See Jane Die (13 page)

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
8:50 p.m
.

I
t took Jane a few minutes to locate Whitney Barnes's home number, but she did, on Ian's PalmPilot. She had found the device tucked into his jacket pocket, retrieved the number, then slipped the device into her handbag, just in case she needed it later. Whitney, Whit as he was known to his friends, was Ian's corporate attorney and longtime friend.

Voice shaking, Jane explained what had happened. He ordered her to sit tight; he would be there in fifteen minutes. He also suggested she call a family member or friend for moral support.

Jane started to dial Stacy's number, then remembered that her sister was one of the bad guys. She called Dave instead.

At the sound of his voice, she burst into tears. He, too, promised to be there ASAP.

She hung up and began to pace. To the front windows to peer anxiously down at the street, then back to the kitchen. She made coffee, remembered she couldn't have caffeine and tossed it, then filled the kettle with water for herbal tea.

She wrung her hands, talked to Ranger and prayed out loud, vacillating between despair and disbelief, anger and
pleading. At a sound from out front, she hurried into the foyer. She ripped open the door, jogged down to the street level entrance, only to discover that no one was there. The whistle of the kettle dragged her back to the loft.

Finally, the buzzer sounded. With a cry, she raced to answer the intercom. Not Dave or Whit. Stacy.

“I just heard,” Stacy said, sounding out of breath. “I came as quickly as I could.”

It took Jane a moment to find her voice. “You just heard? Please, you're one of them.”

“I'm not! I was taken off the case this afternoon. For conflict of interest. Reprimanded by my captain. I didn't know this was coming, I promise you.” She lowered her voice. “We're sisters, Jane. Family.”

Now they were family. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd been singing a different song
.

Jane sagged against the wall, hurting. World falling apart.

“I don't want you to be alone.”

“Don't worry about me. I called Dave.”

“You told me to come to you when I was willing to meet you halfway. I'm here, Jane. Please let me come up.”

A cry bubbled to her lips. “Now? Why, Stacy? Because I'm beaten? Because I had everything and now it's gone?” Her voice rose. “They took my husband away in handcuffs!”

“I didn't want this to happen. I don't want you to be unhappy.”

She didn't believe it. Why should she? She told her sister so.

For a long moment, Stacy didn't respond. When she did, she sounded weary. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

For several minutes, Jane stood at the intercom, bereft. Then with a cry, she darted for the stairs, raced down them, crossed to the door and yanked it open. “Stacy!” she called. “Wait!”

She was gone
.

“Jane!”

She swung around. Dave was hurrying toward her.

She ran to him; he folded her in his arms. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No.” Her vision blurred with tears. “They took Ian away. They think he murdered those two women!”

“It's already on the news.”

“So…soon? How?”

“I don't know. I'm sorry.”

Whitney Barnes arrived. He hurried across the sidewalk, a tall, slim and elegant man. “I came as quickly as I could. You know Dallas traffic.”

Jane introduced the men. After they shook hands, the attorney looked at Jane. “Why don't we go upstairs?”

She nodded and led the two men into the apartment, to the living room. She faced the lawyer, hands clasped in front of her. “He didn't do this, Whit. He's innocent.”

“Ian called before he left the office this evening, so I know the sequence of events thus far. Tell me exactly how it went down tonight.”

“They handcuffed him. Told him he was under arrest for both murders.”

“Did they read him his rights?”

“Yes.”

“Here are the facts of life. You'd better sit down.”

She did, on the couch. Dave stood protectively behind her, hands on her shoulders.

“Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded and he began. “Since they arrested Ian, they feel they have enough to charge him. However, they can hold him forty-eight hours before indicting, another two days before they arraign him. The arraignment is when they officially charge a suspect. Since the clock starts ticking the minute they charge him, they'll no doubt use every minute they've got.”

“What do you mean, the clock starts ticking?”

“Right to a speedy trial, Jane. A right granted by the U.S. Constitution. In this state, from the time he's arraigned, the state has one hundred and eighty days until they must bring their case against him to trial.”

“A hundred and eighty days,” she repeated weakly, doing the math. Six months. Ian, locked up in that place for six months. How would he bear it? How would she?

“This can't be happening, Whit.”

“But it is. And knowing what to expect will make it a little easier.”

She supposed he was right, but that wasn't the way she felt. Right now, nothing could make this easier. Or better. Save for Ian walking through the door, a free man.

“At the arraignment, Ian will enter his plea and the judge will set bail.” He held up a hand, warding off her response. “Don't get excited. In Texas, there's no bail allowed on a charge of capital murder.”

“Capital murder.” She looked from Whit to Dave, confused. “What does that mean?”

“Among other things, the murder of more than one person.”

She felt ill. She brought a hand to her mouth. Dave squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

“They'll book him at the Frank Crowley building. I'll head down there, though I probably won't learn much this time of night. In the morning, I'll visit the D.A.'s office, see if they'll share what they have on Ian. Some district attorneys prefer to keep their evidence as close to the vest as possible. Some prefer what they have out in the open, right up front. If a case is weak, they'd rather know it and plead down or get out. Save themselves the trouble and the state the money.”

“And our D.A.?” Dave asked.

“Terry Stockton tends to be pretty open. But he can be a hard-ass. Depends on which way the wind's blowing.”

Whit stood. “Sit tight. As soon as Ian's booked, he'll be allowed to see counsel. I'll talk to him, tell him you're fine, make certain his rights haven't been violated in any way. Nothing substantial will happen until tomorrow.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“You're not going to be allowed to see him, Jane. There's nothing you can do.”

“He's my husband, I'm going.”

Whit looked at Dave, as if for support. Dave shrugged. “She's made up her mind, my friend. I know from experience that when Jane makes up her mind about something, she's immovable.”

“All right, then. However, a word of warning, the Frank Crowley Courts Building isn't exactly the center of civilization. Especially this time of night.”

“I'm ready,” she said, standing. “I can handle it.”

Wednesday, October 22, 2003
11:25 p.m
.

S
he had been wrong—she hadn't been ready, hadn't been able to handle it. The Frank Crowley Courts Building had been busy, even at such a late hour on a weeknight. Hookers, cops, gang bangers and drunks mixed with angry relatives, lawyers and shell-shocked victims—creating an odd, sometimes frightening, mix of humanity.

When a drunk had puked on her shoes, she had lost it herself. She, however, had made it into the john before she'd tossed her cookies. Then, alone in the privacy of the bathroom stall, she had fallen apart.

She had pulled herself together through sheer force of will. Because she had to be strong for Ian.

And because she
was
strong.

Just as Whit had said, he had been allowed in to see Ian, but she hadn't. Ian, he'd reported, was shaken but otherwise fine. He had been worried about her.

Whit had promised to call her in the morning with an update and to give her a list of topnotch criminal attorneys. Until that moment, she hadn't dealt with the fact that Whit
practiced corporate not criminal law, and that she would have to secure another attorney ASAP.

Dave had driven her home. He pulled up in front of her building and shut off the engine. “I'll see you up.”

She sent him a small smile of gratitude. “You've already done too much.”

“Jane, walking you to your door is not—”

“Necessary,” she finished for him. She reached across the seat, caught his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for being here for me.”

He returned the pressure of her fingers. “I'm really sorry about all this. I wish there was something I could do.”

“You already have.” Keys in hand, she grasped the door handle. “Call me tomorrow? I may need a shoulder.”

“You've got it. And Jane?” She met his eyes. “Stacy's one of the good guys. I believe that.”

Sudden tears stung her eyes. She didn't reply, instead opened her door and climbed out. She crossed to her building, then after letting herself in turned back and waved.

Dave returned the gesture, then drove off.

She stepped into the foyer. The interior was cold. Dark. She hit the light switch beside the door, flipping it up. Nothing. She tried again, confused, certain Ian had just changed the bulb.

She owned the two-story building, had bought it with a portion of her inheritance. Their loft occupied the second level, her studio the first. Both were accessed by this one door to the street. To her right stood the stairs to their loft, dead ahead a short hall led to her studio entrance.

Jane glanced up the steep, dark stairs. Then at the hall ahead. Moonlight streamed through the one front window, creating a dim puddle of light at her feet, causing the shadows to appear deeper, blacker.

She turned, twisted the dead bolt, then took a step into the foyer. Paper crackled under her feet. She glanced down and saw she'd stepped on an envelope, her name scrawled across the front. She bent to retrieve it, then froze at the creak of her studio door opening.

She straightened, took a step backward, heart hammering against the wall of her chest. “Who's there?”

“Jane? It's Ted.”

“Ted?” she repeated weakly, relieved beyond words. “What are you doing here?”

He locked the studio door behind him and came down the hall toward her. “I heard about Ian. On the ten o'clock news. I came to make certain you were okay.” He caught her hands, rubbed them between his. “You don't look so good, Jane.”

“I don't feel so good, either.”

“Come on, I'll make you some tea.”

She nodded, then remembering the envelope, picked it up and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

Ted led her upstairs. She handed him the keys and he unlocked the door. Together they went to the kitchen.

“Sit,” he said. “I'll make the tea. You look like you could use it.”

She shrugged off the jacket, tossed it across the counter and sank onto one of the stools. Fatigue settled over her. She dropped her head to her hands, realizing she had nothing left—not even the ability to think clearly.

She was vaguely aware of Ted moving around the kitchen, opening cabinets, filling the kettle, lighting the burner. The kettle whistling.

“Here you go,” Ted said softly, setting the cup in front of her.

She lifted her head wearily, managing the barest of smiles. She found the cup, brought it to her lips, took a sip. He'd found the chamomile; she recognized the flavor.

“What are they saying?” she asked. “In the news?”

“Breaking news,” he corrected. “Plastic surgeon arrested in double homicide. They named him and flashed his picture.”

He said the words as gently as possible; she cringed, anyway. The thought of it made her ill.

“He didn't do it, Ted. It's all a mistake.” As the words passed her lips, she wondered how many times she had uttered those same words over the past hours. And how many
times she would utter them in the hours—days and weeks—to come. “He couldn't,” she added, feeling the need to defend her husband more. “Such a horrible act isn't in him.”

“You don't have to convince me.”

She pressed her lips together, looked away.

“What's that?” he asked, indicating the envelope poking out of her jacket pocket.

“I don't know. Someone must have slipped it through the mail slot. I stepped on it when I came in.”

“Are you going to open it?”

“You do it,” she said, plucking it from her pocket and pushing it across the counter. “I don't have the energy.”

She brought her head to her hands once more. She heard Ted rip open the envelope, heard the rustle of paper, his sharply indrawn breath.

She looked up. Her assistant's already pale face looked ashen. “What?”

He shook his head, shoved the contents back into the envelope. “Nothing. It's nothing. Just trash.”

“Bullshit.” She held a hand out. It shook slightly. “Let me have it.”

“Jane, please. You don't want—”

“Give it to me.” He handed the envelope over reluctantly. She took it, lifted the flap, retrieved the contents.

It was a news clipping from March 13, 1987, about the accident. There was a picture of her.

Written boldly across the piece was a message:
I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.