See Jane Die (20 page)

“After that night we ran into each other at the museum,
Ian called. Asked me if I wanted to get together. You know, to fuck. For old time's sake. I told him to go to hell. Looks like he followed my advice.”

She laughed then and Jane saw the woman Ian had described. The ugliness that bordered on evil.

“I'm sorry you had to find out this way,” she continued. “I know it hurts. I remember. He married me for my money, too. Though from what I hear, you have lots more of it than I did.”

Jane yanked her arm free. She grabbed the door handle, then stumbled out into the sunshine. Blinded by tears, she all but ran down the front steps.

“For what it's worth,” Mona called after her, “I don't think he killed those women. That's what I told the police, too.”

 

Jane managed to make it home without falling apart. As soon as she reached the safety of her downstairs foyer and the door locked behind her, she dissolved into tears.

That's how Ted found her. He rushed to her side. “Jane? My God, what's happened? Are you all right?”

“No,” she managed. “I'm not. I may never…be…all—”

She bit the words back and pushed past him. He stopped her, drew her against his chest. For a moment she held herself stiffly, then gave in to her grief. Clinging to him, she pressed her face to his shoulder and sobbed.

Ted held her lightly, allowing her grief to run its course. While she cried, he stroked her hair and back, murmuring sounds of comfort.

“You were right,” she told him finally, wiping her eyes. “I shouldn't have gone. Ian's ex-wife…she said…awful things about him.”

“I'm sorry, Jane.” He found her hands, curled his fingers around hers. “I didn't want to be right.”

“She said he married me for my money. That he had never been faithful. To me or any other woman.”

He tightened his fingers over hers. His trembled and she met his gaze. The ferocity in his took her aback.

“If he wasn't faithful to you, he isn't capable of being faithful. If he cheated, he'll get what he deserves.”

“Ted, what—”

“I hate that you're hurting. I didn't want any of this to happen.”

“Of course you didn't. None of this is your fault.”

“I've got to go. An appointment.” He freed her hands and backed away, visibly upset.

“Ted?” she called when he reached the door. “What aren't you saying?”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder at her, expression naked with pain. “There's a purpose for everything in the universe. A reason for being. Find it, Jane, hold on to it.”

And then he was gone. For long moments, she stared at the empty doorway, the things he had said playing over in her head. The expression in his eyes as he had said them.

She wondered again, what did her assistant know that he wasn't telling her?

Friday, October 31, 2003
8:10 p.m
.

S
tacy entered the Dallas Museum of Art's Contemporary Gallery. She was late. She had been determined to finish her search of the 1987 news stories about Jane's accident. She hadn't exactly come up empty, but she hadn't found a perfect match.

That Jane believed the boater had deliberately hit her had appeared in almost every story. But the only reference to Jane's screams had been from Stacy. One reporter had quoted Stacy saying:
“She was screaming…and screaming.”

That was it. Stacy had hoped to find a match. It would have reassured her to think Jane's anonymous pen pal was simply spitting Jane's words back at her. That he had learned about her sister through past and present news stories.

The opening party was in full swing. Stacy saw that her sister had drawn a large crowd, a combination of the rich and the arty. The attire ranged from exorbitantly understated to flamboyantly impoverished. Some had come costumed to celebrate the Halloween holiday. A few of those, she suspected, simply
appeared
to be costumed.

Stacy felt rather odd in a black cocktail dress off a Foley's sale rack.

She found Jane immediately, though the gallery was packed. She stood across the room, having an animated discussion with a distinguished-looking man. The woman on the man's arm—young enough to be his granddaughter but clearly not—looked bored.

Her sister had chosen to wear a blood-red silk sheath and her eye patch. A pirate in red, Stacy thought, acknowledging appreciation. No doubt chosen to dispel any murmurs that she was in mourning. Or that she wanted to hide.

Jane was a fighter. Always had been.

As if sensing her sibling's scrutiny, Jane turned. Her gaze landed on Stacy. Touching the man's arm to excuse herself, she picked her way through the crowd, making her way to Stacy.

“Thanks for coming,” she said when she reached her.

“Despite what you might think, I wouldn't have missed it.” She kissed her cheek. “Congratulations, Jane.”

“Stacy!” Dave came up behind her. “You look fabulous.” He bent and kissed her cheek, swaying slightly. “Champagne?”

“Why don't I take yours?”

“Oh, no you don't.” He dodged her reach, laughing. “Don't worry, I'm not driving.” He looked at Jane. “Want one?”

“No alcohol for me, thanks. Got a little one to think of.”

He excused himself to go in search of the wine and the sisters faced each other. “You're off duty?” Jane said.

“The gun didn't work with the dress.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Jane smiled. “Your gun, my patch. We'd make quite a pair.”

“That we would.” Stacy lowered her voice. “How're you holding up?”

“All right.” Jane shifted her gaze. “I can't stop thinking about Ian. I miss him so much.”

Stacy touched her sister's arm. “He'll be here for the next one.”

Jane blinked against tears. “Thank you for that.”

A woman scurried over, interrupting them. She intro
duced herself to Stacy as the museum's curator, then dragged Jane off.

“I see our star was hijacked,” Dave said, arriving with Stacy's wine. She noticed that he had switched to club soda. “It's been happening all night.”

“She's got a lot of guts, doesn't she?”

“And then some.”

Stacy took a sip of her wine, then frowned as she caught sight of Ted Jackman. He was lurking half hidden behind a palm tree.

“What do think of Jane's studio assistant?”

“Ted?” He lifted a shoulder. “I don't know, he seems harmless enough. A little off center, but a lot of these arty types are. Why?”

“Just being cautious.”

He followed her gaze. “Jane trusts him.”

“Maybe too much.”

“Stacy, what—”

“Let's wander.”

They did, making their way through the thinning crowd. Pieces were grouped by subject's name.
Anne. Gretchen. Julie
. The sculptures were beautiful, organic yet stark, lacy yet solid. Erotic without being overtly sexual.

But it was the videos that pulled Stacy in. Some made her angry. Others made her ache. A few, laugh. All, she understood. How could she not? She was a woman. She, too, had been judged on her appearance—and at times found lacking. She, too, had longed to be different than she was, a different woman than who she was.

And she understood why her sister had created these, what had given birth to her vision. For Stacy, it was painfully clear.

As she moved around the gallery, Stacy kept Jane in her line of vision. Noted to whom she spoke and for how long. Noted any who stayed too close for too long. She kept track of Ted's movements around the gallery, his interactions.

She had told Jane that she wasn't on duty tonight. That
hadn't been quite true. She was here to support her sister—and to protect her.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

Stacy felt certain the one who sent Jane the clipping was here tonight. He wouldn't miss it. He would get a sick thrill out of watching Jane, brushing against her, eavesdropping on her conversations.

But was he the boater from all those years ago? Could he be the one Doobie had told Mac about? Or was he simply a twisted crank? One who had become aware of Jane through the recent media attention surrounding her?

“Look at this one,” Dave murmured as they made their way around a partition. “She's one of my favorites.”

Stacy froze, her gaze going to the video monitor. The woman on the video was talking about her breasts. She paused, giggled self-consciously, then began again, pushing her dark hair away from her face as she did.

The breath hissed past Stacy's lips; the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

Jane Doe had a name now.

“You like
Lisette?
”

Stacy jumped, the champagne sloshed over the side of her glass. She looked at Jane as she dried her fingers with her cocktail napkin. “Pardon?”

“Lisette.” Jane indicated the video monitor. “You were hanging on to her every word.”

Stacy didn't know what to say and struggled for something besides “When's the last time you saw this woman alive?”

She looked back at the video monitor. Instead of a pretty, giggling woman, she saw the corpse from the Dumpster. Struggling to keep her thoughts from showing, she did the math. Lisette had been dead approximately three days when they'd found her.

That meant she had been killed before Ian had been arrested
.

Elle Vanmeer's phone had been found with her, in the Dumpster
.

Jane's smile faded. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” The lie slipped past her lips. She cleared her throat. “I saw several of your subjects tonight. Was Lisette here?”

Jane thought a moment, then shook her head. “I didn't see her.”

“Was she married?”

“No.” Her eyebrows arched slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Any family in town? A boyfriend?”

Jane glanced at Dave, then back at Stacy. “What aren't you telling me?”

“She looks familiar, that's all. What's her last name?”

“Gregory. But I doubt you knew her. She's from Mexia, a small town just south of Dallas, and hadn't been here that long. She modeled.”

“No wonder. She was a beautiful girl.”

“Was?”

“Is,” Stacy corrected. “Had she had any plastic surgery?”

“Many of my subjects have. If you listened to the tapes, a number talked about it.”

Stacy nodded, returning her gaze to Lisette once more.
She couldn't tell Jane here. Not tonight
.

And not until she was absolutely certain
.

“Lisette was a patient of Ian's.”

She turned slowly toward her sister, blood pounding in her head. “What did you say?”

“It's no big deal. She was a patient of Ian's. Several of my subjects were.”

“How many—”

“Jane!” The curator scurried over, expression aglow. Stacy noted then that the crowd had thinned to a handful, mostly friends or museum personnel. She glanced at her watch, realizing that the opening was officially over.

“The show is an unqualified success! I spoke with every critic who attended, and they all loved the work. One called you ‘
the
new master of the nude' another ‘an unflinching
realist.' I'm so happy for you.” She kissed both Jane's cheeks. “You are officially a rising star.”

From the corners of her eyes, Stacy saw Ted making his way toward them. He had been stationed at the front entrance for the last several minutes, presumably thanking exiting guests. He carried a huge bouquet of flowers, encased in green florist's paper. Roses, she saw. Long-stemmed and virgin white.

Ian always sent Jane white roses. He knew she loved them. She had carried them at their wedding.

Jane caught sight of her assistant at the same moment. Stacy heard her quick intake of breath. She knew what she was thinking—the same as she was, that Ian had found a way to send the flowers from jail. That most likely he'd had his attorney do it.

“These were just delivered,” Ted said, beaming at her. He handed her the bouquet.

Jane accepted the flowers. The florist's paper crackled. She buried her face in the snowy blossoms. “They're beautiful. Is there a card?”

“There.” Ted pointed to an enclosure card, pinned to the paper.

Jane freed it, opened the envelope, slid out the card. A sound passed her lips; the bouquet slipped from her arms. She turned to Stacy, her face as pale as the roses. She held out the card.

Stacy took it. She read the two sentences, a sense of déjà vu settling over her.

I will hear your screams again
.

I'm closer than you think
.