See Jane Die (11 page)

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
2:00 p.m
.

S
tacy surveyed the scene, struggling for objectivity. Fighting to forget her sister outside, pale as a ghost save for the nasty gash on her forehead. She'd fainted. Luckily, a neighbor had been close by and had come to her aid. And called the police.

Ian had arrived just after she and Mac; he was with Jane, looking stunned.

Could he be that good an actor?

The normally easygoing Mac looked ready to explode. “We're too late,” he muttered. “Son of a bitch!”

She didn't comment. What could she say? They had blown it.

The first officer handed them his preliminary report. “Place is as neat as a pin. Purse accounted for. Contents of jewelry box seem intact.”

“Doors and windows?”

“No sign of forced entry.”

No surprise there. This was no random killing, no botched robbery. It was an execution-style killing—deliberate and to the point. The most bizarre part—Tanner's attacker had stuffed her bra in her mouth.

Stacy turned back to Mac. “What are you thinking?”

“We need to check her past. Could be she had some unsavory connections. Drugs. Organized crime.”

That didn't sound like the Marsha Tanner Stacy had met, but people who ended up this way often were not what they seemed.

Pete Winston arrived. He looked anything but happy to see Stacy. He had been the coroner's representative at the triple the night before; like her and Mac, pulled in to assist. The DPD wasn't the only city agency being laid low by the flu.

“Killian,” he said, “always at the center of the action.”

“No rest for the wicked,” she replied, an unmistakable edge in her voice. “You're looking a little green around the gills.”

“Feeling it, too.”

“Then keep your distance,” Mac muttered. “I've got too many cases to get sick.”

“What can you tell me right now?” Stacy asked.

Pete sent her an irritated glance as he fitted on his gloves. “I'm calling this one a homicide.”

“No shit.”

“You want more? Back off and let me do my job.”

Unfortunately for him, backing off wasn't in her repertoire. “At least give me an estimated TOD.”

He picked his way across the bloodied floor, careful not to disturb evidence. “Judging by her lividity, she hasn't been dead long,” he said. “A matter of a hours, five, maybe six. Body temperature will tell the tale.”

Stacy did the math and glanced at Mac. About the time they'd planned on visiting the woman somebody had been killing her. She saw by her partner's expression that he had done the calculation, too.

“We fucked up, Killian. Big time. Captain's going to have our asses.”

“No joke.”

“You question your sister yet?”

“No. You want in?”

He nodded and together they made their way to the front porch. Jane sat huddled there, Ian with her.

“You up to a few questions, Jane?” Stacy asked, squatting in front of her.

Stacy saw her sister swallow hard. Saw Ian tighten his arm around her. Voice quivering, Jane said she was.

“Tell me again, what brought you here today?”

Stacy listened carefully as she explained about stopping to see Ian, finding that Marsha hadn't come in to work and deciding to stop by to check on her—even though Ian had discouraged her suggestion.

Mac turned to Ian. “You discouraged it? Why?”

“I figured she…Marsha must be really bad off—” he paled “—really sick. She's never just not called in before.”

“And you didn't find that odd.”

“Sure. I found it damn odd.”

“Yet you didn't check on her?”

“I called. Several times. So did Elise.”

“Elise?”

“My esthetician. Marsha didn't answer. There wasn't much else we could do, patients were coming in.” He glanced at Jane, then back at Stacy. “We both had a full book today.”

“Then wouldn't Jane checking on her have been a perfect solution?” Mac pressed.

Ian looked flustered. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. Just trying to get a clear picture of your thought processes.”

“Jane's pregnant. I didn't want her to be exposed to the flu or…worse.”

She had been exposed to much worse, Stacy thought. Some of the worst life had to offer.

She redirected to Jane. “Tell me exactly what you found when you arrived.”

Jane nodded and began, her voice broken and so soft Stacy had to strain to hear. “I rang the bell and Marsha didn't…The dog was barking in back…it made me
think…something was wrong. He was her baby and—” Jane's eyes swam. “Has anyone checked on him? He might need food or water. He's probably…frightened.”

“We'll take care of him,” Stacy said gently. “Don't worry about him.”

“But where will he go? Marsha didn't have any children or—”

“In situations like this, pets go to the pound until next of kin claims them.”

“No!” Jane looked from Stacy to Ian. “Marsha would hate that. We can't…not after what's happened.”

“We'll take him, then,” Ian said. “Ranger will have a buddy.”

A lump formed in Stacy's throat at the sweetness of the offer. At the way her sister looked at her husband, love and gratitude shining from her eyes.

Stacy cleared her throat and directed the conversation back to the sequence of events. “What happened after you heard the dog barking?”

“I figured no way she would just leave him outside like that. I felt certain something was…wrong. So I tried the door.”

“Did you see anyone? Hear anything except the dog?”

She shook her head. “I noticed…a bad smell. I figured she was—”

“What?” Stacy prodded, though gently.

“Sick,” she finished, looking miserable. “I thought she was sick.”

Mac turned to Ian. “In your practice, you do many breast implants?”

The question obviously caught the doctor off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Breast augmentation, you do many of them?”

“What does that have to do with—”

“Do you?”

“I used to do a lot of them. In my previous practice.”

“And now?”

“Some. I specialize in facial reconstruction.”

“There any money in that? Facial reconstruction?”

Ian glanced from Mac to Stacy, then back. “I need to get Jane home. Can this wait?”

“Just a couple more questions. Is there? Good money in reconstruction?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the patient. Whether they have insurance or not. Whether their insurance will pay and how much. I try not to turn anyone away.”

“You're a regular saint.”

Ian flushed at the sarcasm. “I like to help people.”

“Do you do any cosmetic work anymore?”

“Some. It pays the bills.”

“But you're married to a wealthy woman. Doesn't she pay the bills?”

Jane made a sound of distress. Ian helped her to her feet, expression grim. “I'm taking my wife home,” Ian said stiffly, helping Jane to her feet, arm protectively around her. “If you need anything further call me there or at the office.”

“Dr. Westbrook?” Ian looked back. “The killer stuffed Marsha's bra in her mouth. Why do you think he did that?”

“How should I know?”

“What time do you go into the office in the morning, Dr. Westbrook?”

“My appointments start at nine.”

“So you leave your house at eight?”

“Thereabouts. Some mornings earlier, some later.”

“What about this morning?”

“Pardon?”

“This morning, early? Late?”

Stacy wouldn't swear to it, but Ian seemed to pale.

“Early,” he replied, tone terse. “Like I said, I had a full book. I had some calls to make, patient files to review.”

“Thanks for your help,” Stacy said. “We'll be in touch.”

Stacy watched as Ian helped Jane into the car, then whirled on her partner. “What the hell did you think you were—”

“Doing? That should be obvious. My job. Sound familiar, Stacy?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“What I'm talking about is, for a major league ball-buster, you're doing an awful lot of hand-holding here. You want to talk about that?”

“What I want to do is process this scene. That okay with you?”

She started past him; he caught her arm, stopping her. “Why do you think the killer stuffed a bra in her mouth? The symbolism is striking, don't you think? How many boob jobs do you think he's done? Five hundred? A thousand?

“We've got two murders,” he continued. “Both victims connected to Ian Westbrook. Tanner here was murdered not even twenty-four hours after we spoke with her,
before
we had a chance to question her again. Vanmeer was a patient of his and according to her ex, his lover as well. The guy from the elevator at La Plaza, Mr. Braves cap, has the same build as Westbrook.”

“Everything we've got is circumstantial,” she argued back. “Big time.
General
build and coloring? Come on, that's worse than weak. Besides,” she added, “he's got an alibi for the night of Vanmeer's murder.”

“But his wife's his alibi, which makes it less than ironclad. Wouldn't she say or do anything to protect him?”

Stacy opened her mouth to deny it, to argue that Jane would never obstruct justice, then swallowed the words. Jane loved Ian so deeply, so completely, she would fight his innocence until the end.

But would she lie for him?

He leaned toward her. “As you know, cases have been made, and won, on circumstantial.”

“What about motive, Mac? You got that figured out, too?”

“Yeah. One as old as time. Money. Your sister's a very rich woman. How do you think she'd feel if she discovered he was unfaithful to her?”

Stacy saw where he was leading. Ian was having an affair with Elle Vanmeer. The woman had threatened to go to Jane; he'd killed her to keep her quiet. Then, when he'd become a suspect, he'd killed the one person who knew his comings
and goings and could absolutely corroborate his affair. His office manager.

Stacy felt ill. It all made sense.

But it couldn't be true.

Mac made a sound of disgust. “I think you'd better face the facts, Stacy. Your brother-in-law is hip deep in shit right now. And unless something dramatic happens, its only going to get deeper.”

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
3:30 p.m
.

J
ane paced her living room, hair wet from the shower, skin still tingling from the hot spray. The moment she had gotten home, she had run to the bathroom. Without even waiting for the water to heat up, she had ripped off her clothes and stepped in—desperate to cleanse herself of the smell of death. The memory of it.

Though the soap and shampoo had washed away the odor, the memory haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the woman, face purple in death, mouth stretched obscenely to accommodate what she now knew had been a bra.

Jane brought her trembling hands to her face. She felt ill. Agitated. At once like sobbing and swearing. Crying for Marsha, her end. Cursing a world where one human being could commit such a heinous act against another.

Ranger growled, low in his throat. Jane looked his way. He watched her, the hair along the ridge of his back raised. She wasn't certain if he sensed her distress or smelled death.

Jane pressed her lips together, thinking again of Marsha's dog. Ted had offered to keep the Pomeranian until a
permanent home could be found for her. She had been grateful, she knew her assistant would take good care of the animal.

Ian had gone back to the office to cancel his appointments for the next few days. He had hated to leave her, had made Ted promise to check on her. He had been shaken. Confused. Marsha was dead. Murdered. The police, including Stacy, seemed to think he had something to do with it.

It was crazy. Insane. Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her senses filled: with the sound of the dog clawing at the door, the smell of death, the taste of her own vomit.

She dropped her hands. Ian had nothing to do with this. He wasn't capable of such an act. Stacy knew that. Why hadn't she told her partner? How could she have allowed the man to speak to Ian that way?

The front buzzer sounded. Jane went to the front window, eased aside the drape and peered down at the street. Her sister's Bronco was parked at the curb, in the fire lane.

Jane began to tremble. Her first instinct was to hide. Pretend she wasn't here, or that she was asleep. Her next was to fight. To respond to the anger that even now surged through her. Anger that the police had treated Ian like a criminal, that Stacy had allowed them to do it.

Jane crossed to the intercom and answered it. “Yes?”

“Jane, it's Stacy.”

“Don't you mean Detective Killian?”

“I suppose I deserve that.”

“No suppose about it. What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you. Can I come up?”

“I don't think so.”

“I'm on your side. I'm on Ian's side.” She lowered her voice. “It's important, Jane.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Without replying, Jane hit the buzzer, then headed for the door.

She met her sister on the first landing. Her sister looked
tired. She bent and petted Ranger, then straightened and met Jane's eyes. She read apology in her gaze. Regret. But for what. The past? Or what was to come?

“I wanted to check on you. How are you holding together?”

“About as well as possible.” Jane folded her arms across her chest. “Considering.”

“How's your head?”

Jane touched her forehead, the big bandage the EMT had placed over the cut. “It hurts. But not as much as—” She didn't finish the thought. It landed, unspoken, between them, anyway.

As much as having found Marsha that way
.

“I'm sorry you had to…see that. I know how brutal the first time is. I got sick. Embarrassed myself in front of the entire crime-scene crew.”

Jane's anger dimmed. It was a side of her feelings Stacy had never revealed before. She motioned her inside.

They climbed the last few stairs and entered the foyer. Jane led her to the kitchen. “Coffee?” she asked. “Iced tea?”

“Nothing. Thanks.” Stacy motioned to the chairs grouped around the kitchen table. “Why don't you sit?”

“I don't think so.” She tilted her chin up. “Who are you here as, Stacy? My sister? Or a cop?”

“Maybe both.”

“That's not possible.”

“It's the best I can do. I'm a cop, Jane. It's not just what I do, but what I am. I can't separate myself from the job. But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about you. About the…baby. And worried about Ian. Really worried about Ian.”

Jane stared at her a moment, her world seeming to shift slightly. “I think I will sit down.”

They both sat, Stacy swinging her chair to face her sister's. “I have to ask you a few questions, Jane.”

“About Ian?”

“Yes.”

Jane gripped the chair's arms. “Go ahead.”

“Are you absolutely certain he was home Sunday night?”

The night Elle Vanmeer was murdered
. Fear snaked up her spine, leaving a chill in its wake. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“All night?”

The cold night air clinging to him. He'd been outside
.

Why?

“Yes.” She felt the need to explain, to prove she was telling the truth. “We ate in. Ian grilled steak.”

“Then what?”

“We cleaned up, talked a bit. I went to my studio to edit a piece for my show.”

“And Ian?”

“His study. To catch up on his medical journals.”

“How long were you holed up in your studio?”

“I don't know—” She brought a shaky hand to her head. “Several hours.”

“From what time to what time?”

“I don't know!” She jumped to her feet, swaying slightly. “Why does it matter? Why—”

“Because it does, Jane.” Stacy followed her up, caught her hands tightly. “Trust me, it's a matter of life and death. Think, you have to think.”

Terror left her weak-kneed, trembling. She sat back down. “We finished dinner at seven-thirty or eight. Cleaned the kitchen. I went to the studio, he went to the study.”

Stacy did the math. “So at nine-thirty or ten you left the studio—”

“Ian woke me up. I'd fallen asleep and—”

“Fallen asleep?”

Jane's heart stopped at the way her sister jumped on that. She shouldn't have offered that. But to keep anything from her now would make Ian look guiltier later. It would undermine her testimony.

“Yes,” she continued. “I asked him the time, he said ten but—”

The clock in the living room. It had indicated the time was two hours later than that, after midnight
.

That wasn't right. She rubbed her head. It couldn't be.

“What, Jane? What are you remembering?”

“Nothing. Today…it was…such a…shock. That's all.”

“So, he woke you up about ten?”

“Actually, he didn't wake me. The nightmare did. He heard me scream and came to the studio.”

Stacy looked pleased with the answer. She paused, as if to assemble her thoughts. “Ian grew up in Atlanta, didn't he?”

“Just outside. In Athens.”

“So he's a Braves fan?”

“The Braves baseball team?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose. Though he's not a big baseball lover. Doesn't really follow the sport.”

Stacy stood and crossed to the window. She gazed out at the city skyline, spine ramrod straight, expression set. Jane sensed that conflict raged within her.

After several moments, she turned. “Jane, I have to ask you something else. You're going to be angry with me, but I have to ask, anyway. And I need you to be completely honest with me, no matter what.”

Jane nodded, unable to find her voice.

“Are you certain Ian has been faithful to you?”

“You can't possibly—”

“Has he been faithful, Jane?”

“Yes! He's been faithful. I'm absolutely certain.”

“You'd testify, under oath to these facts. Just as you relayed them to me.”

Fear took Jane's breath. She brought a hand to her mouth, then dropped it. “Testify? Why? What aren't you telling me, Stacy?”

“I shouldn't be here…shouldn't be telling you this, but it doesn't look good for Ian. I suggest you contact a lawyer.”

For a moment, Jane couldn't breathe. She felt as if the universe had tilted on its axis. “You can't be serious. Please tell me this is some kind of joke.”

“I wish it were.”

Jane swallowed hard.
The cold clinging to him. The dis
crepancy with the time
. Where had Ian been that night, while she slept in her studio? Not at La Plaza murdering a woman. Never.

Ian was the most gentle man she had ever known. Honest. Morally upright. He could no more have done this than chew off his own hand.

Why couldn't Stacy see it, too?

“Why are you doing this, Stacy? Jealousy? Punishing me for marrying Ian? Or for grandmother's prejudice?”

Color flooded her sister's cheeks. “I can assure you, this has nothing to do with me. It's about evidence, Jane. Compelling evidence.”

“I don't believe you.” She got to her feet. “There is no evidence. There can't be. Because Ian had nothing to do with this.”

“I'm trying to help you. If you'd just listen—”

“Help? That's what you call this?” Jane's voice rose. “You're trying to pin this on him. You could look in another direction if you wanted to.”

“I wish I could change things. But I can't. It's out of my hands.”

“Why do you hate me so much!” Jane cried. “What have I done to hurt you?”

“By coming here I've jeopardized my career,” she said stiffly. “And this is how you repay me? Thanks, sis. Thanks a lot.”

Jane folded her arms across her chest, mind whirling. This was a nightmare. She would wake up screaming any moment.

The boat captain turning back, readying to make another pass at her. To finish the job
.

Her nightmare, it was happening. Just what she had subconsciously feared.

She was losing it all.

“Jane? Are you all right?”

No. She might never be all right again
.

“It's time for you to go.”

Stacy opened her mouth as if to speak, then without a
word, turned and started off. She stopped when she reached the kitchen doorway. “I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I really am.”

Jane stood frozen until she heard the downstairs door slam shut. Then she sank onto a chair and sobbed.