See Jane Die (22 page)

Saturday, November 1, 2003
3:00 a.m
.

J
ane awakened with a start. She sat up, heart pounding. Thoughts clear. Crystal clear. She understood now. She saw.

She tossed aside the blanket and climbed out of bed. Once on her feet, she stood a moment, taking stock of her physical condition. No cramps. Her legs felt steady. She laid a hand on her abdomen and rubbed softly. Baby was safe.

Shivering, she grabbed her robe from the end of the bed and slipped it on, then padded on bare feet out to the living room. Ranger lay in the doorway between the two rooms. He stirred as she passed, then settled back to sleep.

Moonlight spilled across the sofa; Stacy's heavy, rhythmic breathing signaled that her sister was deeply asleep.

Jane crossed to the couch and knelt beside it. Her sister's eyes snapped open. Jane saw that she was instantly alert. A by-product of her profession? Jane wondered. Or an ability she had been born with?

“Jane? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “I figured it out, Stacy. I know who did it.”

She blinked, scrambled into a sitting position. “What are you talking about?”

“I know who killed Elle Vanmeer and Marsha.” Jane pulled in a deep breath. “Not Ian, Stacy.”

“Who, Jane? Who did it?”

“The boater. The one who tried to kill me. The one sending the messages.”

Jane saw the moment Stacy registered her words, then immediately rejected them.

Stacy shook her head. “Jane, I understand why you might think that, but—”

“Listen, please. It's just like my nightmare. He's making another pass at me.”

Her sister seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “Jane, sweetie, it doesn't make sense. Why would he kill those women? Why not just go for you? It doesn't make sense.”

“Yes, it does. He wants me alone. Isolated and terrified. The way I was that day in the water.” She paused. “But this time, he wants to see me die.”

Saturday, November 1, 2003
10:15 a.m
.

W
hen Jane got up the next morning, she found Stacy at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, a Starbucks Venti cup on the table in front of her, Ranger at her feet.

She looked up when Jane entered the kitchen. “Hi, sleepyhead. How're you feeling?”

Truth was, she felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from her. Ian hadn't killed those women. She knew who had and why. All that was left was for the police to discover his identity and arrest him.

“I feel good.”

“No more cramps?”

“Nope.” She laid a hand on her abdomen. “Baby's resting comfortably.”

Stacy checked her watch. “Not quite twelve hours. Pee, then get back to bed.”

Jane ignored her, crossed to the table and sat down. “I'm thinking it's a boy.”

“Really? And you're basing this knowledge on what?”

“Mother-to-be's intuition.”

“That's a little scary. Isn't there a test to determine a baby's sex?”

“An ultrasound. I'll have one around month three, though they can't always tell the baby's gender. Depends on the position of the baby. Besides, Ian and I don't want to know.”

Stacy cocked an eyebrow. “So, you'll just guess instead?”

“It's way more fun that way.” She motioned to the paper and coffee. “You've been out already?”

“Ranger and I took a little ride.” She smiled. “Picked you up a decaf latte. If you're in the mood?”

“Are you kidding? You're an angel.”

Stacy stood and crossed to the counter. “It's probably cold. Want me to microwave it?”

Jane shook her head. “I'll take it as is.”

Stacy set it on the table along with a bag containing two blueberry scones and a bran muffin. “Your choice,” she said, handing her a napkin.

Jane stared at her sister. “This was so sweet.”

“Surprised?”

“Frankly? Stunned. What gives?”

Stacy shrugged and helped herself to a scone. “Figured somebody had to take care of you. Might as well be me.”

Jane took the remaining scone, uncertain how to react but touched by her sister's concern. She sipped the espresso drink and made a sound of pleasure. “The first thing I'm doing after I have this baby is drink a triple latte, fully loaded.”

“The sacrifices women make.”

Jane concurred and they dug into the scones, consuming them quickly. When Jane had ingested every last crumb, she eyed the muffin.

“Go for it,” Stacy said. “You're pregnant. Doesn't that mean you're eating for two?”

“That's right,” Jane said reaching for the pastry, “I almost forgot.” They both knew that wasn't true, but also that she had eaten dangerously little since Ian had been arrested. “Want half?” she asked.

Stacy declined and Jane cut herself a portion of the huge
pastry, slipped Ranger a chunk, then ate while Stacy finished her coffee.

“Have you thought about what I told you last night?” Jane asked when she had finished.

“A little. I plan on running your theory by Mac this morning.”

Jane leaned toward her sister, desperate to convince her. “I know I'm right, Stacy. I'm certain of it.”

“Jane, I—” Stacy bit the words back, expression turning grim. “We need to talk.”

“I don't like the way you said that.”

“You'll like what I have to say even less.”

Jane set down her coffee cup, chest tightening. “Crafty, sis. Getting me to eat
before
the bad news.”

“I did it for junior.” She cleared her throat. “Last night I…There's something I haven't told you.”

“All this verbal tiptoeing is scaring me. Just spit it out.”

“All right. Mac told me this story from his days in Vice. They used this snitch named Doobie. Apparently, he's a creepy little dude, but that's what makes him a good source. One day he was whining to Mac about his life, the way it had turned out. He blamed it all on an incident he'd been part of years before, when he was in his twenties.

“He claimed to have been out on a boat with a friend. Drinking and joy riding. Cutting up.” Stacy met Jane's eyes. “The friend deliberately hit a girl in the water.”

For several moments Jane simply stared at her sister, her words, their meaning, sinking in.

She had been right, all these years.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

I'm closer than you think
.

“A name,” Jane managed, fighting to maintain equilibrium. “Did he give you a—”

“No. The snitch refused. He claimed he was still frightened of this guy. Said his family was wealthy. Had big-time connections.”

“It all makes sense.” Jane's voice shook. “How he got
away with it. A wealthy, well-connected family. One willing to look the other way. Anyone who knew was either intimidated into silence or paid for it.

“Of course,” she continued, excited. Hopeful for the first time in days. “We need to find this snitch. We need a name. That'll lead to evidence that he murdered—”

“
We
are not doing anything, Jane. I'm following up on this. I'm the cop, you're the civilian. Period.”

“But—”

“Sorry, sis.” She softened her tone. “I'll find this guy. Whoever he is. And I'll stop him.”

Jane gazed at her sister. “And Ian?”

Her sister's expression altered slightly and a prickle of apprehension crawled up Jane's spine. “You don't believe me, do you? About Ian being innocent? About the boat captain being the one who—”

“There's another victim, Jane. Lisette Gregory.”

Jane stared at her, not fully comprehending. “Lisette? What do you mean, another…victim?”

Stacy reached across the table and clasped her hand tightly. “Lisette was found dead. Murdered.”

“No.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No.” She yanked her hand free and jumped to her feet, knocking over her coffee in the process. The liquid pooled on the table, then leaked off the edge. “No!”

“The evidence points to Ian—”

“It's not true. It's not!”

She began to shake. She curled her arms across her middle and squeezed her eyes shut. She pictured pretty Lisette, funny, insecure, too trusting for her own good. She thought of each of her subjects as a friend. She supposed she felt that way because of the intimate nature of her work—in sharing their innermost fears, they bonded on a level some sisters never reached.

Lisette. Dead. Murdered
.

It couldn't be true
.

Jane crossed to the back window. The sunny day mocked her. How could the sun shine when such evil flourished unchecked? When a lovely life could be violently extinguished?

“I didn't want to tell you last night,” Stacy continued, “not at the opening and not…after.”

“Last night. That's why you were asking me about her.”

“Yes. I recognized her. Until then we didn't know her identity.”

Jane struggled for calm. The peace of mind she had felt only twenty minutes ago seemed a figment of her imagination. Laughable, considering her current—

“No,” she said again, realization hitting her. She swung to face her sister. “Ian couldn't have killed Lisette. He's in jail, Stacy. This proves he's innocent!”

Stacy took a step toward her, expression pitying. “We found her after he was arrested. But the autopsy proved she was killed the same day as Marsha Tanner.”

Jane fought to come to grips with what Stacy was telling her. That Lisette had been murdered. The same day as Marsha had been. That Ian was a suspect.

“Why, Stacy? Why do you think he had anything to do with this?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“He's my husband. She was my friend. I deserve to know.”

“I'm not part of the investigation. Because of my relationship to Ian.”

“But you have still have access to it, don't you? Tell me, Stacy, please.”

Stacy jammed her hands into her pockets. “She was a patient of Ian's. The death was similar to the others.”

“That's not evidence. I'm not even a cop and I know that.” She narrowed her eyes. “How did she die?”

“He broke her neck. It was someone she knew and trusted. No signs of a struggle. We found her near Fair Park. In a Dumpster.”

Lisette, in a Dumpster. Pretty, bright, vulnerable Lisette
.

It hurt almost more than she could bear
.

Jane brought a hand to her stomach, feeling ill. She found a chair, sat and brought her head between her knees.

Ian couldn't have done this. He valued life. He saw the divine in people. To murder someone and toss them away like so much refuse…it wasn't possible.

She lifted her head and told her sister so.

For a long moment her sister was silent. When she spoke, her voice shook slightly. “Elle Vanmeer's cell phone was found at the scene. It links the crimes, Jane.”

And Ian was presently charged with Elle's murder.

Damning evidence. Physical evidence. Dear God, this couldn't be happening.

Jane thought of Lisette. She recalled what she had heard about Elle Vanmeer, struggling to find a connection between the women, exclusive of Ian. They could have known each other somehow. Been friends. Business associates—

Not likely. Damn improbable
.

As if reading her mind, Stacy crossed to stand beside her. She laid a hand on her shoulder. “I didn't want to tell you. But I…couldn't let you hear it from someone else.”

“I guess I should thank you,” she said bitterly.

“Don't shoot the messenger, sis. Please.”

“You called your partner?”

“Yes, last night.” She paused. “I had to.”

Jane covered her face with her hands, fighting despair.
What was she going to do? How could she fight this growing wave of evidence against Ian?

“The police will need to question you about Lisette. Your relationship. How long you've known her, things like that. They'll ask you about Ian's relationship with her.”

“He was her plastic surgeon!” she shot back, dropping her hands. “Doctor, patient. That's it.”

Stacy squeezed her shoulder. “I'll stay with you, if you like. They shouldn't object, though they might. You could call Ian's lawyer. Even though you're not a suspect, he may want to sit in.”

“He's in trial this morning. And I have nothing to hide. Nothing I can tell them will incriminate Ian.”

Stacy opened her mouth as if to disagree; whatever she was about to say was cut off by the sound of the front buzzer.

Jane looked at her sister. “Do you think that's—”

“Mac and Liberman. Yes.”

It was. Three minutes later, Jane swung open the street-level door and faced the detectives.

“Morning, Mrs. Westbrook. Stacy.”

“Mac,” Stacy replied. “Liberman.” She returned her gaze to her partner. “May I stay with my sister?”

Mac glanced at the other man, who shrugged. “Okay. Just remember you're present as family, not—”

“Part of the investigation. I know the drill.”

As Stacy had advised her they would, they began inquiring about when and how she had first met Lisette, then what she knew of her private life.

“Was she seeing anyone special?” Mac asked.

“No, not when I interviewed her.”

“She dated around?”

“No, not much.”

“That seems odd. She was an attractive woman.”

“She was shy. Insecure about her appearance.”

“Insecure about her appearance?” he repeated. “A looker like her? Why?”

“It's not so hard to understand. Girls' identities are intertwined with their appearance from an early age, a few negative comments from someone whose opinion is important to them can damage their self-concept. Throw in intense cultural pressure to look a certain way or weigh a certain amount and you get a woman with a skewed self-image.”

“And that skewed self-image can lead to problems?”

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

Jane sensed he knew perfectly well what kind but that he was deliberately leading her. “Eating disorders. Anorexia nervosa. Bulimia. Sex addiction.”