's still my son."

"_Our _son." Judy Eriksson adds firmly. He squeezes her hand gratefully. Rizzoli has to admit that Eriksson has a solid alibi and the motive longer seems to apply. Korsak's silence indicates that he can't think of any more questions either. She'll check his story with the other dinner guests to be sure but this feels like a dead end.

Chapter 6

There are six of them squeezed into their booth at the Dirty Robber; Maura, the three detectives, Nina and Susie Chang. Although they are mid-case, Korsak has insisted they get together for one after-work drink so that he can formally announce Nina's change in status from analyst to detective. Doctor Isles appreciates that he's included Susie and herself in the invitation; it's an acknowledgement that, although they are outside of the ranks of the police department, they are an intrinsic part of the investigative team.

"Any plans for the weekend Nina?" Vince asks, qualifying "Provided we get a break in this case."

"I'm going to have to go shopping for some more street-suitable clothes." The black woman gestures at the pencil skirt and heels she's currently wearing with a slight hint of regret; "I don't think this is gonna cut it."

"It's very good of you; to sacrifice wearing high heels and skirts for the pursuit of justice." Her sympathy is only half in humour; Maura's glad that her job doesn't require her to chase down suspects and thus limit her wardrobe. She'd truly regret losing the pleasure of expressing herself daily via her clothing. Jane rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Of course that's the first place your brain goes." Jane's voice is thick with playful sarcasm.

"Some people actually _like _dressing nicely." Maura retorts airily. Nina grins as Korsak adjusts his tie with an exaggerated flourish and joins in on the teasing.

"I can't remember the last time I saw you in a dress off-duty, or anything that isn't sweats or jeans." The blonde keeps silent; on the rare occasions she's been lucky enough to see Jane in a dress, she's enjoyed the sight immensely, finding the brunette astonishingly beautiful. Socially inept or not, she knows this isn't the kind of thought she should voice aloud in front of all their colleagues in the middle of the Robber.

"I wear high heels and dresses on dates!" Snaps the brunette defensively. Maura can tell that minute the words are out of her mouth, Jane regrets them; she's just provided a new avenue of attack. Frankie snickers.

"When Ma can blackmail you into going on one." His sister glowers at him down the table.

"Maybe I'll mention to Ma that you're thinking of settling down but you can't find yourself the nice Italian girl you'd like." She threatens. Maura's amused to note Frankie's smirk is swiftly turning into a look of panic.

"Don't you dare." He mutters, swigging his beer whilst the rest of table smiles.

Maura and Jane are the last two remaining; the others have drifted off home, or to run errands but the two of them have been slow in finishing, sipping at their drinks. Maura feels no reason to hurry away; even sitting in silence she prefers the brunette's company above anyone else's. It's a Thursday night and the density of the bar crowd is increasing; they cede the booth to a polite foursome and stand by the bar to finish the remainder of their drinks. Jane leans against the bar, elbows resting on the polished wood and the neck of her beer bottle dangling from her fingers. The angle stretches her torso and the bunching of her rectus abdominis muscles creates ripples in the pale blue cotton of her shirt. Maura wants to reach out and trace them with her fingertips.

They're lost in each other, openly staring, with shy smiles on both their faces, which is why neither of them notices the two men approaching. The taller of the two, sandy-haired, flannel-shirted and with a glass of draught beer in hand, is eying the shield at Jane's belt with a cocky grin on his face. _A handcuff enthusiast_ the blonde decides, remembering the detective's classifications of the types of men that approach her in bars. Maura is unnerved by the sudden wave of territorial possessiveness that sweeps through her.

The doctor doesn't think; she simply acts. Her right hand reaches out of it's own accord to Jane's belt buckle and Maura tugs sharply, pulling the brunette's hips towards her own. The detective straightens her torso automatically, rebalancing herself. The effect of their closer proximity and Jane's sudden shift to an upright position is that the full length of the brunette's lean body is suddenly pressed up against her. Maura's hands slide naturally around the detective's waist and come to rest at the small of her back. The warmth radiating from the other woman's body and the scent of her skin are intoxicating.

The sheer effort of will required to supress an undignified 'oh' of pleasure utilises every available neuron. She feels Jane's sharp, involuntary exhalation hot against the skin of her neck and Maura's hands briefly, automatically, tighten in response. Her cognitive processing faculties are definitely impaired because it takes her moment to recall the reason for her original action. She turns her head to look at the detective's would-be suitor, without raising it from it's new resting place on Jane's shoulder.

"She's not available." Maura directs the comment at the man who had been eyeing Jane. Normally polite to a fault, she's amazed at her own bluntness. All awareness of the two men vanishes when she realises that Jane's body is shaking softly against her. The blonde's hands begin rubbing soothing circles on the other woman's lower back. She pulls her head back and the expression of nervous vulnerability on the brunette's face, combined with smouldering eyes darkened by dilated pupils, makes her feel utterly protective.

"We should probably talk." The doctor mumbles.

"Yeah." The detective's smoky tone is huskier than usual and they are both breathing harder than normal for two people standing still.

"Walk you to your car?" Maura offers weakly. Jane nods. They disentangle themselves from each other slowly and, leaving the dregs of their drinks on the bar, navigate their exit to the car park.

Maura's turning things over in her mind, trying to find the perfect way to begin the conversation. She's still deliberating by the time they reach Jane's car. The Italian seems to sense her difficulty and the doctor is grateful when the other woman voices her thoughts first.

"I don't know how to move from being one thing to another." The brunette is twisting her fingers and fidgeting. "I really, really want to," Jane makes eye contact as she admits this aloud. She's visibly blushing. "I just don't know how to start the ball rolling." The detective's shy confession of desire and it's contrast with her normally confident manner is the most enchanting thing Maura has ever seen. She has to fight the immediate urge to press the other woman up against her cruiser and begin kissing her frantically.

"Sometimes we need a ritual to formalise transition." She's trying to make a practical suggestion but she's distractedly watching the flush spread to the vee of skin revealed by the open buttons of Jane's shirt instead.

"Whoa, Maur; don't you think it's a bit early to be proposing?" Jane's chuckle makes it obvious that the brunette is joking. Maura smiles back at her; that Jane can still tease in a moment of intensity reassures her.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a date." The words hang there, satisfyingly weighty; she's wanted to say them for a long time. Maura recaptures her earlier boldness; "And I want to see you in one of those dresses."

Chapter 7

Jane's in the elevator on her way up to the bullpen. She has a tray of take-out coffees anchored in her left hand and a pastry box balanced in her right. She's earlier than usual, as is her habit when a case is stalling. It's a habit shared by the rest of the team, which is why the coffee tray is still full, despite the hour. The detective has already delivered one more cup and a smaller pastry box to the basement.

Jane and Maura had exchanged throaty good mornings, bright smiles and blushes whilst the blonde doctor closed up her first autopsy of the morning. It's normal for the detective to drop something by when she knows the ME has had an early start but lately her craving for her friend's company has increased, as if she has developed some kind of minimum daily requirement. Jane is well aware that she's passed the point of no return, falling just as surely as when she stepped off of the bridge, and equally aware that she's willing to step off of this particular ledge because she trusts Maura to catch her.

The chime of the elevator snaps her attention back to the present and she steps out into the corridor. As predicted, when Rizzoli enters the bullpen she sees Frankie and Nina already there. By the slightly crumpled look of them, they've already put in a few hours. She plonks two of the cups from her tray down on the desk next to them.

"Americano, three sugars." She points Frankie at one cup and nudges the other towards Nina. "White tea." They both pounce on the cups and start inhaling greedily. When she flips open the lid of the pastry box Frankie starts grinning.

"Oh Janie! I love you." He grabs for a Danish and proceeds to cram as much of the pastry into his mouth in one go as he can.

"So, you gonna tell me what you've been working on?" She looks at Frankie with innocent expectation. His mouth is clogged with pastry; crumbs are escaping over his chin and onto his shirtfront. He does his best to scowl at her with just his eyes. Jane smirks and arches an eyebrow in Nina's direction. Both women start laughing.

"We've identified every public and private security camera with a view within a hundred feet of either Danielle's apartment or the Walden hotel." Nina explains, taking pity on her temporarily mute co-worker. "That's a huge amount of footage but we're combing through it as fast as we can, trying to find something, anything, that'll give us a lead." She rubs at her eyes.

"Good thinking, both of you." Rizzoli means it. It's brutally boring work and she's grateful for the effort, although she can't help being a little pissed at herself for not being able to come up with a lead to narrow down the range of their search. Korsak bustles in and snags himself a pastry. They fill him on what they have, such as it is.

"We got no link to the Hess trial, other than the posing of the body at the scene, we got no personnel or professional vendettas;" Korsak pauses meaningfully "we gotta start looking at the wife." Nina and Frankie have gone back to combing through CCTV footage and Rizzoli is leaning on the older detective's desk; they're chewing over what to do next.

"I agree." She nods and takes a sip of her coffee, thinking. "Carole Wescourt would have been able to plant the hairs we found in Danielle's shower drain. She claimed she didn't know about the affair until after we arrested him though; that was her reason for not putting up the bail money."

"She could just have been acting surprised." Korsak offers. "Wescourt insisted that Danielle used a burn phone to communicate but our trace shows he used his regular work cell to receive texts and e-mails." He sneers. "Dumbass. And what wife doesn't snoop through her husband's stuff?" Rizzoli refrains from making any comment that will result in the sergeant getting side-tracked into discussing the evils of matrimony.

"If that's how she knew, we can't prove it. At the moment we can't even put her in the area at the time of the murder." She stares into space for a few moments, thinking back to her impression of Mrs Wescourt.

Rizzoli pictures her; tautly curious when they had arrived at her home to question her husband, barely holding back hysteria when he was missing and, finally, fussing around her husband's bedside. _Tightly wound_ is how Rizzoli would describe her. The obvious explanation is the stress of the last few days; finding out that, not only is her husband having an affair, not only may he also be guilty of murder but, in addition, that he's chosen to try and commit suicide. Or she could be a killer nervously covering her tracks.

Paul Wescourt had reacted as if her behaviour was normal, indicating later that he thought of her as fragile, suggesting that his wife being ruled by her emotions was nothing new. Types like that tended towards crimes of passion, as Korsak had put it yesterday, and passionate criminals take risks. Rizzoli voices her thought;

"If this is a crime of passion, maybe she wanted to look her victim in the eye before she killed her. Do we have a picture of Carole Wescourt?" Korsak nods and taps his finger against his monitor, indicating the web page already loaded.

"She's a property developer, she has a website. I'll mail the link to your cell." Rizzoli nods her thanks.

"I'm going back to the bar Danielle worked at to show that around." She grabs her jacket and keys. The hunch might not pan out but it strikes her as an idea worth pursuing.

"I'll stay here" decides Korsak "and see what I can learn about her movements from her cell phone GPS and bank records."

When Rizzoli gets to the bar they're stocking up the fridges and filling up bowls of peanuts, getting ready to open up. She spots the waitress she's looking for dumping bags of change into one of the tills and walks over.

"Nikki, isn't it?" The girl looks up and nods.

"Hi Detective. Are you close to finding out who killed Danielle?" There's hopeful look on her face that Rizzoli feels guilty for shooting down but she's learned never to exaggerate progress to the friends and relatives of victims or give false hope. The detective offers the only consolation she can.

"We're still looking and we're not going to stop." She steers the conversation around to the reason for her visit; "I have a few follow-up questions."

She pulls her smartphone from the holder on her belt and taps the web browser to bring up Carole Wescourt's property page. Enlarging the photo, she turns the screen to the young waitress.

"Have you ever seen this woman hanging out in the bar?" Nikki nods.

"About a month ago; I remember her because she was older." The implication is that, if Carole Wescourt is old, Rizzoli herself is practically a grandmother. Rizzoli can feel her left eyebrow twitch, just a hair, and the waitress hurriedly clarifies; "Most of the people who come in here are in their early twenties."

"Can you remember anything that stood out about her?" The detective asks hopefully.

"Yeah," The young woman chews at her lip "her clothes looked expensive. She was here on her own, sitting at the bar and she kept staring at the waitresses." Nikki shrugs awkwardly avoiding her eyes "We thought maybe she was a lesbian or something."

"Thanks; that's really helpful." And it is; it catches Carole Wescourt in a lie and provides her with motive all in one go. Rizzoli decides it's worth keeping a sarcastic reply to the lesbian assumption behind her teeth in exchange.

"Do you think she killed Danielle?" Nikki's a little hesitant, as if she's not sure whether it's okay for her to ask.

"We're checking into every possibility we can think of." It's the detective's standard, although somewhat kinder, version of _no comment_. The information Nikki's given her is a decent break though, so she consoles herself with the thought that she might soon be able to provide Danielle's family and friends with more definitive answers and the comfort of closure.

As she's striding from the bar towards her battered Crown Vic, Rizzoli's already thumbing Korsak's number on the speed-dial of her phone.

"Korsak."

"One of the waitresses recognised Carole Wescourt from the photo." She doesn't bother with any niceties, just gives him the information. "That bar caters to a young crowd; there's no reason she'd go there, unless it was to get a look at Danielle."

"Alright!" Rizzoli can virtually hear Korsak's fist pump. "That should give us enough to get a search warrant for the wrench. Her electronic data gives us nothing;" he adds, summarising his own progress, "GPS indicates that her phone remained on at home all evening and there was no bank account or credit card activity."

"We need that wrench." She replies. "The fact that she visited the bar is circumstantial."

"Yeah." Korsak agrees. "I'll get the warrant and the search team together and meet you at the Wescourt house." Her cell goes dead as the call disconnects and Rizzoli starts her car.

Chapter 8

Rizzoli's leaning on her desk swigging at a cup of lukewarm coffee, Korsak's either in the john or in hot pursuit of a doughnut. Carole Wescourt is cooling her heels in a holding cell whilst the homicide detectives wait for the crime lab to run comparisons between the tool impressions they have in evidence and likely-looking items that have been seized in the search of the Wescourt home. She'd like a match before going into the interrogation; at the moment they have precious little leverage with which to push for a confession.

"We got somethin'!" Frankie and Nina hustle through from the analysis suite. They both look puffy-eyed and wrinkled but they're grinning and Frankie's waving a print-out triumphantly. "We've been through all the CCTV footage," his shoulders slump a little, "it was a real grind."

"We checked out every person and vehicle that got captured." Nina continues. "We found a rental car parked near Danielle's apartment around the time of the murder and got a copy of the rental agreement." Frankie perks up at this point and thrusts the print-out into her hands. Rizzoli grins; the picture on the copy of the license is unmistakably Carole Wescourt, although the surname is different.

"Old license in her maiden name?" she guesses. If they hadn't gone to the trouble of getting a copy of the rental agreement, it might not have been spotted.

"Uh-huh." Nina confirms. "And she paid for the rental in cash."

"Good job." There's real warmth in her voice as she says it. "We're waiting on the tool-mark analysis before we question her but this will really help." She considers their worn appearance with sympathy. "You guys have been hard at it all day; why don't you take a break? I'll keep you updated." Frankie nods gratefully and turns to Nina.

"Interest you in a nice greasy burger?"

"Hell yes." The dark woman's smile is weary but genuine.

Rizzoli's desk phone rings as the two of them are on their way out and she grabs it quickly, spotting the crime lab extension on the display. It's Susie Chang; the crime lab has matched a wrench recovered from the Wescourt search to the tool impressions on the brass flush handles. They've gone from one piece of evidence to three. It's time to interrogate Carole Wescourt.

The detective knows from experience that the majority of suspects waive their right to counsel. She'd lay money, given Carole Wescourt's comment to her husband on his own arrest –_ 'I thought only guilty people needed lawyers'_ – that Mrs Wescourt will be one of these. Sure enough, as she walks into the interrogation room, she sees the other woman sat alone on her side of the table, in the corner, back to the wall and facing the silvered glass of the observation window. Korsak is already in his place on the other side of the table and there's a female uniform keeping impassive vigil near the door.

Rizzoli pulls the other chair out and sets it down in line with Wescourt's side of the table, so that the three of them form a right angle, with their suspect as the mid-point. The detective looks the smaller brunette over once more as she sits, taking in the carefully tended wavy bob and perfectly plucked eyebrows. She appraises the expensive-looking grey silk shirt and her eyes linger on the object resting just below the hollow of her throat; it's a crucifix, rather than simply a cross, with the additional tiny gold representation of Jesus fixed to it's surface.

"How old were you when you had your confirmation?" asks the detective, nodding at the necklace.

"Seven." Mrs Wescourt answers absently, eyes shifting to the right as she recalls.

"The 'Age of Reason'. Me too." Rizzoli nods, acknowledging a shared background. "If you have kids, will you raise them in the Catholic faith?" If she's puzzled at the detective's seemingly off-the-cuff personal questions, Carole Wescourt doesn't show it. She considers for a few heartbeats and touches her crucifix lightly with a finger.

"Yes. At the time I thought Catholic school was harsh and restrictive. On reflection I believe it provides sound moral values." The detective notes the leftwards track of her gaze as she considers her answer. The other woman is being co-operative so far and it's allowing Rizzoli to get the baseline she needs; the feel for the other woman's body language that will aid her in judging the truth from a lie.

Korsak makes a show of pointing a remote at the wall camera and stating the date, time and their names in a neutral, matter-of-fact voice. Rizzoli knows that the camera has been rolling since before she entered the room but this declaration serves another purpose; to remind Carole Wescourt that she's here for an interrogation. It's the first step in applying the pressure they need to bring to bear on their subject in order to get to the truth.

"Three nights ago, an innocent young girl was murdered." Rizzoli watches the flare of the other woman's nostrils as she utters the word 'innocent'; _interesting._ _"_Her name was Danielle Mitchell. During the course of our investigation, we determined that someone had gone to a great deal of effort to make it look like your husband had killed her." The detective keeps her gaze direct, making it obvious that she's scrutinising the smaller woman's reaction. "We think that person was you."

"Absolutely not." Carole Wescourt's denial is forceful but she's holding her body and eyes deliberately still, trying to give nothing away. Rizzoli's gut nags at her, giving her the conviction that the woman is lying. She begins laying out their evidence.

"The wrench we took from your house matches the tool-marks on the flush that was planted in Danielle's apartment." This is the obvious link, the one their suspect already knows about.

"So my unfaithful husband helped his mistress out around the house." There's a hint of disdain in her reply.

"We found the same tool-marks on the flush in your husband's hotel room. Someone switched them out deliberately, to get his fingerprints into that apartment; hardly a thing he'd do himself." The detective quickly counters her attempt at an explanation, an arched eyebrow inviting further comment.

"And you think it was me? I didn't know about his sordid little fling." She sneers, then diverts. "Anyway, how would I have gotten into the hotel room?"

"Oh, it's easy enough to flag down a concierge and pretend to have forgotten your key." Korsak comments, almost pleasantly. "I'll bet that, when we follow up with the hotel staff, one of them will recognise your picture." There's a calm confidence in his voice. Rizzoli can sense that Mrs Wescourt is about to issue another denial, so she jumps in first with another question.

"When did you find out your husband was having an affair?"

"When you arrested him for murder." A flicker of eye movement indicates thought, rather than recall.

"I can place you in the bar where Danielle Mitchell worked. Not only that, my witness tells me you were more interested in the waitresses than the customers. So, let me ask you again;" Rizzoli's standing as she growls the final words out, one hand on the table, leaning in and over Carole Wescourt "when did you find out your husband was having an affair?"

"I didn't-" Rizzoli slaps her palm decisively down on the desk, cutting her off and making her jump.

"We know differently." The detective begins pacing the short distance up and down the width of the interview room. Once again, her intuition is telling her that the other woman's façade of control is brittle. "It was clever of you to leave your cell-phone and credit cards at home." Her tone is back to even and reasonable again.

"Renting a car using cash and your old driving license was pretty clever too." Korsak's comment comes, as expected, at just the right time, startling Mrs Wescourt; she'd been focused on Rizzoli. She brushes her hair back over one ear, twisting a strand around one finger. Now that he has her attention, he opens the plain manila folder in front of him and pushes it across the desk. The hand playing with her hair twitches as she sees the copy of the rental agreement. No denial is forthcoming, only silence.

Rizzoli's a veteran of hundreds of interrogations and she knows she needs to lead their suspect into revealing her motive and then on into a confession whilst she's still off balance. If she has a sudden attack of common sense and demands a lawyer, the interview will be over immediately and they'll lose their chance.

"We've got solid evidence against you and I'm sure you're sat there thinking about how Massachusetts isn't a death penalty state and you've got nothing to lose. What's really at stake here is whether you ever see daylight again." Rizzoli pauses for a second, letting the impact of her statement sink in. She has to persuade the other woman that confessing is in her own best interest. "Telling us the truth now could make the difference between twenty years and life without parole."

"Anger, the desire for revenge; I can understand your motivation." The detective's voice is soft. The Italian approaches the other woman slowly and perches on the edge of the desk, touching her lightly and companionably on the shoulder. She drops her eyes momentarily to the crucifix and then glances down to the ring on Carole Wescourt's left hand before looking her in the face again. "He made a sacred vow and he broke it." There's a twitch of the lips; Rizzoli can tell she's hit a nerve.

"Marriage is about more than just sex." Blurts Mrs Wescourt; she looks surprised at herself, as if she hadn't intended to speak. "I supported him financially, through unpaid internships and junior positions, until he passed his bar exams." Her mouth is pinched, as if she's tasted something bitter.

"Then his career in the DA's office took off;" Rizzoli shrugs sympathetically "all those formal events stood by yourself or making small talk with strangers, while he makes new political connections. Not to mention the evenings you spent at home alone because of the late nights at the office and the business trips."

"Some of those nights, he was with that whore!" The exclamation bursts out of her in a mixture of anger, fear and relief. "She wanted the fancy lawyer, in his expensive suits; _he wouldn't have been that man without me."_ Carole Wescourt's eyes are bright with almost-shed tears and her shoulders are hunched.

"You decided to take back everything you'd given him and you used Danielle to do it." Mrs Wescourt nods almost imperceptibly at her statement; Rizzoli senses that she's close. "Tell me what happened." She takes care to keep any judgement from her voice.

"He betrayed me." The tears have overflowed and are now rolling, unheeded, down her cheeks. "I killed that girl because I wanted him to suffer for it." Her voice cracks on the admission and she slumps, defeated.

Rizzoli lets out a long breath. They have her. They'll have to walk Carole Wescourt through a lengthier, more detailed confession and get it witnessed but usually, after a suspect has broken, they become eager to complete the formalities and escape the interrogation room. The detective knows that one of her particular follow-up duties will be to visit the hospital and break the news to Paul Wescourt. Rizzoli isn't looking forward to it; she no doubt that any of the comfort the lawyer may gain from justice being done will be outweighed by guilt and self-recrimination.

Epilogue

When Jane had answered her door in a form-fitting red dress, Maura's heart had almost leapt from her chest. It wasn't only the exquisite length of leg revealed, or the contrast between the Ferrari red fabric and the midnight-black curls cascading over her shoulders but also the knowledge that Jane had chosen her attire with the doctor's pleasure in mind. Their interactions over dinner had been both familiar and new at the same time; the usual combination of work-related and teasing chatter spiced with blushing compliments and deliberate touches. With no case to distract them and the prospect of two upcoming rest days, they finally have time to revel in what's been building between them. When the car pulled up at Maura's Beacon Hill home, there was no question that Jane would accompany her inside.

Jane has already taken advantage of the opportunity to remove her red high heels, slipping them off and abandoning them next to the kitchen island. Maura finds the expression of relief that she makes whilst flexing her feet sweetly comical. The brunette wanders over to the kitchen radio; she flicks it on and begins scanning through the channels. _Displacement activity_ realises Maura; Jane's fiddling with the radio and her own inability to choose an appropriate bottle of wine are outward reflections of the nervous anticipation they are both inwardly feeling. Maura selects a bottle at random; her hands perform the uncorking process swiftly and automatically. Jane is leaning against the counter, watching her, as she approaches and offers the brunette one of the glasses.

"Thanks." The taller woman takes a sip from the glass as it's handed to her. The blonde's eyes are drawn to the movement of her throat as she swallows. There's no noise in the kitchen but the soft, classic jazz emanating from the radio. Maura idly wonders why Jane has made this particular selection.

"When I was little girl, my father used to put the radio on and I used to stand on his shoes. He'd dance me around the kitchen." The brunette answers the question she hasn't asked. In her mind's eye, Maura can see child-Jane; a curly-haired little girl, balanced on top of her father's feet and laughing wildly as he pirouettes her around the kitchen. It's a beautiful image, one she's a little envious of. The doctor places her own wineglass on the counter, then reaches out and takes the glass from Jane's hand. Maura captures the brunette's fingers gently in her own.

"You're a little too big to stand on my shoes…" she murmurs, smirking, pulling at their entwined hands and tugging the other woman gently towards the middle of kitchen. The blonde slides her left arm slowly around Jane's waist and the other woman reciprocates; they both shiver at the contact. As she raises their linked right hands to the proper position Maura realises that, with her in heels and Jane barefoot, they are almost the same height. She's surprised by how much this pleases her. Taking care to avoid the detective's bare and vulnerable toes, Maura begins to lead.

The blonde guides the Italian with small presses against her hand, soft insinuations of her hips and the sway of her body. It's breath-taking how naturally they move together, anticipating and mirroring each other's motions. Maura has lost track of how many times the song has changed, she registers only that there is no longer any space left between them; they are flush against each other, heads resting on opposite shoulders and arms looped about waists, pulling themselves forward. The blonde has held Jane in her arms before, hugging her or offering comfort, but never whilst they were both wearing dresses; she's suddenly conscious of how little fabric there is between them, the warmth of the other woman's body and the feel of the swell of Jane's breasts pushing against her. The heat of it has her blood singing in her ears.

Maura's lips are inches from the pulse point in Jane's neck; she only needs to turn her head slightly to make contact. She is sure, at least for now, that this is another area in which she should lead. She inhales Jane's natural intoxicating scent,_ spiced vanilla,_ she thinks absently, as her lips meet soft skin. As she sucks lightly, the shudder of pleasure she feels passing through the Italian's body spurs her on to lavish kisses up the elegant column of the brunette's throat. Soft moans heighten and sharpen Maura's need to possess, she pulls back for a moment to look at her almost-lover; Jane's dark curls are wild, her pupils dilated and her face is flushed with arousal. Maura has never seen her look more beautiful. She smiles lovingly into the familiar dark eyes and cups a hand around a sculptured cheek, stroking her thumb gently over the cleft in the brunette's chin and drawing their faces together.

When their lips finally meet, the blonde is overwhelmed by the multitude of sensations; the kiss is liquid, full of heat, and, as their mouths move desperately against each other, hands tangle reflexively in soft hair. Their kisses swiftly become fiercer, their breathing coming in ragged gasps. Maura can feel Jane's hands sliding over the curve of her hips and cupping her ass, pulling her ever closer. Her own left hand has migrated, without her knowledge, to cup one of Jane's firm breasts. The knot she can feel at the centre of her palm makes her own nipples tighten almost painfully. Clothing is suddenly too restrictive; Maura craves the sensation of skin-on-skin contact.

"I think we should move this to the bedroom." The doctor is amazed at the breathiness of her own voice.

"I've never…" Jane's husky voice falters and she drops her gaze. Maura strongly suspects she knows how this sentence is going to end but she holds Jane in the circle of her arms and waits patiently for her to finish. "I've never slept with another woman before." There's anxiety in her expression as she looks back up.

"I have" The blonde intends this to be reassuring but the statement doesn't ease the nervousness on the brunette's face so she continues, admitting her own vulnerability; "but I've never slept with someone that made me feel so much. There's a lot that's new for me too." At this, Jane smiles and the anxiety finally leaves her face. Maura places a quick, tender kiss on the end of her nose and begins leading them both towards the bedroom.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_

_If you've made it all the way to the end, then the first thing I should say is thank you! This the first thing I've ever written and, despite it's flaws, it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling to have finished it. Constructive criticism will be gratefully received but no comments about spelling please; I'm proudly British ;-)_

_I caught on to this show a little late, via re-runs, and watched the first part of S5 box-set style. At the time I began writing this, there were three months to go before S5E13 was due to air; the frustration of waiting months for a resolution may have been what started me off. Plus, I'm pretty certain I know who the killer is…I've tried to go for a balance of crime and fluff here; I think it's probably obvious that the crime bits came more naturally than the fluffy ones though! _

_Thanks again for reading,_

_ChuckieEgg. _


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