See Jane Die (27 page)

“I'll help you get her upstairs,” Ted murmured, bending and gently taking her arm.

Stacy looked as if she meant to argue, but didn't. “You go on, I want to take a quick look at the doors and windows down here. Check for any sign of forced entry.”

Ted helped her up the stairs and to her bed. He pulled back the blankets and plumped the pillow. Jane slipped into the bed, shuddering, part from pain, part relief as she stretched out. She had overdone it. And just as the doctor had warned, her body was telling her so.

Stacy joined them. She crossed to the bed and carefully tucked the covers around her. “I'll get your medication.” She looked at Ted, who was hovering at the foot of the bed. “That'll be all, Mr. Jackman. Stay available.”

“
I'm
not going anywhere, Detective.”

His tone dripped sarcasm. And accusation. Stacy's cheeks flamed. “That's reassuring. I'll walk you out.”

Jane watched the exchange, frowning. Her sister was treating Ted as if he was guilty of something. As if he was a suspect.

She knew Ted. Poor judgment did not equal malicious intent.

She told her sister so when she returned with a pain reliever and a glass of water.

“At the very least, his poor judgment endangered you, Jane. Maybe he's the one who sent the clipping, roses and now baby doll? Have you thought of that?”

“Why would I? He's my friend.”

“Is he? Are you certain of that?” Her sister handed her the white tablet, then the water. “He had opportunity, Jane. He was close by when you received each threat. How well do you really know Ted Jackman?”

“Well enough to know he wouldn't hurt me. The only thing he's guilty of is making a mistake.”

“Would you stake your life on that trust? Would you stake Ian's freedom on it?”

Jane opened her mouth to say that she would, then swore when she hesitated. “Dammit, Stacy. Don't do this to me.”

“Do what? Try to keep you safe?” She looked away for a moment, then back at Jane. “Think about it. Ted has keys to your home. He knows your alarm code. He knows your schedule, what makes you tick. He has access to nearly every part of your life. How well should you know someone before you hand him the keys to your front door?”

“I trust him.”

“Still, after what's he's done?”

“Yes.” She winced at a particularly severe cramp. She brought a hand to her abdomen, wishing the medication would kick in. “You have to trust sometime.”

“With all due respect, you haven't seen what I have. It ain't pretty out there. And I guarantee a whole bunch of those folks I see being loaded into body bags trusted plenty.”

Jane hurt for her sister. She realized for the first time the emotional cost of Stacy's chosen profession.

Stacy shook her head. “You need to sleep. I'll bag the doll, take it to headquarters. I wanted to check in, anyway. Then I'll run home to pick up some overnight things.”

“Overnight things?”

“Would you rather move in with me? Because if you think I'm leaving you alone after what's happened, pain medication has scrambled your thinking.”

“He is not scaring me out of my own house.”

“Figured that'd be your answer.” She removed the bottle of pain relievers from her jacket pocket and set them on the night stand. “I'll be back later. If you need me, call my cell.”

Before she left, she refilled the glass of water and set the portable phone within arm's distance.

“Stacy?” Jane called when her sister reached the bedroom door.

She stopped, looked over her shoulder at her.

“I wanted to…thanks. For everything. It means a lot.”

She smiled. “No problem, kiddo. What are big sisters for?”

Friday, November 7, 2003
6:10 p.m
.

F
riday evening traffic on the Central Expressway was a nightmare. This evening was no exception. Stacy inched forward, then laid on her horn as the driver of a silver Mercedes cut her off, then hit his brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of him.

She kept her cool, eased into the right lane and pulled up alongside him. Two teenagers, she saw. Joyriding in daddy's Benz. She tooted her horn to get their attention, then laid her shield against her driver's side window.

Judging by the kid's expression he not only understood—but had just messed his pants.

She pocketed her shield, then wagged a finger at him. He fell back and she inched forward, carefully cutting in front of him. The badge definitely had its advantages, she decided, smiling to herself.

Her smile faded as she thought of the events of the afternoon. The mangled baby doll. Ted Jackman's admission. Jane's continued trust.

She had sent the studio assistant upstairs with Jane so she could lift his Coke can from the wastebasket. She had delivered both it and the doll to the crime lab. Afterward, she
had popped into the division. She had been surprised to see her captain. He had looked a little green around the gills. Clearly, the flu that had devastated the department had not yet run its course. She had kept her distance as she brought him current with events. The man had been sympathetic and granted her request to follow up. It had also been clear he had bigger fish to fry.

Mac had been nowhere to be found. She had checked her messages—noted with disappointment that he hadn't tried to contact her—then headed out. Only to be mired in this mess.

Traffic crawled forward, then stopped. She drew her eyebrows together, thoughts returning to Ted Jackman. He was dirty. The more she had gone over what he'd said that afternoon, the more convinced she had become that he'd been lying. Or hiding something. But what?

She suspected the fingerprint might provide her with the answer. The print tech had promised her something within twenty-four hours.

Her cell phone rang. She hit the speaker. “Killian here.”

“Hey, beautiful,” Mac said. “Where are you?”

“Stuck in traffic. On my way home.”

“Home? That's a silly destination on a Friday night.”

“You have a better one?”

“Yeah. Smiley's Pub. You know it?”

She did. It was the kind of place every self-respecting cop knew. She said so.

“Good. Meet me there.”

The line went dead. Smiling, she took the Knox Street exit to turn around. The expressway heading back downtown offered smooth sailing. Smiling to herself, she hit the gas.

 

Mac was already halfway through his first beer when she arrived.

She slipped into the booth across from him. To any of their colleagues they would appear nothing more than partners letting off some steam at the end of the week.

She ordered a beer. When the waitress walked away, she turned back to Mac. And found his gaze on her.

“It was damn difficult to concentrate today,” he said softly.

She couldn't help but smile. “Ditto.”

“I couldn't stop thinking about breakfast.”

He didn't mean the reheated pizza, she knew. Her heat rose. She folded her arms across her chest. “What'd you do today?”

“Hooker. Clubbed to death. Real messy.”

She made a face. “Your case load's getting awfully heavy.”

“Half the freaking world has this flu. It was me and Liberman. Luckily it's his case, I'm just assisting.”

“Who's your money on? John or pimp?”

“Her pimp. Apparently he's not averse to using incentives to keep his girls in line.”

“Great job we've got here.”

“A laugh riot.”

“Ever consider leaving it behind?” she asked, leaning forward. “Joining the ranks of civilians?”

“Not without a big pile of money. A guy's got to work. Besides, it's what I do. You?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. I—”

She swallowed the thought. She had been about to say she'd wondered if being in the job somehow marked her. If the inhumanity and death she dealt with day in and out made normal, healthy relationships impossible. Or if those capable of them somehow knew to steer clear of her.

She had been about to say that, but now she had found Mac.

“Never mind.” She smiled. “What would I do if I wasn't busting bad guys?”

“Exactly.” He changed the subject. “How's Jane?”

“She received another package from her psychotic friend. A mangled baby doll. Note said, ‘Sorry for your loss.'”

He took a swallow of his beer, brow furrowed with concern. “When?”

The waitress delivered her beer and a basket of pretzels. Stacy reached for one. “It was waiting for her when she got home from the hospital. On her bed.”

“Can't get closer to a person, short of touching them.”

The pretzel turned to ash in her mouth. She washed it down with a sip of beer. She hadn't thought of it quite that way. But he was absolutely right.

“So what's next?” she asked. “Touching her? Hearing her screams?”

“Maybe nothing.”

“Sorry. That's not good enough for me.” She made a sound of frustration. “No word from Doobie?”

He shook his head, signaled the waitress for another beer. “We could pay another visit to Big Dick's, but it's not even been twenty-four hours.”

That'd be pointless, she acknowledged. Frustrating as waiting could be, that was the nature of police work. Waiting for lab results to come in, for a witness to come forward or another victim. With a new victim came new evidence, witnesses and the chance that the perp screwed up in some way. The homicide guys called it fresh blood.

She meant to stop this bastard before that happened.

“The lab's got the doll, the box it came in and the note. They also have a Coke can decorated with Ted Jackman's fingerprints.”

“Way to go, Stacy.”

She filled Mac in on Ted's supposed tryst in Jane's studio. “He's lying.”

“You're thinking he's Jane's little pen pal?”

“He has access to Jane's loft. He knows the intimate details of her and Ian's life. Their comings and goings. He was on hand or nearby when she found each of the notes. The night of Ian's arrest, he shouldn't have been in the studio, but he was. The night of her opening, he was the one the delivery boy gave the flowers to. Today, I told him where she was and when she was due home.”

“And he was the one who described the delivery kid.”

“Exactly.” She pictured the studio assistant, recalling his expression as she questioned him, the way he had averted
his gaze. How at one point, he had begun nervously tapping his fingers against his thigh.

“There's something about the way he looks at her,” she said, thinking back to the comment he'd made about loving Jane. “Something more intense than I like.”

“And if the fingerprint brings us nothing?”

“We'll cross that bridge then.” She paused. “I can't stop thinking that there's more to the Vanmeer case than we're seeing. We're missing something, Mac. I know it. I feel it. Like an itch that won't go away.”

“The guilty party's in jail, Stacy. Until evidence emerges that proves otherwise, we have to assume we've got the right guy.”

“I know.”

He moved aside his beer, reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Police work is a what-if game. We ask the question, then we see if the evidence supports the answer. Right now it does.”

She slid her hand out from under his, worried that someone from the force would see them. “I should go.”

“Don't. Not yet.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “You said something a minute ago that intrigued me.”

“I did?”

“Something about an itch that needed scratching. I'm qualified. Eager. I guarantee relief.”

“That so?”

“Better than Benadryl. We could discuss my technique over dinner. Then put it into practice back at my place.”

Disappointed, she shook her head. “I can't.”

He brought a hand to his chest in a mock heart attack. “You're turning me down? We're talking world class here. Time of your life.”

She laughed, charmed by his boyish eagerness. “Rain check?”

“Wrong answer. Try another.”

“Sorry. I'm moving in with Jane until we catch this guy. When you called I was heading home to get my things.”

His expression was almost comically disappointed. Like a big puppy who had been banished to sleeping on the floor.

The man was adorable. She decided there was no place she would rather be than
in
his bed.

She told him so.

“Okay, then, a rain check. But I promise you this, Detective Killian. I will collect.”