See Jane Die (7 page)

“Was she having any troubles that you knew of?” Stacy asked softly, almost apologetically.

Good cop, bad cop, Jane realized. But why play the game at all? Why were they really here?

“Not that I knew of.”

“Man problems?”

“Again, not that I knew of.”

“Anyone special in her life?”

“I'm sorry, Stacy, we didn't have that kind of relationship.”

“What can you tell us about her husbands?”

“She was married twice. The first time when she was young. I'm thinking they'd been divorced a long time. That it was as amiable as these things get.”

“And the second?”

He thought a moment, as if working to remember. “More recent. Less amiable. A lot less. But I can't recall specifics.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

“What kind of people did she hang with? Anyone you would characterize as edgy? Off center or dangerous?”

“Elle? No way. She was extremely image conscious. Money mattered to her. She liked nice things. Both her husbands were successful, straight-arrow types. She dated doctors, businessmen. Guys like that.”

“You're a guy like that.”

He stiffened. “But I was her doctor.”

“She talked about them? The guys?”

Ian looked uncomfortable. “Sometimes. I ran into her out sometimes. Art openings, the theater. A charity event.”

“And she was with a date?”

“Yes.”

“The same guy all three times?”

“No. All different.”

“Would you remember—”

“Their names?” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“The last time you saw her, did she seem different from previous appointments?”

He didn't answer immediately. When he did, he shook his head. “I'm sorry. Same old Elle. I really wish I could help you.”

Stacy stood. Mac followed her to her feet. “If you think of anything, will you call us?”

“Of course.” They started toward the door. Ranger trotted beside them. When they reached it, Mac handed Ian his card.

Ian glanced at the card, then back at the detectives. “I can't believe Elle's dead. How did she…what happened?”

“I'm sorry, Ian,” Stacy answered, “we can't talk about it.”

He looked flustered, opened the door. “I understand. It's just so…hard to believe.”

Mac and Stacy stepped through. She glanced at Jane. “Let's get together soon.”

“That'd be great.” Jane forced a smile. “We could go to lunch.”

Stacy agreed, took another step, then stopped and turned back. “One last thing, Ian. Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Never. Why do you ask?”

“Just covering all the bases, that's all.”

Jane stared at her sister, a chill inching up her spine. The
question seemed inappropriate, out of step with the others. Besides, why would it have mattered, even if he had?

Not liking the answer, she watched her sister walk away.

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

T
he temperature had dropped while they were inside. Stacy shivered and pulled her tweed jacket tighter around her. From Elm Street came the sound of jazz. A car sped past, the driver blowing the horn at a young woman with spiky orange hair. Bozo with boobs, Stacy thought.

They crossed to Mac's Ford, parked at the curb. Stacy went around to the passenger side and climbed in. They slammed their car doors in unison.

Mac glanced at her. “What do you think?” he asked.

She fastened her seat belt, then met his gaze. “About what?”

“Was the good doctor telling the truth about his relationship with the vic?”

Stacy frowned. “Why wouldn't he be?”

“Lots of reasons. Maybe.” He shoved the keys into the ignition.

“He was telling the truth.”

Mac made no move to start the car, but instead squinted out the windshield.

She watched him, frowning. “What?”

“When you asked the question, he looked strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Like a man working hard to look innocent.”

“I didn't pick up on that.”

Mac cranked the engine, pulled away from the curb. “Let's talk about the tape,” he said, shifting the subject.

They hadn't worked together long, but she recognized his maneuvering, anyway. “What about it?”

“Has it occurred to you that the guy on the tape and your brother-in-law fit the same general description?”

“Sure. But so would maybe twenty percent of the male population of Dallas. You're grasping at straws.”

“Is that what you'd say if he wasn't your brother-in-law?”

Her face warmed. “He was her plastic surgeon. He—”

“Look, nobody at the hotel recognized our guy from the tape. Chances are he wasn't a hotel guest. So that's a dead end. We have to look at every possible angle. Your brother-in-law's a married man. Married to a very wealthy woman, by the way. One who, I'm certain, would not be happy to learn he was involved in extracurricular activities with a patient.”

She frowned. “How do you know Jane's wealthy?”

“Everybody knows.” He eased to a stop at the light at Commerce and South Walton Street. “About her inheritance and you being cut out. Life in a fishbowl, Stacy.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Just frigging great.”

He sent her a sympathetic glance. “If it helps, the guys think it sucks. A few of them figured they could have hit you up for a loan.”

He said the last deadpan, though his eyes gave him away. She liked him, she decided. And he was certainly the least-arrogant guy she'd been partnered with.

“No comment?” he said.

“I don't want to encourage you. You are
not
funny, Detective McPherson.”

“Yeah, I am. Admit it.”

“I will not. But I do appreciate you keeping the macho bullshit to a minimum.”

“Be still, my heart.” He took the ramp onto I-35E. “What type of vehicle does your brother-in-law drive?”

“An Audi TT roadster. Cherry-red. Why?”

“We have the time, let's take another swing by La Plaza. Run the doc's plate number and vehicle past the valets.”

“You're fixated,” she said.

“Just covering all the bases. You would, too, if you didn't have a personal involvement here.”

The valets logged the plate number of every car they parked. She suspected their UNSUB—unknown subject—was smart enough to know that, but it was worth a shot.

She narrowed her eyes, irritated. “Fine. Let's go.”

They made La Plaza in good time, parked and spoke with both the valets. One had been on duty the previous evening, the other had been off.

While Stacy questioned Andrew, the one who had worked the night before, Mac went with the other to check the logbook. “Do you recall a red Audi TT roadster arriving last night, somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven?” she asked.

He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Sorry, Detective. A car like that doesn't stick out here. That's all we see, day in and day out. Now, that—” he pointed at Mac's Ford “—sticks out.”

She changed tact. “You notice a big guy walk past, leather bomber jacket, baseball cap?”

He squinted as if working to recall details of the previous evening. “I don't…maybe, yeah. I think I did.”

Her heart quickened. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again? Or could you pick him out of a photo lineup?”

“Sorry. I didn't see his face.”

Of course not. This one's smarter than the average bear. He'd thought it through
.

“Could you tell, was he blond? A brunette? Redhead?”

A gleaming black Jaguar pulled up; he glanced at it. “Not sure. Like I said, I didn't get a good look—” The Jaguar's front passenger door popped open. “I've got to get this car.”

“Go ahead.” She handed him her card. “If you remember anything, call me. Day or night.”

“I will.”

“Hey!” she called as he walked away. He stopped and glanced back. “Who worked with you last night?”

“Danny Witt.”

Stacy watched him a moment, then turned at the sound of her name. Mac strode toward her. “Well?” she asked when he reached her.

“If the doc was here, he didn't valet. You turn up anything?”

“Andrew thinks he remembers seeing our guy, but didn't get a look at his face.”

“Dammit. Who is this guy? Houdini?”

“No, just clever.” They started toward the Ford. She checked her watch. “What time is Vanmeer's ex's plane due in?”

“At 10:42. Flight 1362. American.”

“Right on schedule.”

They climbed into the vehicle and headed toward DFW. Traffic was light and the thirty-minute drive took twenty. They reached the concourse with enough time to grab a hot dog and a Coke.

Stacy finished the last of both as they announced the arrival of the Miami flight.

Elle Vanmeer's ex-husband was one of the first to exit the plane. Business-class seating, Stacy acknowledged. From the profile Mac had assembled on him—wealthy businessman with interests in oil, energy and technology—she would expect no less.

With him was a gorgeous blonde at least thirty years his junior. Again, no big surprise. Both looked as if they had gotten too much sun—and drunk too much champagne.

Stacy took out her shield and stepped in his path. “Mr. Hastings?”

He stopped. His gaze landed on her shield, then shifted to Mac's. His expression subtly sharpened.

“Charles Hastings,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Detective Killian, Dallas Police Department. This is my
partner, Detective McPherson. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“Could you step over here, please?”

He looked irritated. “Sweetheart,” he said to the woman, “head on down to baggage. I'll meet you there.”

The woman nodded and, after sending Stacy an irritated glance, walked away. Stacy and Mac led the man to a quiet corner.

“We need to ask you a few questions about your ex-wife.”

He cocked an eyebrow. Obviously, there had been more than one Mrs. Hastings.

“Elle Vanmeer.”

“Elle?” He made a sound of derision. “I can't imagine why.”

“When's the last time you spoke with her?”

“I don't remember.”

“You don't remember the last time you spoke with your ex-wife?” Stacy repeated, disbelieving. “I find that odd.”

“I find your questioning me about this odd. What has the woman gotten herself into now?”

The man's attitude rankled and Stacy ignored his question. “If you'd prefer, we can continue downtown. At police headquarters.”

“Call my lawyer in the morning. I'm tired, I'm going home.”

He started to move past them; Mac stopped him. “Your ex-wife is dead, Mr. Hastings. Murdered. Last night.”

Something flickered over his expression, then was gone. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“You tell us.”

“I've been on a cruise for ten days. I can't remember the last time I actually laid eyes on the woman. So, obviously, it has nothing to do with me.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. He possessed an arrogance only money could buy. A lot of money. It got her back up. “I see you're all broken up over this.”

The man released an irritated breath. “The biggest mis
take I ever made was marrying that woman. Not insisting on a prenup was a lapse in sanity.”

“And why did you, Mr. Hastings?” Stacy pressed. “Marry her?”

He skimmed his gaze assessingly over her. She suspected he found her lacking. “Elle could…do things nobody else could.”

“Things?”

“Yeah, things. With her body. To mine. I thought ‘I do' meant she would be content doing those things only with me.”

“But that wasn't the case?”

“Elle is a sex addict and a serial cheater.” He glanced longingly in the direction his companion had gone, then back at them. “Look, Detectives, Elle was a self-centered, shallow bitch. If she's dead, it's no great loss to me. Or mankind.”

“Why don't you say what you really think, Mr. Hastings?”

The man looked coldly at Stacy. “I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Detective.”

Mac stepped in. “You have any idea who she was seeing?”

“No.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

“I haven't had any real contact with her since the divorce, but knowing Elle, she's pissed some folks off. Ask around.”

“We'll do that,” Mac murmured. “Thanks for your time.” He handed the man a business card. “If you think of anything, give us a call.”

Hastings glanced at the card, then shoved it in his shirt pocket. “You want to know about my ex? Why not talk to her plastic surgeon? During our marriage, she spent more time with him than me. In and out of bed.”

Stacy felt as if he had struck her. She glanced at Mac; he had subtly come to attention beside her.

“Can I go now?”

They said he could. As he walked away, Stacy acknowledged that Jane's life had just taken a turn for the worse.