See Jane Die (8 page)

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
1:15 a.m.

T
he insistent ring of the phone dragged Stacy from a deep sleep. She fumbled for the receiver, then brought it to her ear. “Killian here.”

“Rise and shine, Detective.”

She struggled into a sitting position. “Pete?”

“The one and only. I promised you a midnight call and here it is. You want to wait till morning?”

“Hell, no.” She shook the last of the sleep from her brain. “What do you have?”

“Cause of death, asphyxiation. No big surprise there. This perp used a lot more pressure then necessary to kill her, evidenced by the deep bruising and the fractured hyoid bone at the base of her tongue. I put the time of death around 11:00 p.m., give or take.”

“What about sex?”

“No thanks, I'm exhausted.”

“Don't be a jerk.”

“You earned it. And no, no evidence of sexual activity.”

Shit. Goodbye, easy DNA
. “Anything else?”

“No drugs or alcohol. No sign of illness. If she wasn't dead, she'd be in perfect health.”

Lucky her
. “You think the perp's a guy?”

“From the extent of the bruising, my guess is yes. Or one hell of a strong woman. One more thing, kind of interesting. I think our guy was a lefty. The bruising on the right side of her throat was more profound, indicating that the left was his stronger hand.”

Stacy shifted the phone from her left hand to her right. “You're certain of that?”

“Nope, just my educated guess. Like the rest of it. Can I go home and go to bed now?”

“If I can pick up the report tomorrow?”

“After ten.”

“I'll see you at eight-thirty.”

“Killia—”

“Get some sleep, Pete, or you'll feel like crap in the morning.” She hung up, then punched in her partner's number.

He answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. “'Lo.”

“Mac, it's Stacy. Pete's got the autopsy results.”

She heard a rustling sound, then what she thought was a woman. “What time is it?”

“One-twenty.”

“For God's sake, Stacy, it's the middle of the freaking night.”

“I interrupt something good?”

“Yeah, I was dreaming about retiring this bullshit job while I'm still young.”

“Well, do it after we crack this one.”

“We?” She heard the smile in his voice. “You actually starting to think of me as your partner?”

She was, she realized, and scowled. “Sleep fast, McPherson. Headquarters, 7:00 a.m. I'll bring the Joe.”

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
11:45 a.m
.

J
ane stood outside the Municipal Building and gazed up at its art-deco-inspired facade. She hadn't slept well the night before. She had tossed and turned, mind whirling with the events of the previous day: Dave's advice, the realization of how badly her and Stacy's relationship had deteriorated, her sister's visit the night before. The reason for it.

Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?

The question had been appropriate, Jane told herself. Stacy had simply been covering all the bases, just as she had said. That was her sister's job, after all. Ask questions. Sift through the answers, put the pieces together, solve the crime. Just doing her job, she thought again. It hadn't meant anything.

Then why had it chilled Jane so? Why had it intruded on her sleep, tormenting her with the possible meanings behind it?

Her sister's baldly stated words, played through her head again.

Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?

Had she imagined it, or had the question unnerved Ian? Had a guilty moment passed before he had adamantly denied it?

She knew her husband hadn't been a saint before he met her. He'd even been married briefly before, to a woman named Mona Fields. Handsome, successful and in an industry women—beautiful women—gravitated to, Ian had dated a lot. He had admitted so to her. Freely.

So why avoid the truth? Because the woman had been a patient? Or because she was dead?

The image from her nightmare filled her head, stealing her breath.

The boat captain, circling back, readying to make another pass at her. To finish the job
.

No. She was not about to have her happiness stolen from her. To believe so was irrational. A result of the trauma she had lived through. Nothing more.

Ian hadn't avoided the truth. He wasn't a liar. Most likely he had been as surprised by the question as she. It had given him pause—just as it had given her.

There, she thought, feeling a measure of relief, she had faced her fear. The reason for it. Just as Dave had advised.

Dave had also advised her to confront her sister about their relationship. Extend the olive branch. But that wasn't why she was here. Not solely, anyway.

Jane took a deep, steadying breath and started up the building's front steps. She meant to discover what, if anything, her sister was up to.

And if necessary, prove to her that she was barking up the wrong tree.

At the top of the steps, an exiting police officer held the door open for her. She thanked him and stepped into the dim, too-warm interior. Easing past clusters of people waiting in lines to pay traffic fines, she headed for the information desk.

Although Jane had visited her sister before, it had been a long time. She greeted the uniformed clerk manning the desk. “I'm here to see Detective Killian in Homicide.”

“Name?”

“Jane Westbrook. Her sister.”

The man, skeletally thin with a cheesy mustache, swept his gaze over her, as if searching for a family resemblance. “One moment.” He picked up the phone, dialed, then turned his back to her as he sought the okay to send her up. When he had it, he hung up and pointed toward the elevators, located directly around the corner. “Take the elevators to three. Follow the signs.”

“Thanks,” Jane said, though he had already moved on to the next inquiry. She made her way around the corner to the elevators. She remembered the star-adorned silver doors from her last visit, their richness belying the shabby, institutional feel of the rest of the building's interior.

She pressed the call button; a moment later a car arrived. The doors slid open. As she stepped inside, her heart began to race, her palms grew damp. When was the last time she had actually popped in on her sister?

The day their grandmother died. What a bloody disaster that visit had been.

The car lurched to a stop on three; the doors slid open. Stacy stood in the alcove waiting for her. She looked wary.

“Hi, Stacy.” Jane cringed at the singsong tone of her voice. She sounded guilty. Like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She stepped out of the elevator, conscious of the doors whooshing shut behind her.

“Is everything all right?” Stacy asked.

“Fine. Just wondered if you might want to go to lunch?”

“Lunch?” her sister repeated. “You and me?”

“Why not? I have it on good authority that's what sisters do.”

“Some sisters. We haven't been to lunch in at least a year.”

“Maybe I'd like to remedy that.”

“Can't,” she said shortly. “Sorry.”

She sounded anything but sorry. Jane refused to give up. “How about a cup of coffee, then?”

Stacy's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “I suppose I could squeeze that in. Come on, my treat.”

Stacy led Jane through a door labeled Crimes Against
Persons. “Anybody in interrogation one?” she asked the gum-popping secretary.

“Nope.” The young woman eyed Jane, obviously curious.

Stacy ignored her. “That's where I'll be.”

After grabbing a couple of cups of a sludgy-looking brew from the community pot, they made their way to the interrogation room. Stacy closed the door behind them. She motioned to the room's one table.

They crossed to it, though neither sat. They faced each other, both clutching the foam cups. Silence stretched between them. Awkward. Unnerving.

“How have you been?” Jane asked finally.

“Good. And you?”

“Great. Excited about my show.”

“You're doing so well. I'm happy for you.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Her softly spoken words sounded more a challenge than a question. But a challenge to do what? Prove it true? Or false?

Their relationship was a two-way street, Jane reminded herself. Just as Dave had said. She was as responsible for the strain between them as Stacy.

And it wasn't going to get any better until one of them addressed it honestly.

Jane set down her coffee and crossed to stand directly before her sister. “When did it get so bad between us, Stacy? When did it become so difficult for us to simply talk to each other?”

“This homicide has me distracted.”

“What about two days ago? And two days before that? We're like wary strangers.”

When her sister didn't reply, Jane pressed on. “We were close once. Weren't we?”

Her sister looked uncomfortable. “I suppose. But we've grown apart. Lots of siblings do.”

“I'm sorry about what Grandmother did.”

“I didn't want her money.”

Stacy had wanted her love
. Jane laid a hand on her sister's arm, aching to connect with her. “She was wrong. You're as much Dad's daughter as I am.”

Stacy set her cup on the table. “I've got to get back to work.”

“Wait! Stacy, please.” Jane wondered at the desperation she heard in her own voice, wondered at its source. “The way Grandmother felt doesn't have anything to do with us. With you and me. We're all we have left.”

“That's not quite true, is it? You have Ian.”

Jane felt her sister's words like a slap. She dropped her hand, took a step back. “It's not the same. You're my sister. My blood family.”

“Half blood.”

“Don't do that, don't act like—”

Stacy cut her off. “You're such a hypocrite, Jane. Standing there, claiming sisterly love and concern when I know the real reason for your visit this morning. You're wondering about last night. About the questions we asked Ian. One question in particular.”

Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?

“What's it going to be?” Stacy challenged. “Honesty? Or are you going to play dumb? Pretend it didn't take your breath away?”

At the sarcasm in her sister's tone, Janes face grew hot. She jerked her chin up. “What if he and the woman had dated? Slept together even? That has nothing to do with now, our marriage. And it certainly has nothing to do with the woman's death.”

“You're so certain?”

“Yes.”

“How well do you know your husband, Jane?”

“Excuse me?”

Stacy leaned toward her. “Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do.”

Jane's head went light. She turned, found a chair and
sat, fighting for equilibrium. When she found it, she met her sister's gaze.

“Ian had nothing to do with that woman's murder. It's not possible, and I believe you know it.”

“And that belief is based on what? Wishful thinking?”

“You know Ian.”

“People keep secrets. They hide their real selves. Hide their real motivations and agendas.”

“Their real feelings,” Jane added, navigating the conversation back to her sister, their relationship. “Their hurt feelings.”

“I don't have time for this.”

Stacy made a move to leave; Jane stopped her. “He was home night before last. With me. All night.”

Stacy narrowed her eyes. “You're certain?”

“Yes. Satisfied?”

Jane saw that she wasn't. She realized she would just have to live with that. “To answer your earlier question or, rather, your accusation, yes, you and your partner unnerved me last night. That question unnerved me. And yes, I'm here for reassurances. But only partly. You're my sister. And until a moment ago I thought what was wrong between us was fixable. Now I'm not so certain.”

“Nice try, Jane. And the whole swooning wife bit, it was good. For a moment, I was actually worried.”

“Why so cruel, Stacy? Why so hateful? If not Grandmother, is it about Ian? Because you dated him first?”

Color stained her sister's cheeks. “Maybe it's just you and me. Maybe it's that we have nothing in common.”

“But we do. We have our whole lives in common.” Jane got shakily to her feet. “I'm pregnant, Stacy. I thought you'd want to know.”

Her sister stared at her, the blood draining from her face. “Pregnant,” she repeated. “How far—”

“Eight weeks.” Jane hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “For whatever reasons, I know you can't be happy for me. And you know what? It breaks my heart, but there's
nothing I can do about it until you're willing to meet me halfway. If you decide you're ready to do that, you know where to find me.”

Stacy's silence said it all. Without another word, Jane walked away.