See Jane Die (33 page)

Thursday, November 13, 2003
9:45 a.m
.

J
ane waited for the guard to bring Ian to the visitors' room. It had been one week since she'd seen him. Seven, twenty-four-hour segments, nothing in the course of a lifetime let alone an eternity, yet it had brought two deaths and the loss of their child.

Doobie's neck had been broken. Because they'd found no signs of a struggle, or defensive wounds on the man, Stacy and Mac believed he had turned his back on his attacker. That his killer had been someone he trusted. An unlit cigarette and a Bic lighter had been found under the body. They supposed he'd turned his back to the wind to light the smoke.

She had been so close to learning the name of the man terrorizing her, the man who had stolen not only her face but her young adulthood.

Not close enough.

It was as if he anticipated her every move.

That night, unable to sleep, she had prayed. For strength. For help. For justice.

This morning, she had prayed for her husband. Their relationship. The events of the past week separated them as surely as the glass partition before her now. The truth was,
she felt him, their love, slipping away. She felt that loss as keenly as that of the life she had carried.

Ian and his guard entered the room. He crossed to the cubicle and laid a hand on the glass, making no move to pick up the phone. He simply mouthed “I love you.”

She fitted her hand to his; the glass warmed. Her chest grew tight; tears swamped her. She couldn't bring herself to repeat the endearment.

For long minutes they stood there that way, gazing at one another. Finally, he reached for the phone. She did the same.

“My heart's broken,” he said simply, voice thick. “I don't know what to say. How to make it better.”

“There's no way to make it better.”

“We'll have other children. I promise.”

His words hurt. They angered her. “How can you promise that? How…with everything—”

Her throat closed on the words, choking them off.

“I'm sorry we fought. That I picked a fight. I was jealous. Angry.” He lowered his voice. “Hurt that you didn't believe in me. Scared to death. Of losing you.”

“Everywhere I turn, there's evidence against you. All I wanted was reassurance.”

“You deserved it. Did Stacy tell you? I asked her to explain.”

“She did.” Jane looked away a moment, then met his gaze once more. “But she shouldn't have to explain. I'm your wife. I deserved answers from you.”

“Anything you want to know, just ask. Please,” he begged. “I don't want anything between us.”

“It may be too late for that.”

He looked as if she had struck him. “Don't say that, Jane. I couldn't bear it. Anything. Ask me anything.”

“Did you have an affair with Elle Vanmeer?”

He didn't blink. “Before you and I met, yes, we had a thing. It wasn't exclusive. Elle had a thing with a lot of men.”

Jane swallowed hard, struggling to come to grips with what he was telling her. “Go on.”

“That's why her name was in my PalmPilot. Why La
Plaza's number was there. We rendezvoused at the Plaza. She liked that. She liked wild sex. Variety.”

Jane wanted to cover her ears. Wanted to hide. Deny it was true.

“Did you sleep with other patients?”

“A few. Not while they were patients. After the fact. We'd run into each other at some event and one thing would lead to another.” He brought a hand to his face. She saw that it shook. “I wasn't a saint, Jane. I never pretended I was.”

“Have you been faithful to me?”

“Yes.”

She wanted to believe it. So badly it hurt.

Lord in heaven, why couldn't she?

“I met you,” he said softly, “and I knew I'd never want anyone else.”

“You lied to the police.”

“When I was doing it, I knew it was a mistake. But you were standing there and I…I couldn't say the words. I knew they would hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Your lie makes you look more guilty.”

“I know that now…but I had nothing to do with her death. I figured my past relationship with her didn't matter.”

“A lie always matters.”

“And now you doubt me.”

“Not your innocence, Ian. I know you didn't kill those women.”

His eyes grew bright. She saw that his hand holding the phone trembled. “And what of my love? Do you doubt that?”

Jane searched her heart. She didn't answer; she couldn't. “Ted's dead,” she said instead, softly. “He was murdered. In the studio.”

Ian went white.

“The police think he surprised someone robbing the place.”

“You don't agree?”

“No. There's more. That snitch I told you about, the one who was on the boat that day sixteen years ago, he's dead,
too. Murdered as well. Detective McPherson had contacted him. Arranged a meeting. When we got there, he was—”

“We? Are you saying, you—”

She cut him off. She didn't have the time or patience for his husbandly concern. Things were moving too fast for that. She leaned forward. “Stacy's helping us. So's her partner, Mac. We're going to get you out of here, Ian. I promise you that.”

He leaned forward. “Don't do anything…Let them take the chances. I'd rather rot in here than have you hurt.”

The guard stepped forward; they had used their thirty minutes. They both stood, though they hung on the phone.

“Promise, Jane,” he begged. “Promise not to get hurt.”

“I'll be careful,” she said, then paused and added, “I love you, Ian.”

As she walked away, she realized not loving him would be damn near impossible.

The realization left her light-headed with fear.

Thursday, November 13, 2003
11:45 a.m
.

H
er visit with Ian left Jane strangely energized. Hopeful. She had called Stacy's cell phone and left a message, then headed to her studio. She had begun a portrait of Ted one rainy afternoon months ago, had taken the molds but never readied them for metal.

She would do that today. As a remembrance for his family.

Ranger with her, she made her way down the circular staircase to her studio. The dog forged ahead, whimpering. He disappeared around the corner that led to the studio's street-level entrance.

Ted. Facedown in a sea of blood
.

Jane froze. Her breath became short; the hair on the back of her neck prickling with an ominous sense of déjà vu. Ranger reappeared. She dropped her gaze to his paws.

No blood, no bloody pawprints. Thank God.

The dog cocked his head and whined. The fur along the ridge of his back stood up. Jane realized the animal still smelled death here. That the cleaning solutions were ineffective against his sensitive sense of smell.

“Think we'll get used to it, buddy?” she said to the dog.
He looked at her, as if considering an answer, then turned and loped back to the foyer. She heard him snuffling and snorting, no doubt confused by the different, strong scents.

She had to. This was her studio, and she wouldn't allow the bastard to chase her out.

Swallowing hard, Jane took the last step. She collected the molds of Ted's face and carried them to a tall worktable at the back of the studio. She ran her fingers over the plaster, over his familiar features. Tears stung her eyes. He had been her friend. Nothing Stacy—or anyone else—said could make her believe otherwise.

She retrieved one of the rolling supply carts and set it up with the things she needed to bring the molds to their metal-ready state: fine and extra fine grit sandpaper; a container of water; paper towels; and her Dremel, for quickly knocking off any large imperfections.

The minutes ticked past. As they did, the work drew her into its comforting womb. The place where the world beyond her and her art ceased to exist.

She stopped, ran her finger over the mold's surface. Nearly there, she decided. Just a little more detail work. As she reached for the extra-fine grit sandpaper, her gaze landed on a small silver key, peeking out from under the rubber mat on the cart's top.

She lifted the mat, collected the key. For the cart, she realized. It was the right size. She checked the door to the storage bin and found it locked. Odd, she thought. Why'd Ted lock it?

Squatting in front of the cart, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the bin door. Not supplies, she saw. Clothing. She reached in and pulled the articles out.

She stared at the items, a cry lurching to her throat. Of denial. Betrayal.

A leather bomber jacket. Gloves. And an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.

They smelled faintly of perfume. A woman's scent, musk mixed with floral.

Not her scent. The kind a woman like Elle Vanmeer would wear
.

Jane dropped the items and stumbled backward. She brought a hand to her mouth. The night Elle Vanmeer had been murdered, Ian had been in the studio. She had awakened from her nightmare to find him in the doorway to her screening room. He had taken her into his arms. The cold had clung to him.

But he hadn't been wearing a coat
.

Because he had already removed it. Dear God. She closed her eyes and pictured him, letting himself into the studio. He would have removed the coat, cap and gloves before he entered, on the chance that they ran into each other. He had crossed to the cart, stuffed the garments inside, locked it and tucked the key under the mat.

Why the studio? she wondered. Why not return to the loft, tuck the items into a closet or drawer? Or leave them in his car, hidden under the seat or in the trunk?

A sob slipped past her lips. She felt sick. It couldn't be. Not Ian.

She turned, made it to the wicker couch. She sank onto it. Her gaze fell upon the coat and hat. She thought of Lisette. Of Marsha.

She thought of Ted.

Ted
. Ian hadn't been responsible for his death. He'd come into the studio that night. Surprised a burglar.

Or someone else. She lifted her head. Someone in her studio for another reason.

To plant the items of clothing. Physical evidence that would unequivocally tie Ian to Elle Vanmeer's murder.

Jane jumped to her feet. Of course!

She had to call Stacy. Had to tell her what she'd found. What she'd realized
.

She stumbled toward the desk. She tried her sister's cell and got her voice mail. Instead of leaving a message she hung up and tried her number at headquarters.

“Crimes Against Persons.”

Kitty, Jane realized. She greeted the woman and asked for Stacy.

“I'm sorry, Detective Killian's out today. May I direct your call to one of the other detectives?”

Out? That wasn't right
.

“Ma'am? Is this an emergency? If so—”

“N-no. It's…I'm her sister.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, high and tinny.

“Did you try her cell pho—”

“Yes, thank you.”

She hung up. She had to see Stacy now. Had to talk to her, before anyone else learned what she'd found. She had to convince her the items had been planted. That Ian wasn't a killer.

Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had to think. Kitty had said Stacy was out, but she had headed in to headquarters this morning. On the way out she'd said she planned to stop home sometime during the day to collect some of her things, check her mail and answering machine and water plants.

Of course, that's where she was. She dialed her sister's home number—and again got a machine. Without pausing for thought, she collected her purse and Ranger and headed for her car.

She reached the M Streets and turned down the one closest to her sister's. A red ball sailed into the street, a laughing toddler following behind. She hit the brakes, squealing to a stop. The child's mother swooped him up, then turned and glared at her.

She had been going fast. Way too fast for a neighborhood with children. Dear God, anything could have happened.

Pull yourself together, Jane
.

She eased forward. Slowly this time. Cautiously. As she did, she glanced to the right. Marsha's house, she realized, heart lurching to her throat. The last time she had seen it, bright yellow crime-scene tape had been stretched across the
front. The tape was gone, replaced by a bright blue-and-white Coldwell Banker For Sale sign.

Jane drove the remaining two blocks to Stacy's bungalow. She parked in the drive, cracked the windows for Ranger, climbed out and hurried up the walk. The garage door was closed. She rang the bell. Her sister didn't answer. She peeked in the front sidelight. The living room beyond looked empty.

From somewhere nearby came the sound of a dog barking. Ranger's answering bark.

A dreadful feeling of déjà vu moved over her. She thought of Marsha. Pictured herself entering the woman's house, remembered the smell. The sound of her own voice as she called out.

Pictured Marsha tied to the chair, face purpling.

Jane froze, the taste of fear on her tongue. Stacy had left for headquarters. What if she'd never reached it?

She fought the fear off, reached out, tried the door. And found it locked.

Jane went around back. The small backyard was empty. She let herself in the gate and went to the kitchen door. The kitchen, like the front room, was empty.

Stacy was fine. Already here and gone. Sure.

She had to make certain, anyway.

Jane dug her keys out of her handbag. For emergencies, the sisters had exchanged keys when Stacy bought the house. She fumbled for it, unlocked the door and stepped inside. At the warning whine of the alarm system, she crossed to the pad and punched Stacy's pass code, hoping that she hadn't changed it.

She hadn't. The system disarmed and Jane let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She called her sister's name as she moved farther into the house. The interior smelled clean, like pine and lemon cleaner.

Jane checked the powder room, dining room, guest room. Stacy's bedroom.

There she found the first hint of disorganization. Her bed had been hastily made. Several garments were thrown in a
heap on the floor near the head of the bed. One, the lovely silk blouse she had given her sister last Christmas.

Jane crossed to it. She bent to pick it up, intending to lay it neatly over the bed. As she did, her gaze landed on a file folder, peeking out from the nightstand's lower shelf. A pink tab, neatly labeled with her sister's name.

A medical file. Like the ones Ian prepared for his patients.

With trembling fingers, she slid it out. Flipped it open. It contained a mere two sheets. One a patient information form. The other the doctor's consultation notes. Jane recognized her husband's handwriting before she even noted his clinic's logo atop the page.

She stared at the sheet, confused. Her sister had gone to Ian for a consultation. That's how they had met. What she didn't understand was why she had the file here—

The woman. That night at Ian's office
.

But when she had told Stacy about the incident…

Her sister had said nothing
.

Jane realized she was shaking. Light-headed. Vaguely, she wondered what time it was. She closed the file and slid it back onto the shelf.

She left the house the way she had come, through the back door. She made her way to her Jeep. Thoughts whirling, she started it and backed out of the drive. Stacy had kept the truth from her. She had lied to her. Why? What did it mean?

She meant to find out.