See Jane Die (21 page)

Friday, October 31, 2003
11:20 p.m
.

S
tacy drove Jane home. Her sister said little on the way and Stacy longed to comfort her. She sensed not only her fear, but her despair and exhaustion as well.

She acknowledged her own fatigue. She had questioned Ted at length about the young man who had delivered the flowers. Ted had described him as in his early teens, wearing an oversize T-shirt, long, baggy shorts and a baseball cap, backward on his head—like every other teenage boy out there. He'd had light skin and eyes, been tall and skinny.

Stacy had questioned several others who had remained; all had confirmed Ted's description.

Still, the whole thing felt wrong. Staged. The flowers arriving so late in the evening. The fact that Ted had been there, conveniently waiting at the gallery entrance. That the flowers had been white roses.

The choice hadn't been an accident. Whoever had sent them knew Jane well enough to predict how receiving them would make her feel.

He had just ratcheted the terror up a notch.

I will hear your screams again
.

I'm closer than you think
.

It made her nervous, Stacy admitted. Damn nervous.

She took a mental inventory of the show-goers who had remained in the gallery when the flowers had been delivered. The gallery director and her assistant. The caterers, cleaning up. She and Dave. Ted Jackman. A number of other show-goers, several of them costumed. A couple of those masked. She had taken everyone's name, though any of them could have lied.

Could Jane's tormentor have been one of those, true identity hidden? He would have wanted to be on hand, to see her reactions. The closer to her fear, the bigger the thrill.
If
he had felt it safe enough.

A mighty big if.

Stacy scrolled through those in attendance once again. She settled on Ted Jackman. Would he stand up to a little DPD scrutiny? Maybe she would type his name into the NCIC and see what popped up. The National Criminal Index Computer listed all known offenders; the information it contained could be accessed using a suspect's name, social security number, birth date, known associates, tattos or other distinctive marks or scars.

“Thanks for bringing me home,” Jane murmured, breaking the silence.

Stacy glanced at her sister. “I'm glad I was there.”

“I thought the flowers were from Ian.”

“I know. He meant you to think that.”

“It's someone close to me, isn't it?”

Stacy glanced at her sister once more, surprised by the observant question. “He knows you well enough to have anticipated your reaction to the roses.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. Yet.”

She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, then back up at Stacy. “How scared should I be? Honestly.”

“Scared,” Stacy answered evenly. “And believe me, I want you that way. If you are, you'll be careful.”

“I feel so much better now.”

Stacy reached across the seat and squeezed her clenched hands. “I'm going to take care of this, Jane. I promise you that.”

She seemed reassured and leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The rest of the trip passed in silence. When Stacy reached Jane's building, she parked out front and went around for Jane.

Halloween revelers spilled out of the tattoo parlor two doors down. From Elm Street came the sound of an alternative band. A siren screamed in the distance.

Jane got to her feet. “I don't feel so well,” she said, swaying slightly. “Dizzy and—”

She choked on the words, fear tightening her features. She brought a hand to her abdomen. “Something's wrong, Stacy. I don't feel right.”

“You're exhausted,” she said with forced calm. “You've been on your feet for hours. All you need is some rest.”

Stacy put an arm around her, helped her inside and up the stairs. In the kitchen, Ranger whined and pawed at his kennel door. She led Jane to the bedroom, to the king-size bed. She could only imagine how empty it must feel to her sister now.

Stacy drew back the coverlet while Jane went to the bathroom. Her sister returned wearing an oversize T-shirt. She looked small and fragile, dwarfed by the shirt.

She crawled under the covers; Stacy tucked her in.

Jane grabbed her hand. “Those things I said to you after Ian was arrested, I'm sorry, Stacy. I know they weren't true.”

“Don't worry about—”

“No, I have to say this. You were right, I'm a hypocrite. I accused you of putting a wall between us, and at the first sign of trouble I called you the enemy.”

Stacy tightened her grip. She leaned toward her. “God help me, Jane, but I was jealous. Because of Ian, your marriage. But I never wanted any of this to happen.” She rested her forehead against her sister's. “I would never try to hurt you.”

“I know. I—” Jane's voice caught; she sucked in a sharp breath.

“What?” Stacy asked, alarmed. “A cramp?”

Jane nodded, expression panicked. She squeezed Stacy's hand so hard it hurt.

“What's the pain like?” Stacy asked. During her years with DPD she'd had experience with several women having miscarriages; she knew what to look for. “Sharp?”

“No.” She shook her head, as if for emphasis. “Like a menstrual cramp.”

“When you went to the bathroom, there wasn't any blood, was there?”

Fear twisted her features. “I don't want to lose my baby.”

“You're not going to. You've had a shock, an exhausting night. You need rest.” She squeezed her fingers, then released them. “I'm going to call your doctor, just to be on the safe side. Where's his number?”

Jane directed her to the directory in the kitchen. Stacy found the number and called. Since it was after hours, the recorded message instructed her to contact the emergency service. She dialed that number, then gave the woman Jane's name and the problem she was having. Several minutes later, she received a ring back from the on-call doctor. Stacy explained the situation.

“How much pain's she in?” he asked.

“The pains are like menstrual cramps, though not severe. She's upset. It's been an…upsetting night. She was on her feet for several hours.”

“Any bleeding?”

“No.”

“Is she lying down?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It's not uncommon to have some cramping early in pregnancy. Especially after being on your feet for a long period of time, or when extremely stressed. Tell her to stay in bed for the next twelve hours except to go to the bathroom. Call if the pain doesn't subside, if it becomes severe or she begins to bleed. She may want to call her regular OB in the morning.”

Stacy thanked the man and returned to Jane's side. She repeated what the doctor had said and her sister looked instantly relieved. She sank back into her pillow.

Stacy pulled a chair to the side of the bed. “Remember when I used to tell you stories at bedtime?”

“Scary stories. Mom always wondered why I was afraid to sleep with the light off.”

Stacy thought of Mac and the snitch named Doobie. She had a story that would scare Jane plenty. She needed to tell her, but now wasn't the time. “I'll be on the couch if you need anything.”

“You don't have to stay.”

“Yes, I do.” She bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I want to.”

When she stood to leave, Jane reached up and touched her hand. “Why were you asking me all those questions about Lisette tonight?”

Stacy couldn't bring herself to say, not with Jane like this. She shook her head. “Can we talk more in the morning? I'm asleep on my feet.”

Jane searched her gaze, then agreed. “You'll be here?”

“I will.” She freed her hand, crossed to the door. When she reached it, she glanced back. Her sister's eyes were already closed.

She gazed at her sister, small and pale against the black-and-white coverlet. Her head filled with the horrific images of Elle Vanmeer, Marsha Tanner and Lisette Gregory.

What kind of man had her sister married? One with a heart of gold? Or a monster capable of killing for financial gain?

Saturday, November 1, 2003
12:50 a.m
.

S
tacy made up the couch. Even as she did, she acknowledged sleep was an impossibility. She needed to sort out the events of the night, assemble the facts and gauge her own reactions to them.

She thought of the message Jane had received.
I'm closer than you think
. Stacy didn't take those words lightly. She believed the person who had written them intended them as both a warning and threat. He wanted Jane frightened. This type of individual thrilled in his quarry's terror, the game of cat stalking mouse.

Would he stop there? Or was this simply his sick version of foreplay?

Stacy crossed to the front window and gazed out at the street. She scanned both sides, looking for something—or someone—who looked as if they didn't belong.

What a joke. Halloween was a holiday made for those who didn't belong—misfits, freaks and crazies. The street was crawling with them.

She turned away from the window. Lisette Gregory had
been a patient of Ian's and had been killed before his arrest. Elle Vanmeer's cell phone had been found at the scene.

Another link. Another nail in Ian's coffin.

Not that she cared about him. If he had murdered these women, he deserved the worst the judicial system could offer.

It was Jane she cared about. Jane who would be hurt.

Stacy glanced at her watch. It was late, the middle of the night. She had to call Mac, anyway. By all rights, she should have earlier. But Jane's well-being had come first.

Ranger padded into the living room. He blinked at her, as if he had just awakened and was wondering what the hell she was doing up. She patted her thigh and he crossed to stand beside her.

“Good dog,” she murmured, bending and scratching his chest. He leaned against her legs in a half swoon and she smiled. He was a sweet animal, loyal and good-natured. She hadn't a doubt, however, that he would attack anyone who threatened Jane.

She needed to warn her sister not to kennel the dog until they caught whoever was stalking her.

I will hear your screams again
.

Stacy pursed her lips. Jane was certain the message had come from the boat captain who had run her down. Could it be, after all these years? It hardly seemed likely. And yet, Jane's certainty counted for something.

She needed to convince Mac to hand over Doobie. The snitch, she was convinced, could be coerced into giving her a name.

Stacy peeked in on Jane, saw that she was asleep, then returned to the living room. There, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed her partner's number. He answered immediately, voice thick with sleep.

“Mac, it's Stacy.”

“Stacy,” he said, sounding almost pleased. “Where are you?”

“My sister's.” She tightened her grip on the phone. “Your Jane Doe has a name. Lisette Gregory.”

A moment of silence followed his sharply expelled breath. “How did you—”

“She was one of my sister's art subjects.” She paused. “And one of Ian's patients.”

“Son of a bitch. And you stumbled on this juicy information where?”

“My sister's art opening tonight. I turned a corner and there she was.”

“You're sure?”

The woman's image filled her head. “Yeah,” she said grimly, “I'm sure.”

He was silent a moment, no doubt fitting this new piece together with others they already had, studying the emerging picture. “This doesn't look good for your brother-in-law.”

“No shit. I'd like to be the one to tell my sister, if that's all right.”

He thought a moment, then agreed. “But I'll need to talk to her. ASAP.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

He said it could, then asked her to hold a moment. She heard a rustling in the background, a thump followed by a muffled oath.

“I'm back.”

“Graceful, McPherson.” He would have to be dead not to hear the amusement in her voice. “What'd you do, stub your toe?”

“Something like that,” he replied, grumpy. “Any reason you waited until 1:00 a.m. to call me?”

“Had a little family emergency. Besides, I figured I'd wait to call until you were good and asleep.”

“You're all heart, Killian.”

“Glad you think so. I need a favor.”

“A middle-of-the-night favor? Sounds promising.”

“You wish. I want that snitch of yours. And I want him now.”

“Your sister got another message.”

It wasn't a question; she answered, anyway. “Yup. De
livered tonight, via her art opening.” She filled him in on both the content of the note and the specifics of the delivery.

“I don't like it, Mac. This guy knows too much about Jane.”

“I agree. I had a couple beers with my buddies from Vice tonight. They haven't heard from Doobie in a while.”

She swore. “What about an address? Or phone number?”

“Last ones on file are no good.”

“Now what?”

“They're going to ask around for me. Check some other sources.” He was silent a moment. “I'm not sold on the theory that this guy is the same one who nearly killed her all those years ago. It's a stretch.”

“I feel the same way, but considering, we'd be foolish not to follow the lead. Besides, Jane's positive it's him.”

“But Jane's haunted by the incident. She has nightmares about it. Isn't that what you told me?”

Stacy frowned. “Yeah. So?”

“So,” he continued, “she's predisposed to believing it's him. Like some weird fulfillment of fate or something.”

True
. “I'm going to run a background check on Ted Jackman. There's something about that guy that seems wrong to me. He's always right there when something happens.”

“Good idea.”

“See you in the morning, McPherson.”

“Stacy?”

“Yeah?”

“Being emotionally involved is dangerous. Nothing will mess up a good cop's judgment quicker than that.”

“Tell me something I don't know, partner.” She paused. “Thanks, anyway.”

A moment later, Stacy hung up the phone, her partner's warning ringing in her ears. She knew he was right. She also knew there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.