See Jane Die (3 page)

“All?”

“Every last one.”

“And how do you intend to use that knowledge?”

He lowered his mouth until it hovered above hers. “Mmm…that would be for me to know. And you to find out.”

It wasn't until much later, as Ian slept beside her on the bed, that she realized she had never asked him why he'd been outside so late that night.

Monday, October 20, 2003
12:20 p.m.

D
etective Stacy Killian surveyed the scene before her: the lushly appointed hotel room; the victim on the bed; her partner Mac McPherson talking with the coroner's deputy; the police photographer and criminalists moving about, doing their thing.

The call had come at high noon, cutting short lunches. A few of the guys had simply packed up their meals and brought them along—a greasy combination of burgers and fries or sandwiches from home. They now stood just beyond the established perimeter, finishing them off. A few looked pissed. The others, resigned.

Murder victims had no sense of timing at all.

The scent of the food hung heavily in the hallway, and with perverse enjoyment Stacy imagined the hotel management holding their noses in outrage and offended sensibilities. A stiff in a guest room was one thing; fast food in the hallway quite another.

Stacy had zero patience with the stratosphere-sucking set.

Several people nodded in her direction as she stepped into the room. She returned their greeting and started toward her partner, her feet sinking into thick, putty-colored carpeting.

Stacy moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details: the fact the heavy drapes were pulled tightly shut; the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries and split of champagne on the small Queen Anne-style desk near the window; the spray of fresh flowers beside it.

The arrangement of irises and lilies couldn't compete with the scent of death. The body sometimes voided with the cessation of life, particularly when that end came suddenly and violently. Stacy wrinkled her nose, though she didn't try to avoid the smell, a common mistake of rookies. Within a few minutes, as her olfactory glands fatigued, she would become accustomed to the smell.

At the worst scenes, ones where the body was in an advanced stage of decomposition—or even worse, when the body had been submerged in warm water—the smell was so intense it could not be overcome, even with the help of a smear of Vicks below the nose. The smell of those corpses inundated everything, even the hair shafts. Every homicide detective kept lemon shampoo and a change of clothes in their locker.

She stopped at the closet. She took a pair of latex gloves from her jacket pocket, fitted them on, then slid open the mirrored door and peered inside. A taupe-colored woman's suit and white silk blouse hung there. Very stylish. Very expensive. She checked the label. Armani. On the upper shelf sat a pair of brown-suede, low-heeled pumps. Also very expensive.

“Hey, Stacy.”

She turned to Mac and nodded in his direction. In his early thirties, Mac had a quick smile and puppy-dog eyes. He had transferred over from Vice a few weeks ago and been assigned to partner her.

One of the most perilous and dreaded assignments on the force, according to her former partners. They and a number of the other guys referred to her as a ball-busting, frigid bitch. The biggest one in the DPD.

That title had long since lost the power to bother her. Fact was, in the boys club that was the DPD, women were tolerated. At best. A woman had to fight to establish her place
within the ranks. She did it by being smart, tough and a hard worker. And developing a thick skin, fast. To most of these cowboys, women fell into four categories: vics, perps, pieces of ass or ball-busters.

Given the choices, she was more than happy to be labeled the latter.

Besides, she was a good cop who got the job done. Even her ex-partners would agree with that.

Mac ambled across to stand beside her. “Where've you been? Party's in full swing already.”

“She was waiting for her nails to dry,” called one of the crime scene techs, a jerk named Lester Bart. “Happens all the time.”

“Fuck off,” she replied, unfazed.

“Truth hurts, babe.”

“What's going to hurt is me kicking your ass. And if I break a nail doing it, then I'm really going to be pissed.”

Snickering, the tech went back to dusting for prints. Mac motioned to the taupe suit. “Nice threads.”

Stacy didn't reply. She turned and crossed to the bathroom. He followed.

“You don't talk much, do you?” he said.

“No.” She moved her gaze over the interior. A single travel tote sat on the counter. None of the towels had been used; the complimentary bath products sat untouched on a small mirrored tray.

Stacy crossed to the bag and carefully thumbed through the contents. Lotions, creams, perfume. Lubricating jelly. Condoms. Vibrator. A couple of long silk scarves, probably for bondage games.

Definitely a girl who liked to have fun. And one who came ready for anything
.

“I see Boy Scouts aren't the only ones who are always prepared,” Mac said.

She glanced at Mac, annoyed that his thoughts so closely mirrored her own. He stood in the doorway, broad shoulders nearly filling the space. She frowned. “Is that a joke?”

“Gotta laugh or you'll cry, right?”

“So they tell me.”

“You don't agree?”

Stacy motioned to the doorway. “I'd like to pass, please.”

He hesitated, then stepped aside. As she slipped past, Mac caught her arm, stopping her. “You always have to be such a hard-ass, Killian?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking pointedly at his hand. “You don't like it, request a change.”

“I don't want a—” Mac bit the words back and removed his hand. “Fine, we'll play it your way.”

Stacy exited the bathroom and crossed to the bed. She stopped beside it and gazed down at the vic. The woman was white. She was dressed for bedroom games: slinky black satin robe; black thong panties and bra; garter belt and stockings. The robe lay open; the killer had used the sash to strangle her. Her once-pretty face was congested with blood and dark red in color, her eyelids and lips speckled with petechiae, small hemorrhages caused by pressure on the blood vessels.

She appeared to have been thirtyish, though she could have been older. She looked to have been well maintained: skin smooth; hands manicured; nails painted a delicate frosted pink; hair stylishly cut and highlighted. Real classy. Even dead, the woman all but shouted wealth.

Stacy would expect no less from someone able to float two hundred-fifty bucks a night for a room.

“Party boobs,” Mac offered, using a crude euphemism for breast implants.

Stacy nodded, accustomed to such talk, and moved closer to the bed. Opening her investigative notebook, she made a quick sketch of the scene. Mac, she knew, would have done one as well. On the sketch, she noted details, everything from those present to positioning of the body. She noted the time as well.

That complete, she looked at Mac. “What do we have so far?”

“Name was Elle Vanmeer. Housekeeping—”

“Her ID confirm that?”

“Yes, ma'am. Checked in under that name. Solo.”

She pretended not to notice his irritation. “Go on.”

“Housekeeper found her when she came to clean the room. Thought she'd checked out. She notified the G.M., he called it in.”

“Purse? Wallet? Jewelry?”

“All accounted for. Plenty of cash in the wallet.” He glanced at the woman, then back at Stacy. “Robbery wasn't a motive.”

“No shit. She knew her killer. Trusted him. They'd planned to meet here. For sex, obviously.”

She swept her gaze over the interior. “He would have been someone who fit in here, in this world. Someone who traveled in similar circles to hers.”

“Drivers license lists her address as Hillcrest Avenue. That's the heart of the nosebleed section.”

Highland Park. The most prestigious neighborhood in Dallas. As old money as Dallas got. She pursed her lips. “My bet is, one of them was married. Maybe both.”

“No ring.”

Mac was right. Her left-hand ring finger was bare, not even sporting the telltale cheater's tan line. “Then I'll bet he was.”

“Maybe they were rug munchers.”

This came from Lester. Stacy swung to face him. “Excuse me?”

“You know, lesbos.”

“You're disgusting, you know that?”

“Got a soft spot for those types, Killian? Anything you'd like to share?”

She could hear the rumor already, spreading through the department:
Stacy Killian's a dyke. Finally, the reason she'd rather bust their balls than fondle them.

Just great.

“I find certain labels offensive. You would, too. If you were human.”

“Why don't you shut up, Lester,” Mac snapped. “We've got a job to do here.”

The other man's face flooded with color. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it. A few of the others chuckled and Stacy figured Mac hadn't heard the last of this.

But that wasn't her problem.

Mac brought her attention back to Elle Vanmeer. “I'm not saying you're wrong about the infidelity thing, but here's another scenario. Lovers celebrating something special. An anniversary or birthday. Landing a big contract. Rendezvousing here is part of the celebration.”

“Could be,” she conceded. “But it doesn't feel that way to me.”

“If the guy was married, could be his wife beat him here. He arrives, finds her dead and runs scared.”

She played that scenario over in her head. “It takes a lot of strength to choke the life out of someone. But it could be.” She looked at the coroner's deputy. “Jump in anytime, Pete.”

Pete Winston, a smallish, balding man who looked more like an accountant than a forensic pathologist, glanced at her from his position at the head of the bed. “She's been dead ten to twelve hours. Judging by the hemorrhages in her eyes and lips, what you see is what you've got. 'Course, the autopsy will tell the whole tale.”

“She have intercourse before she was killed?” Stacy asked, hopeful. Sex meant sperm or pubic hair, which in turn meant DNA.

“Don't know yet. Panties are in place, but that doesn't mean no.” He stood and came around the bed to stand beside them. “Take a look at these.”

With a gloved finger he indicated a series of small scars, at her bikini line, hips, inner and outer thighs. “Liposuction,” he said. “And look here.” He indicated small scars at her hair and jawlines. “She's had a face-lift as well.”

“Chicks today,” said Lester. “You date someone and find out later you were fucking a grandmother.”

A couple of the guys hooted in amusement; Stacy sent the man an annoyed look. She returned her attention to the pathologist. “What else can you tell me?”

“Not much,” the man replied, removing his gloves. “You'll have my official finding tomorrow by eight.”

“Tomorrow morning? Come on, Pete, this is a homicide. Every minute is critical, you know that. Every minute—”

He held up his hand, stopping her. “I've got several in line in front of her. This time you have to wait your turn, no wheedling.”

“Sure, of course.” She held up her hands. “I wouldn't want to butt in line. Wouldn't want anyone to accuse me of not playing fair. Never mind that this poor woman was murdered by someone she trusted. Never mind that every minute that ticks past makes finding her killer that much more difficult. Never mind that—”

“All right, fine. I'll call you no matter the time. But before you say yes, know that I plan to wake you from a very deep, very peaceful sleep.”

Stacy smiled sweetly at him. “You're a doll, Pete. I look forward to it.”

Monday, October 20, 2003
12:45 p.m.

R
ick Deland, the hotel's general manager, looked shaken. Green around the gills, actually, Stacy decided. He had every right to. A woman had been murdered in one of his guest rooms. The Dallas police were swarming the place, pressuring him for the elevator and eighth-floor surveillance tapes, a guest list and the okay to question the people on that list.

“La Plaza,” he explained carefully, “caters to people accustomed to smooth, silent service. People accustomed to the best money can buy—and the ability to buy it anonymously. If I allowed you access to them, we would be breaking our commitment to provide that level of service. The level of service we pride ourselves in. That's our trademark.”

Stacy sized up the dark-haired, fortysomething manager. An average man in an exceptional suit, she decided. He would earn high marks in people skills, diplomacy and table manners. She wondered how much the G.M. of a property like La Plaza earned a year. A hell of a lot more than a detective with the DPD, she bet. Even one with ten years' experience under her belt.

He had absolutely no clue who he was up against.

She had never learned the art of taking no for an answer.

“A woman's been murdered, Mr. Deland. A guest in your hotel.”

“That's unfortunate, of course. But I don't see—”

“Unfortunate?” she repeated, cutting him off. “Murder is a much more than
unfortunate
act.”

“A poor choice of words.” His gaze skittered to Mac, standing behind Stacy, near the door. Finding no help there, he returned his gaze to hers. “I apologize.”

“Talk is cheap, Mr. Deland.” She leaned forward. “One of your guests may have seen something, someone…they may have heard something. We'll never know if we don't ask. Most murders are solved within forty-eight hours of being committed.
If
they're going to be solved.”

“That's correct, Mr. Deland,” Mac inserted. “After that, with each hour that passes, the probability of the case being closed diminishes greatly. Memories fade, trails grow cold.”

“Has it occurred to you that a member of your own staff could be the culprit?” Stacy asked.

He looked horrified. “My staff? How could you possibly think…why would you—”

“Access, Mr. Deland. To every part of the hotel. Including the guest rooms.”

He shook his head. “We run background checks on every new hire. Drug testing is mandatory. Our training is stringent. I can all but assure you, no one on my staff was involved.”

Unimpressed, Stacy tried a different tact. “I noticed a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries and a split of champagne in the room. Delivered by room service?”

“Within minutes of arrival. It's all part of staying at La Plaza. We call it the Plaza Experience.”

“But it costs extra?”

“Of course.”

“I noticed fresh flowers, as well. Are those part of the Plaza experience?”

“No. She may have ordered them. Or a friend may have had them sent to the hotel.”

Stacy and Mac exchanged glances. She recognized the excitement in his gaze. It mirrored hers. Easy. Neat. Lover has flowers delivered to rendezvous destination. The two fight and he kills her. The flowers lead right back to the lover and the police chalk one up in the “case solved” column.

It seemed stupid, but an amazing number of crimes were solved by stupidity on the part of the perpetrator.

“Could you check?”

“Of course. I have Mrs. Vanmeer's bill here.” He scanned it. “Here it is, a charge for the flowers.” He saw her disappointment. “I'm sorry.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.” He handed it over. “There's a flag by her name.”

“A flag? What does that mean?”

“It alerts us that one of our special guests is returning.”

“By special, do you mean a repeat customer? Or a high roller?”

“Someone who stays with us occasionally and has made their preferences known, be they for room or amenities.”

“Like smoking or nonsmoking, king or double?” Mac asked.

“Exactly.” The man beamed at him. “Frequently we have requests for foam instead of feather pillows, the minibar stocked with chocolate bars and Perrier water, things like that.”

Stacy made notes while he spoke. When he finished, she met his eyes. “What were Mrs. Vanmeer's preferences?”

He indicated he would check and picked up the phone and called someone named Martha. He questioned the woman, thanked her and hung up. “Mystery solved. Mrs. Vanmeer requested fresh flowers upon arrival, as well as a split of champagne, preferably White Star, and the dipped strawberries. She also requested a room with an oversize Jacuzzi tub and the removal of the bathroom scale and the lighted cosmetics mirror.”

Stacy thought of the plastic-surgery scars Pete had pointed out. Elle Vanmeer had been a woman both obsessed with and insecure over her looks.

“The mirror and scale,” Mac murmured. “That's just weird.”

“To you, perhaps. However, our goal here at La Plaza is not only to make our guests comfortable, but to pamper them as well.”

Stacy glanced at Mac, who rolled his eyes, then looked back at the general manager. “She stayed with you often?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “A couple times a month.”

“With her husband?”

“She was divorced, I believe.”

“Did she always meet the same man?”

“I wouldn't know. I don't involve myself in my guests' affairs.”

“What do you involve yourself in?”

“Pardon me?”

Stacy smiled slightly. “Would you recognize one of her male friends?”

“Me? No. Perhaps one of the staff.”

“Or one of the guests.”

A flush crept over his tanned cheeks. “I'll allow you access to the tapes. But not the guest list.”

“We can subpoena them.”

“Go right ahead. Because without one you'll not have it. I catch you harassing even one of my guests, I'll have your badge.”

She narrowed her eyes, furious. “It would be a shame if the press learned the details of the murder. I can see it now. Sex Games Turn Deadly at La Plaza. Murderer at Large. I imagine that wouldn't be good for business.”

Rick Deland started to his feet. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are—”

“Of course not,” Mac inserted, waving him back to his seat. “Detective Killian feels passionately about her job. I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course. I'm shocked by this whole thing. But my guests had nothing to do with this.”

“Rather a bold statement, Mr. Deland. Considering
you've already assured us none of your staff was involved. Who's left? The ghost of Christmas past? Some other phantom?”

The man flushed. “I'm sorry you feel the need for sarcasm, Detective Killian. I'm doing what I can, but my first responsibility is to my guests.”

“Elle Vanmeer was a guest. Of course, she's dead now. Brutally murdered here in your precious—”

“We appreciate your help,” Mac murmured, stepping forward. “We appreciate your allowing us immediate access to the security tapes.” He held his hand out. “If the tapes reveal anyone suspicious, I'm certain we can count on your cooperation?”

The man stood, grasped his hand. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Deland. Those tapes?”

“I'll be right back.”

When the door shut behind the G.M., Stacy swung to face her partner. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Defusing the situation.”

“Screw that. You folded. Good police work—”

“He didn't have to give us the tapes, Stacy. He could have made us cough up a subpoena.”

“I want it all. A little more pressure and—”

“He would have booted us out of his office. And we would have had to wait. You know as well as I do that every minute counts.”

He was right. He knew it and so did she. It pissed her off.

“Fine. Whatever.”

He frowned. “I don't get you, Stacy.”

“That so?” She folded her arms across her chest. “And I should be bothered by this?”

“What do you get out of being such a hard-ass? Is your goal alienating everybody you work with?”

“I'm a good cop. I'm tough and thorough. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the captain.”

“I don't have a prob—” He bit the words back, expression frustrated. “I like the way you work. How seriously you take
it all. I admire your mind, the way you sift through the facts, then put them together in a logical way.”

“A male who's perceptive. I guess I got the pick of the litter.”

He shook his head. “What's the deal, Stacy? Why can't I admire something about you? Why all the attitude?”

“Because that admiration wasn't free. It came with strings. You want something in return. What?”

He paused a moment. “Okay, I do want something. To be treated like a human being. Or maybe an equal partner. Your partner.”

“As opposed to what?”

“A stupid lackey. A pain-in-the-ass kid. A rookie.” He leaned toward her. “I may be new to Homicide, Stacy, but I've got more time on the force than you do. You're a damn good cop, but I might have something to bring to the party.”

“You think so, do you? We'll see.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He returned it. “Okay, then. We'll see.”

Rick Deland returned then, interrupting the exchange. He was accompanied by another man whom he introduced as Hank Barrow, La Plaza's head of security. A large man with a thick mane of snow-white hair, he cut an impressive figure.

“Detectives.” The man shook both their hands. “I understand we've agreed to allow you access to our security tapes.”

“That's right.” Mac smiled. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“I've got a bit of bad news, I'm afraid.” The man glanced at his general manager, then back at Mac and Stacy. “The elevator tapes are no problem, but the eighth floor surveillance tape is blank. Or as good as blank.”

“Son of a bitch. What happened?”

“We do our best to minimize the presence of the cameras. On the eighth floor we placed a large, potted ficus in that corner. It appears that during cleaning, the artificial ficus was placed in a way that the foliage covered the camera lens. Frankly, it's happened before.”

Stacy frowned. “And you only just discovered the mistake now?”

“We tape strictly for liability purposes. We don't monitor for criminal activity.”

“How long do you save the tapes?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

If their guy was smart, which Stacy was beginning to feel he was, he would have known where the cameras were located, how long the hotel hung on to them, that they didn't monitor.

If she was correct, this hadn't been a crime of passion, but a premeditated murder.

“I do have some good news. We have tapes of all the stairwells. I've brought them as well.”

Eliminating the opportunity for the killer to bypass the elevators and the cameras he hadn't been able to disable
.

“You understand, of course, that these tapes are strictly visual. No audio.”

“Of course.”

“I need to warn you that you may see a few shocking things on the tapes. Many guests don't realize the cameras are there and—”

“And some perform
because
they do know,” Stacy said dryly. “Thanks for the warning, anyway.”