See Jane Die (6 page)

“She doesn't know.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You haven't told her?”

She hurried to explain, tone defensive. “We just found out. And meant to tell her first. I wanted to, but just—” She looked helplessly at her friend. “You know Stacy.”

He remained silent a moment. “Relationships are a two-way street, Jane. You're partly responsible for your strained relationship with Stacy.”

“Then tell me how to make it better. I hate that we're this way.”

“I don't believe that's true.”

Heat stung her cheeks. “I can't believe you said that.”

“Look at it from where I'm sitting. She's your sister, your only sibling. Yet you haven't told her you're pregnant. You should have picked up the phone right then and called her. You always hold back.”

“I was worried that she'd be upset, that she wouldn't be happy for me.”

“So you didn't even give her the chance? Somebody has to break this cycle.”

“She's the one with issues.”

“Is she?”

Jane made a sound of irritation. “Shrink double-talk.”

“I'm talking to you as a friend, Jane. Not a doctor. Break the cycle.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Stupor genius,” he corrected.

A smile tugged at her mouth even though she was pissed that he wouldn't agree with her. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

They talked a few more minutes, Jane turning the conver
sation to him, his practice. The redhead he had been dating. She learned that the redhead was already history, the practice was thriving and that he was planning a spring trip to Paris.

As they parted, he kissed her cheek. “I'm glad you called. I've missed you.”

“I'm glad, too. And thanks for the insights. I think I'll sleep better tonight.”

“Glad to hear it.” His smiled faded. “Call Stacy, Jane. She needs you, too.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“It's true.” He kissed her again. “Promise you'll do it.”

She promised, but as he walked away, she wondered which she was more afraid of facing, her irrational fear of losing it all? Or her sister?

Monday, October 20, 2003
5:30 p.m.

S
tacy sat slouched in front of the video monitor, staring at the flickering black-and-white images. She stretched and checked her watch. Two and a half hours. And so far, zip. No one out of the ordinary. Couples. Kids playing in the elevator, going up and down. Geriatrics.

Deland had said the hotel was running at less-than-fifty-percent occupancy rate, coming off three weeks in a row at nearly one hundred percent thanks due to the Texas State Fair and the big Southern Methodist University vs. Oklahoma State University game.

It showed in the tapes.

Of course, the stairwell videos could tell the tale.

Mac had offered to do the legwork, notifying Elle Vanmeer's next of kin, talking to her neighbors, following up leads. Stacy had nudged him in the direction, but wished he was here, reviewing the tapes, as well. He was a good cop. Committed. Observant.

Camp and Riggio, on the other hand, were a couple of burned-out slackers. She itched to check up on them, their work. She didn't trust them not to miss something. Maybe
she
was
a control freak, Stacy thought, thinking of the things Mac had said to her.

More like a distrustful, prickly bitch.

Tough shit, she thought. If her tapes didn't reveal a lead, she would review the others as well.

Elle Vanmeer's killer had to have reached the eighth floor somehow. And he sure as hell hadn't flown.

She thought of coffee. And a doughnut, left over from the morning box. Maybe one of the cream-filled ones.

Fat chance of that. Those rarely made it past 10:00 a.m
. Her stomach growled and she glanced longingly at the door.
Still, even a dried-out glazed would be better than nothing
.

She reached over to switch off the machine, then stopped, her gaze on the monitor. A man getting off on the eighth floor. The time read 10:36 p.m.

Stacy hit the rewind button.

He alighted the elevator at the lobby level. Alone. He was tall. Slimly but strongly built. Wearing blue jeans, a leather bomber jacket and a baseball cap.

Stacy squinted at the screen. It looked like it might be an Atlanta Braves cap, but she wasn't positive. The cap and the angle of his head shielded his face from the camera.

Stacy watched as the car stopped on the eighth floor and he stepped out.

She rewound the segment and watched it again. Then again.

He knew where the camera was
—he'd deliberately averted his face.

She'd been right. He was smart. He'd planned ahead. He punched the button for the eighth with no hesitation. He wore gloves. She searched her memory. How cold had it been the night before? Fifties? Below? Cold enough that he had not drawn attention to himself by wearing gloves?

Stacy calculated how much time the murder had taken. Imagined the scenario. Enter the room. Greets his paramour. She's there, waiting. Maybe posed on the bed. It's part of the fun. The game. He talks dirty to her for a minute or two, teases her, maybe even with the sash of her robe. Leaves his
gloves on. Maybe his coat, too. Kinky. She trusts him, doesn't think a thing about it.

Then he does it.

He's out of there in twenty minutes. Maybe less.

The time recorded on the tape would be right, smack-dab in the middle of Pete's early estimation of Vanmeer's TOD.

Excitement pumped through her. The juice, as she thought of it. Even though the odds of him taking the same car down were one in four, Stacy fast-forwarded.

One in four, but there he was. Mr. Braves cap, seventeen minutes after alighting on the eighth floor, making a return trip.

Got you, you bastard.

Stacy rewound the tape, then jumped to her feet to go get the others.

Monday, October 20, 2003
6:15 p.m.

M
ac joined the group as Stacy rewound the tape for the fourth time. He tossed his jacket on the table. “What? No popcorn?”

“Fresh out,” Stacy said. “But we have something even better to nosh on. Take a look.”

Mac grabbed a chair, swung it around and straddled it. He watched the flickering image in silence. When the suspect exited the elevator at the lobby level, Stacy froze the tape and looked at her partner. “What do you think?”

“He knew where the cameras were.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Timing's right,” Camp offered. “He looks good.”

Mac pursed his lips. “Have anyone else?”

“Not yet,” Riggio answered. “A couple single females. A teenage couple. That's it.”

“Anything in the stairwells?”

“Nada.” Camp glanced at his watch. “I have about an hour more tape to review.”

“Then do it.” Stacy checked her own watch. “Mac and I will begin tracking down leads on what we have.”

The other detectives filed out, leaving Stacy and Mac alone.

“What'd you turn up?”

He took out his notebook. “Twice divorced. Most recently two years ago. Both husbands were considerably older. And wealthy.”

“She work?”

“Called herself an interior designer, but neighbors I spoke with said she didn't work much. Figured she used her license to get designer discounts at every home-decor boutique in town. Her divorces left her very well off.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Not one, unfortunately. According to her housekeeper, she liked men. A lot.”

“Interesting.” Stacy drummed her fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop, mind racing. A jealous ex-husband. Or one scorned—and bled dry in a divorce settlement.

“You're thinking there might be motive there?”

“Maybe.”

“I spoke with husband number one. Lives in Atlanta. Hasn't spoken to Elle in years. Expressed disbelief that she was dead. Didn't react like a man who killed his wife.”

“And husband number two?”

“Been on a cruise. Boat docked in Miami this morning, his flight's due into Dallas/Fort Worth at ten-forty-five tonight.”

“So he's got an alibi.”

“But from what I hear, enough money to have had someone else do his dirty work.”

“I say we see if we can catch Rick Deland at La Plaza. Run the tape by him, see if he or anybody else recognizes the guy either as a guest or a hotel visitor.”

Mac agreed. Stacy pulled the man's business card from her trouser pocket, crossed to the wall phone and dialed. “Rick Deland,” she said, then added, “Detective Stacy Killian.”

A moment later, the man came on the line. “I'm glad I've caught you, Mr. Deland. We need to run something by you. Can my partner and I come now?”

He said they could and she hung up. “It's a go.” She lifted her jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on.
“What time did you say the ex-husband's due in to DFW? Ten-forty-five?”

He nodded. “Thinking a trip to the airport's in order?”

“Nothing like the element of surprise to liven up an investigation.” She checked the time. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, one thing.” Something in his tone had the hair on the back of her neck prickling. She looked at him.

“Guess who Elle Vanmeer's plastic surgeon was? Dr. Ian Westbrook. Your brother-in-law.”

Monday, October 20, 2003
8:25 p.m.

J
ane sipped her mineral water and watched Ian. He stood at the stove, stirring his marmalade sauce. He was preparing one of her favorite dishes—orange rosemary chicken. Already the kitchen was filled with the scent of the broiling herbed chicken and sweet citrus. Ian was an excellent cook and prepared most of their meals. She happily filled the role of sous chef and dishwasher.

“I saw Dave today.”

“Wondered how long it would take you to give him a call. Not even twenty-four hours.”

She cocked her head. Was that irritation she heard in his tone? Or jealousy? “We've been friends a long time.”

“I know that, Jane.” He met her eyes briefly. “I'm not upset you called him. Hell, I suggested it.”

“Yes, you did. And it was an excellent suggestion, by the way.”

“And?”

“And he brought me a copy of
Texas Monthly
. The
Texas Monthly
.”

Ian stopped stirring, looked at her. “And? What do you think?”

“Judge for yourself.”

She retrieved the magazine and laid it on the granite countertop, open to the article about her.

Ian whistled. “Way to go, babe.” He wiped his hands, picked up the magazine and began to read. After he finished, he met her eyes again. “And to think, you married me.”

“Just slumming.”

“Prowling the bargain basement, looking for a cheap thrill.”

“You're not cheap, baby,” she teased. “But you are a thrill.”

He bent and kissed her. When he straightened the amusement had fled his expression. “The photo bothered you.”

It wasn't a question; he knew her well. She told him so.

“And what did Dave have to say on the subject?”

“To get over it. My past is an essential part of who I am—and the artist I've become.” Even as she said the words, the grotesque image drew her gaze. Unable to fight its power, Jane closed the magazine.

“Now I'm jealous. I should have said that to you.”

She didn't smile. “I told him about the nightmares.”

“And?”

She quickly explained his theory about why her dreams had chosen now to reappear. “He thinks I'm terrified of losing it all.”

“What do you think?”

“What he said made sense. And I felt unbelievably relieved afterward. He suggested that by simply acknowledging the fear, by understanding what was going on, I was taking the first step to overcoming it.” She paused. “I told him about the baby.”

“I figured as much.”

“You're not mad?”

“Of course not.”

“You look funny. What are you thinking that you're not saying?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you are. What?”

He took a sip of his wine. “I was thinking your news must have taken the wind out of his sails.”

She drew her eyebrows together, confused. “I don't understand.”

“He's in love with you.”

She stared at her husband a moment, speechless. “He's not.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Jane couldn't believe what her husband was saying. “We're friends. Men and women can be, you know.”

“And that's why he's hung around all these years?”

“Yes!” Angry heat stung her cheeks. “We're friends. We share a lot of history. We respect each other.”

Ian held up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “Sorry. I take it all back. Maybe I
am
just jealous of your relationship.”

She went and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You don't need to be.”

“Promise?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He kissed her, then ordered her to sit—if she wanted to eat anytime soon.

She obeyed. They fell silent. After a moment, Jane broke it. “We talked about Stacy.”

He glanced up. “And?”

“He suggested I'm as responsible for our strained relationship as she.”

“But you don't agree?”

“I didn't say that.” A defensive edge crept into her voice, one she despised. “It's just that—”

Their front buzzer sounded, interrupting her. In the front hall, Ranger began to bark.

“Saved by the bell,” Ian teased, lightening the mood.

She made a face at him as she crossed to the intercom. “Yes?”

“Jane, it's Stacy.”

Jane looked at her husband. He grinned. “Dave blabbed. You're in trouble now.”

“Jane?”

She returned her attention to her sister. “Come on up. I'll buzz you in.”

Jane met her sister at the door. A man was with her. He stood about six-two and was quite good-looking. “I didn't realize you weren't alone,” she murmured, surprised.

“This is my partner. Mac McPherson.”

“Good to meet you,” he said and held out a hand.

Jane took it. “You, too.”

“We need to speak with Ian.” Stacy bent and scratched Ranger behind the ears. “Is he home?”

“Ian?” Jane repeated, confused. She shifted her gaze between the two. Stacy looked apologetic; the man intent. “What about?”

“Police business, Jane. Sorry.”

“He's in the kitchen. Come on in.”

Ian looked up when they entered the kitchen. “Stacy,” he said warmly. “Long time no see.”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, crossed to her and kissed her cheeks. “You haven't been around much. We've missed you.”

Jane noticed how her sister's cheeks pinkened, noticed how pleased she seemed with Ian's attention. Why hadn't she hugged her sister? Why hadn't she greeted her with a smile or even a few words of welcome? Why couldn't she be happy to see her?

Maybe Dave was right. Maybe both of them had become mirrors for the other. One of them needed to break the cycle.

“That's right,” Jane echoed. “We've missed you.”

The words landed flatly between them, sounding false even to Jane's ears.

Stacy looked at her. Jane flushed. Ian stepped in, laying an arm over Jane's shoulders. “I hope you'll stay for dinner.” He smiled at Stacy's companion. “Both of you.”

“Ian,” Jane said, realizing that he thought Stacy's visit a
social one, her companion a boyfriend. “This is Stacy's partner.”

The man stepped forward. “Mac McPherson. We're here in an official capacity, Dr. Westbrook.”

Ian's eyebrows shot up. He shook the man's hand. “This is a bizarre twist on the evening.”

Stacy offered a reassuring smile. “I suppose it is, though ‘official capacity' sounds way too serious. Sorry about the timing.”

Ian motioned to the table. “Have a seat. Can I get either of you a glass of wine? Some tea or—”

“Nothing,” Stacy said. “Thanks, anyway.”

The detectives and Ian sat; Jane stood. Stacy began. “Ian, do you know a woman named Elle Vanmeer?”

He looked surprised. “Elle? Sure. She's a patient of mine. Why?”

Stacy ignored his question. “How long have you known her?”

“Let me think.” He tapped his index finger on the tabletop, as if using it to count. “She first became a patient of mine when I was with the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery. So, four or five years, I think. I could check my files.”

“She's had you perform a number of procedures on her, hasn't she?”

“Yes,” he conceded, though he looked uncomfortable.

“Which ones?”

“As I'm sure you understand, that information is privileged.”

“She's dead, Ian,” Stacy said bluntly. “Murdered.”

“My God.” Jane brought a hand to her mouth. She looked at Ian; he appeared shaken.

“How? When?”

“Last night sometime. Her body was discovered this morning.”

Mac spoke. “We're hoping you can help us find her killer, Dr. Westbrook.”

“Me?” He glanced up at Jane, then back at the detectives.

“I imagine you knew her well. Her fears and longings. Her most intimate secrets.”

“I was her plastic surgeon,” Ian said stiffly, “not her shrink.”

Stacy stepped in, sending her partner an irritated glance. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Ian, but it seems natural that your patients would confide in you. After all, aren't the reasons most of them seek your services emotional? Their husband is looking at younger women. Their boyfriend prefers big breasts. Their lover dumps them. They turn to you for help.”

“True,” he conceded. “Cosmetic surgery is elective. Something propels the patient to seek to change their appearance. And yes, most often the decision is based on an emotional need. But as for why she was murdered or helping you catch her kill—”

Mac cut him off. “And what was Elle Vanmeer's emotional reason for altering her appearance?”

Ian frowned. “Elle was obsessed with her physical appearance and with aging.”

“Why?”

The detective all but barked the word at her husband and Jane interceded, her back up. “She didn't need some great tragedy to feel that way. Day in and out I talk to women who are obsessed with the same things. Beautiful women who are, quite frankly, desperate.”

“Why's that?” Mac questioned. “It seems a little off to me.”

“It is off and not just a little.” She folded her arms across her chest. “A reflection of our society's screwed-up value system. If you have any doubt that's true, open a magazine or turn on the television. Take a look at the women. They're all young, thin and beautiful.”

“So?”

“So, that tells women they have to look that way to not only succeed in our culture, but to be loved.”

“So they turn to plastic surgery.”

Something in his tone rankled. “I bet if
your
self-image was tied to your physical appearance, judged against an unrealistic ideal put forth by the media, you'd do whatever you
could to maintain that ideal. I bet you'd be frightened, even desperate, if you saw it slipping away. Am I right, Detective? Would you?”

“We're just doing our jobs,” Stacy said softly. “That's all.”

Ian curled his fingers around Jane's. “As you know, Stacy, my wife feels passionately about this subject. What she described is an accurate portrayal of Elle's feelings. The feeling of many of my patients, for that matter. Elle generally groused about whatever man she was seeing, but mostly complained about aging. About not looking as good as she used to. I know that won't help you much, but that was Elle.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Elle? A month ago, I guess. She came in to discuss thoracoplasty.”

“And that is?”

“Not what she thought it was. Basically, having a rib shortened to correct a rib-hump deformity.”

“What did she think it was?”

“The removal of ribs to alter her shape. Make her waist smaller.”

“You're shitting me.” That came from Mac.

“Rumors have circulated for years that a number of celebrities have had it done. Cher. Jane Fonda. Pamela Anderson. Among others.”

“So you didn't agree to perform the procedure?”

“Of course not. As I explained, thoracoplasty is not a cosmetic procedure. The ribs protect major organs. I suggested she think about waist liposuction, which is in fact what celebrities like Cher have used to achieve their new, reduced waistlines.”

“Elle was only forty-two,” Stacy said. “That seems young to have had so many procedures. Did she need them?”

“The answer to that is totally subjective. Obviously, she felt she needed the enhancements.”

“Did you feel she did?” she pressed.

“That wasn't my call. If I had turned her away, she would have gone elsewhere.”

Mac snorted.

“Look,” Ian said, leaning forward, “there are currently two schools of thought concerning when to seek cosmetic surgery. One is to begin lifting and tucking before the signs of aging appear. The other school is the traditional one—”

“Wait until aging is obvious.”

“And which school are you a proponent of?” Mac asked.

“I let the patient's feeling lead me. Within reason.”

“Of course you do.”

The man's adversarial tone took Jane aback. She saw that it did Ian, as well. He looked unnerved. Uncomfortable.