See Jane Die (9 page)

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
11:55 a.m
.

S
tacy stood in the interrogation room doorway and watched Jane walk away. She steeled herself against the urge to go after her. Apologize. Make their relationship right.

When
had
it gotten so bad between them? As young children they had been best friends. Each other's first choice of playmate. Their relationship had altered as they'd grown into teenagers. Jane had tagged after Stacy and her friends, always trying to impress in an attempt to be one of them.

Same as she had that day at the lake. The day that had changed everything.

Stacy frowned. Jane had been right: she had been ugly toward her, deliberately cruel. Why? Was she really so angry at her? Was she so jealous?

Pregnant. Eight weeks
.

A knot of longing settled in her chest. With it the burn of envy. Deep. In the pit of her gut. Everything always worked out for her sister. Even the accident had seemed to change her life for the better.

“Coming up with a cure for cancer?”

She turned to find Mac standing not a dozen feet away, expression speculative. “Pardon?”

“You look lost in deep thought.”

She forced a small smile. “Memories, mostly.”

He crossed to her. “The rumor mill was correct, then. Your sister was in the building.”

“Not just the building.” Stacy mocked a shudder. “She was
here
.”

“She didn't even wait twenty-four hours before scurrying in for reassurances. Good. That means we really must've rattled him.”

Stacy found herself denying it, though she didn't know why. She had accused her sister of the exact same thing. “Actually, she dropped by for another, totally unrelated reason.”

He waited, as if for specifics. When they didn't come, he frowned. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” Stacy tossed her coffee cup in the trash. “My desk or yours?”

“How about here?”

He indicated the interrogation room behind her. “Fine by me.”

He followed her inside, closing the door behind them. “I heard something this morning. I need to ask you if it's true.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “All right.”

“Did you date Ian Westbrook?”

Liberman. Her toad of an ex-partner
. She had made the mistake of confiding in him.
Once
. “We dated a few times. It wasn't serious.”

“You introduced him to your sister. He dumped you and began seeing her. Is that right?”

“Not if you're implying he broke my heart. It wasn't like that.”

“No? Then what was it like?”

“Just the way I said. We had a few laughs, but we didn't click romantically.”

“I don't believe you.”

Angry heat flooded her face. “I'm not a liar, Mac. Don't make that mistake again.”

“Actually, I'm thinking he's the liar. Ever ask yourself why he dropped you for your sister, Stacy?”

“What are you getting at?”

He leaned toward her. “He dumped you for her because she was the one with the money.”

Truth was, at the time she had told herself the same thing. Consoled herself with it.

But she had been angry, hurt. She hadn't really believed it. Not when she had seen them together.

Could that chemistry have been faked? Could Ian have manufactured how besotted he had appeared? How head-over-heels?

She didn't think so
. “Ian loves Jane. I believe that. Besides, Ian's a plastic surgeon. A successful plastic surgeon. Why would he need to be a fortune hunter?”

“We're talking about money with a capital M. Fuck-you money. The kind Westbrook couldn't earn in a lifetime of boob jobs.”

Stacy pursed her lips in thought. She hadn't looked at it quite that way before. Fuck-you money: enough to never have to take anyone's shit again. To have what he wanted, when he wanted it.

By marrying Jane, Ian had hit the jackpot.

I'm pregnant, Stacy. Eight weeks
.

Uneasiness rolled over her, a kind of queasy fatalism.

“I'd like us to pay Westbrook's office manager a visit,” Mac continued. “She takes his calls, checks his mail and keeps his appointments. In other words, she knows everything going on in that office. If there was any hanky-panky going on between the doctor and Elle Vanmeer, my bet is she'd know.”

“My gut's telling me you're barking up the wrong tree.”

He lowered his voice. “How did
you
meet him, Stacy?”

She hesitated, knowing how damning her answer would be. “A consultation,” she admitted. “But I wasn't a patient. And he wasn't married.”

When he simply gazed at her, she made a sound of irritation. “Why are you so certain Ian's dirty?”

“Why are you so certain he's not?” He leaned forward. “Vanmeer's ex claimed Westbrook was sleeping with Elle. His words. And Westbrook looks better than anything else we've got. I think we should go with it.”

When she didn't reply, he pressed on. “Are you a cop, Stacy? Or Westbrook's sister-in-law? You can't be both.”

He was right, damn him
.

“Fine,” she said. “Let's make the call.”

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
5:15 p.m
.

J
ane came up from the studio, humming under her breath. She had made the molds of Anne's face, thighs and pubis, right hip, shoulder and breast. Ted had promised to stay until he had them metal-ready. Time was growing tight and if she wanted to include
Anne
in the show, she needed to move on to the next step of the process in the morning.

The process was simple, almost too simple. In fact, she had been criticized for its simplicity. She cast the molds in plaster. Once dry, rough surfaces were smoothed, pits and bubbles filled and smoothed again. When the mold was ready, using solder wire and a propane torch, she heated the metal to its liquid state and literally dripped the molten metal into the mold. No foundry, lost wax, sprues, centrifuge, lifts, pulleys or the like.

In graduate school she had worked in the traditional cast-metal techniques. She had created massive works that had required a huge studio space, a full foundry and the help of several of her fellow grad students to bring the pieces to completion.

She had found the process inhibiting. Incongruous with her vision.

Jane had stumbled upon her present mode of working while sorting through her mother's things after her death, her lace wedding veil among them. When she had fitted the veil on, she had been taken by the way her features had been defined by the lace.

It had called to her. Intrigued her. She had asked herself: how could she create the same effect in her work?

After several years of trial and error, she had settled on the solder.

What her process lacked in gadgetry, it made up for in sheer time consumption. Not only did she build the sculptures one drip at a time, she stopped every few moments to assess her progress and study the emerging image.

The material, a mixture of tin, lead and in her case, silver, made the finished product beautiful, lighter in weight than traditional bronze but still permanent. The surface could be polished or a patina added.

She stepped from her studio into the loft foyer, turned and locked the door. Ranger bounded in, tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy,” she said, bending to scratch behind his ears. “You have a good day?”

He whined and gazed up at her adoringly. “How about a walk before Ian gets home?”

“Too late. I'm already here.”

“Ian?” Frowning Jane glanced at her watch and crossed the foyer to the kitchen. She found her husband there, standing at the picture window, staring out at the Dallas skyline. Their loft provided a clear view of the Chase Tower, also called the Keyhole Building because of its dramatic and distinctive cutaway. At night it was particularly beautiful, as the glass top was illuminated with spotlights set into the building's midsection.

She crossed to his side. She saw he held a glass of red wine. “You're early. Bad day?”

He brought the glass to his lips. “You could say that.”

“You should have come to the studio. I'd have quit early.”

“I needed some time alone.” He looked at her then. She made a sound of dismay. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

“What's wrong?” she said softly. “What's happened?”

“The police came by the office this afternoon.”

“The police?” she repeated, feeling his words like a blow. “Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. They questioned me about Elle some more. About our relationship. Same things they asked last night.”

“Was Stacy—”

“Yes.”

Anger took her breath. A sense of betrayal. “I saw her today. I stopped by headquarters. She didn't say anything about questioning—”

She bit the words back.
Of course she didn't
.

Jane curved her arms over her middle. “I told her about the baby. I was trying to mend fences. It didn't go well.”

“She's just doing her job.”

Jane looked away. Placing a finger under her chin, he turned her face toward his. “If it helps, she was apologetic. Seemed almost embarrassed to be there.”

“You always stick up for her.”

“I have to.”

“And why is that?”

“She introduced us. I owe her.”

Jane's anger melted away. She wrapped her arms around his middle and tipped her face to his. “I love you.”

He bent, kissed her lightly, then stepped away from her embrace. “The truth is, I don't think they were there to talk to me.”

“Then who?”

“Marsha.”

Marsha Tanner was Ian's office manager. She had been his assistant at the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery. Jane drew her eyebrows together. “But why?”

“I don't know.” He frowned. “They questioned her privately.”

“Did she say anything afterward? Give you any indication what they talked about?”

He shook his head. “They weren't with her for more than a couple minutes. But she—” He bit the words off.

“But what?” she coaxed.

“She acted strangely after they left.”

“What do you mean?”

He met her eyes. “Secretive. Guilty. Like she had—”

Again he bit the word back; again Jane pressed him to finish his thought.

“Like she had betrayed me,” he said finally. “Betrayed our friendship.”

“But how could she have done tha—”

This time it was Jane who didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.

Betrayed him by telling the police that he and Elle Vanmeer had had an affair
.

Were having an affair
.

No. She believed in her husband. His honesty.

How well do you know your husband, Jane?

Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do
.

Jane shook her head against the questions, their meaning. The way they made her feel: uncertain, vulnerable. Suspicious.

It wasn't true. Ian had been faithful to her. He loved her.

As if he read her thoughts, he held out a hand. “You believe me, don't you?”

“Of course.” She caught it, curled her fingers around his. “You're my husband. I love you.”

He held her hand tightly. “I wish I could help them. I wish I knew something. But I don't.”

“It's all going to go away,” she said, her voice taking on a fierce edge. “The problem is, they don't have any real leads. They're focusing on you because they have to focus on someone.”

They fell silent. Beside them Ranger whimpered.

Ian said her name softly. She looked up at him.

“I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

Jane shuddered and brought a hand protectively to her middle, acknowledging that she did, too. And that she was afraid.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003
7:50 p.m
.

C
hubby Charlie's specialized in big burgers, barbecue and grilled cowboy-cut steaks. The food was not only tasty, but plentiful and cheap as well, making it a favorite of the DPD's finest.

It didn't hurt that the draft was served in jumbo iced mugs and the music in the jukebox was country. At present, Shania Twain was belting out a song about the right kind of love with the wrong kind of man.

Stacy scanned the dimly lit bar for Dave. She saw him at the end, talking on his cell phone. He caught sight of her and waved her over.

Affection born of familiarity and earned trust moved over her. She'd called him this morning, the moment she had been alone. The message she'd left on his machine had been simple and to the point:
Jane's having a baby. Help
.

He'd returned her call; offered to meet her tonight.

So here they were.

The pattern had been set years ago. Friends since high school, both she and Jane had turned to Dave for help with every crisis—particularly if it had to do with the other sister.
He had always been the voice of reason, the calm in the storm. And inevitably, he had resolved the crisis and gotten them back on speaking terms.

Stacy hadn't been surprised when Dave had gone into counseling; as far as she was concerned, he had been born to help people resolve their problems.

She reached him as he was wrapping up his conversation. “Call me if her condition deteriorates,” he said, then snapped his flip phone shut.

He stood and hugged her. “Sorry about that. It's good to see you, Stacy.”

She hugged him back. “You, too.”

He motioned a corner booth. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. Me, too.”

They sat, ordered soft drinks, barbecue sandwiches and thick-sliced onion rings.

“How are you?” he asked.

A soft, bitter-sounding laugh slipped past her lips. “Heartbroken and jealous. Your first tip should have been the quiver in my voice. Your second the onion rings.”

“Comfort food,” he murmured. “You know, there's actually a psychological basis to that. I say, whatever it takes. Within reason, of course.”

“I hate feeling this way. I know it's wrong. I should be happy for my sister.”

“It's not wrong. It's destructive.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “When did she tell you?”

“This morning. She's eight weeks along—” She swallowed the words as she realized that Dave already knew. “She told you first, didn't she? Figures.”

He tightened his fingers. “It doesn't mean anything, Stacy.”

“That's such a crock, Dave. Of course it does.”

“She was worried you'd be upset.”

“Lucky and perceptive.” Stacy eased her hand from his, dropped it to her lap. “She truly does have it all.”

“She misses you.”

“She told me the same thing.”

“You didn't believe her.”

“It's not that. It's—” She held on to the thought as the waitress delivered their Cokes. She took a sip of the cold drink, using the moments to gather her thoughts.

“Why does she miss me?” she asked finally. “Seems to me her life is pretty full.”

“She misses you because you're her sister. No one can replace what you share.”

Stacy looked away, hurting.

“What you're feeling is envy, a normal human emotion. In this case an understandable emotion, one with easily definable roots.” He ticked off Jane's good fortune on his fingers. “A multimillion-dollar inheritance. Marriage to a handsome doctor—a man you dated first. A career she not only adores, but one that is beginning to garner national acclaim. And now a baby on the way.”

Stacy laughed, the sound tight. “She's easy to hate, isn't she?”

“She's easy to love as well.”

“Not from where I'm sitting.”

He leaned toward her. “You do love her, Stacy. And therein lies your conflict.”

“So fix me, Doc. Make it all better.”

“I can only do so much. We're friends. Friends with a lot of history. I have the names of several good people—”

“No, thanks. I'm not interested in some stranger picking my brain apart.”

“You'd rather a friend apply a Band-Aid?”

“Something like that.”

“A Band-Aid's not going to do the trick, doll. This isn't going to go away. You have to take a good look at your life. Change what's not working. Rejoice in what is.”

She didn't comment. The waitress brought their food. They dug in, though Stacy derived little pleasure from it.

“Jane's nightmare's back,” he said after washing a bite of his sandwich down. “Did you know?”

She shook her head, food sticking in her throat. Her thoughts spiraled back to that day at the lake, the sun warm on her face, first the sound of a powerboat drawing closer, then of Jane's screams.

Jane's screams every night after.

She pushed her plate away, hunger gone.

“That's why she told me about the baby,” he continued. “She's been through a lot. You both have.”

She swallowed hard. “I'm sorry she's…I'm sorry.”

He searched her expression. “Why won't you talk about that day?”

“There's nothing to talk about. Jane was the one who was hurt. Not me.”

“Really? You weren't hurt?”

“You can stop shrinking me now.”

“Can't turn it off, babe. Sorry.”

He looked anything but and she scowled at him.

“You witnessed the accident. As the older sister, you thought yourself responsible for your sister's welfare. You were the one she cut school to be with, the one who dared her to swim. Pretty heavy load for a seventeen-year-old.”

“If you're suggesting I'm suffering some sort of posttraumatic stress disorder, you're barking up the wrong tree.”

“The past is a powerful weapon.”

“And I'm using it against myself. Is that what you're saying?”

“Could be.”

“Like I said, wrong tree, Dave.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Absolutely.”

He selected an onion ring. “So, let's talk about it. No harm in that. In fact, it's healthy.”

Her lips twisted. “Dr. Never-Say-Die Dave.”

“Isn't that why you called me?”

“I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?” This time it was she who held out a hand. “I called you because you're my oldest friend. Thank you for being here for me.”

He took her hand. “I always will be. I—”

His cell phone interrupted his reply. He checked the display for the number. “Damn, it's the hospital. I have to take this.”

She nodded and stood. “I'll visit the rest room. Be right back.”

She ran into Mac in the hallway outside the rest rooms. She greeted him, then ducked into the ladies' room. When she emerged a couple of minutes later, he was gone.

She returned to the table to find Dave shrugging into his coat.

“What's up?”

“I'm sorry, Stacy. I have to go. I've got a patient on suicide watch at Green Oaks. She not doing well. Rain check?”

She worked to hide her disappointment. “Anytime.”

He hugged her. “Don't be mad at Jane,” he said. “She needs our love and support, now as much as ever.”

Jane. Always Jane
.

As if he knew her thoughts, he smiled reassuringly. “What you're feeling is normal. It's how you act on—or react to—that envy that will determine appropriateness or inappropriateness.”

She watched him walk away, wishing not for the first time that they had clicked romantically. Why hadn't she ever felt anything but friendship for him? He was everything a woman could want in a man: handsome, smart, successful, kind. And steady. Dave Nash had always had both feet planted firmly on the ground.

Perhaps she had never looked at him that way because she'd always known he'd been attracted to Jane—even when she'd looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

“Hey, again.”

She looked up. Mac stood beside her table, beer mug in his hand.

“Want some company?”

She lifted a shoulder and motioned the chair across from hers. “Suit yourself.”

He sat, took a sip of his beer. “Boyfriend?”

“Friend. Old friend.”

“You going to eat that?” He motioned to the untouched half of her sandwich.

“It's all yours.” She pushed the plate toward him. He ate it down in three bites. “Having money troubles, Mac?”

He grinned. “Can't stand to see food go to waste. Plus, I never actually get full. My mother used to despair at the grocery bill.”

She leaned forward, intrigued. Charmed by his almost boyish honesty. “You have any brothers or sisters?”

“One of each. I'm smack-dab in the middle.”

“Middle children are usually the peacemakers.”

“And here I am a cop. Meant to be, I guess.”

“You get along with your siblings?”

He nodded. “They're both married with kids. Maryanne is a schoolteacher. Randy an accountant.”

“What grade?”

“Excuse me?” He popped one of the onion rings in his mouth, though it had long ago grown cold.

“Your sister. What grade does she teach?”

“Junior high. English.”

Stacy wrinkled her nose, thinking about how obnoxious she and her friends had been at that age. “God bless her.”

“Can I ask you something?”

She arched an eyebrow. “And if I say no?”

“I'll probably ask, anyway.”

“I may not answer.”

He inclined his head. “What's the deal with you and your sister?”

“Long story. Not pretty.”

“I have the time.”

“But I don't have the energy.”

He leaned his chin on his fist and gazed at her. “Change of subject?”

“That'd be nice.”

“We need to pay Marsha Tanner a visit, first thing in the morning.”

Stacy had expected this. And as much as she hated to admit it, she agreed. Marsha had been nervous this afternoon, had seemed to be deliberately evasive, claiming not to remember answers to several questions. She had repeatedly glanced toward Ian's office, though whether because she feared Ian might overhear or for moral support hadn't been clear to Stacy.

“I agree. But why wait until then? I've got nothing better to do.”

Before Mac could respond, his cell phone rang. He held up a finger, indicating she hold on. “McPherson here.”

He listened, expression becoming intent. “Shit. Where?” He paused “Killian's with me. We're on our way.” He holstered his phone and stood.

Stacy followed him to his feet. “What've we got?”

“Triple homicide. Fair Park.”

Fishing expeditions with Marsha Tanner shelved, they left the restaurant.