See Jane Die (15 page)

Thursday, October 23, 2003
8:45 a.m
.

S
tacy was gone when Jane padded out to the kitchen the next morning. She found the bedding her sister had used folded neatly on the couch and a note on the kitchen counter, along with a thermos of freshly brewed coffee. She had walked and fed Ranger, the note informed Jane. She would call later this morning to make certain she was okay. She provided no less than four different numbers where she could be reached in an emergency.

Jane filled a mug and brought it to her mouth. Her hand shook. She wondered vaguely if it was decaf, then decided even if it wasn't, a few sips wouldn't hurt her baby.

Her baby
.

I did it to on purpose. To hear your screams
.

Jane set the mug on the counter so sharply some of the liquid sloshed over the rim onto the granite countertop. She brought her hands protectively to her abdomen, to the life growing inside her. In that moment, her pregnancy, the baby she was carrying, became real for her. In a way it hadn't been before. No longer simply a state of being, but a piece of her and Ian. One that would someday smile, walk and talk.

One it was her job to protect at all costs.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

She didn't care what Stacy or her partner thought, that message represented a real threat.

He had found her. He had come to finish what he had started sixteen years before.

But this wasn't about only her, not anymore. It was about the child she was carrying. “I won't let him hurt you,” she said softly, fiercely. “I won't, I promise.”

She carried the coffee to the sink, dumped its contents and rinsed the mug. She filled the kettle with water and retrieved the herbal tea. From there, she got an English muffin and the cream cheese from the refrigerator, split the muffin and popped it into the toaster.

Ted had tried to get her to eat something last night; she had refused despite his disapproval. He would be pleased with her now.

She thought of her assistant. How supportive he had been, how understanding. She was thankful for his friendship. Thankful that he had been there last night. How would she have reacted if she had been alone?

She recalled Stacy's suspicious question about Ted and her smile faded.

You ran a background check on him, right?

Jane shook her head. Stacy was barking up the wrong tree. She trusted Ted completely; he had never given her a reason not to. Quite the contrary.

Simultaneously, the kettle whistled and toaster dinged. She set about preparing the tea and the muffin, then carried both to the table, still thinking about her assistant. Ted had believed her—that the clipping and its scrawled message represented a threat, that the person who sent it could be the maniac who'd run over her sixteen years before.

He'd thought it possible. Not probable
.

If not the man from her past, then who? She took a bite of the crunchy muffin. A new maniac? How many was one allowed in their lifetime?

No. She knew, deep in her gut, that the clipping was from him, the one who had almost killed her.

She took another bite. Weirdly, she felt a measure of relief. The clipping with its message had confirmed what she had known all along: he had done it on purpose.

Now she knew why
.

She finished her breakfast, acknowledging when she had that she felt a hundred times better for having eaten.

She had to take care of herself. For her baby. To stay strong for Ian.

As she wiped the last crumb from the counter, the phone rang.
Please let it be Whit
. She leaped to answer it. “Hello?”

“Jane, it's Dave. I wanted to check on you before I got tied up with patients. Any news yet this morning?”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I haven't heard from Whit yet. I thought you might be him calling.”

“Do you need to go?”

“That's okay. I've got call waiting.”

“Are you all right? Were you able to sleep at all?”

“Yes, some. Stacy stayed with me. It helped.”

“Stacy?”

He sounded shocked. She realized that a lot had happened in the hours that had passed since he dropped her at her door—and that he knew none of it.

She explained about Ted, finding the envelope and the message it contained.

He swore. “That pisses me off. The last thing you need right now is some crazy person terrorizing you.”

“Not some crazy person, Dave.
Him
. The one.”

“You can't possibly think the guy who sent this is the same one who nearly killed you in 1987?”

“I can and I do.”

“Sweetheart, that defies logic.”

“My life defies logic right now.”

He was silent a moment, as if weighing her words, his reaction to them. “You're feeling this way because of your nightmare. If you'd take a step back—”

“No. I'm feeling this way because I know it's true. He's back. He wants to finish what he started.”

“Don't do this to yourself, Jane.”

“Actually, I don't think I have much to do with this.”

“You do.” His tone took on an edge of urgency. “Don't set yourself up to be a victim. Fatalism can be dangerous. Extremely—”

A clicking sound on the line indicated another call coming in. She interrupted her friend. “This might be Whit,” she said. “I've got to go.”

“Go on. Just be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

She picked up the incoming call. As she had hoped, it was the lawyer. “Thank God. What's happening?”

“I'm parking now. Buzz me up.”

Jane met him at the door, butterflies in her stomach.

“I met with the D.A.,” he said without preamble. “They feel they have a good case.”

“A good case! How can they—”

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Here's the long and short of it, Jane. The police believe Ian was having an affair with Elle Vanmeer. They believe he killed her when she threatened to tell you about the relationship.”

It took her a moment to find her breath. “That's ridiculous. It's not true.”

“Apparently, they have evidence to support their claim of infidelity.”

Jane stared at the man, feeling as if she had been dropped into somebody else's life. A stranger's nightmare. She shook her head, as much in denial of his words as in the way they made her feel. “That's not possible. What kind of evidence could they have?”

Instead of answering, he went on. “He killed his office manager after the police contacted her, to keep her quiet. A search of his financial records revealed that Ian is deeply in debt. His practice is insolvent and he has no assets to speak of. Did you know any of this?”

“Of course. He had to buy out of his partnership, then sank everything he had left into his new clinic.”

“Which wasn't much. Basically, you funded the entire project. Correct?”

“Yes. But it was my idea. I urged him to open his own practice. I wanted to help him.”

The attorney didn't comment on that. Instead, he met her eyes. “Are you absolutely certain Ian has been faithful to you?”

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together. “Absolutely.”

“Good. Because the prosecution is going to paint him as an unfaithful, desperate husband. A husband who is dependent on his wife's money to keep him in his lavish lifestyle. Your support will be crucial to his defense.”

She struggled to stay focused. The time had come to stop denying what was happening and get proactive. She wasn't going to wake up to discover this was a bad dream; it wasn't going to go away.

They wanted a fight; she'd give them one. She hadn't come back from near death, hadn't lived through a dozen hellish reconstructive surgeries only to roll over and let them steal her happiness from her.

“So what do I do next?” she asked.

“I've complied a list of the top criminal defense attorneys in the southeast. Two of the best are located here in Dallas. I put them at the top of the list. I'd start there.” He took an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

“I appreciate everything you've done, Whit. Truly.”

“I'm still here for you, Jane. And for Ian. In fact, I took it upon myself to call Elton Crane, number one on that list. He's agreed to meet with you after lunch. I'll accompany you if you like.”

“Yes,” she said, grateful, “I would.”

 

From the proliferation of TV shows that depicted the criminal attorney as slick, high-powered and handsome, she had expected the best defense attorney in Dallas to look, perhaps, like Richard Gere. Instead, Elton Crane looked part
Santa Claus, part mad scientist. Although smartly and conservatively dressed, he sported a wild shock of thick white hair, wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his broad, apple-cheeked face could only be described as cherubic.

“Mrs. Westbrook.” He held out his hand. “It's good to meet you. I'm sorry for your troubles.”

“I am as well, Mr. Crane. However, I can assure you, my husband is innocent.”

“Elton,” he corrected, waving her toward the chamois-colored leather couch in the conversation area at the rear of the office. The picture window behind the grouping afforded a panoramic view of Dallas. “May I call you Jane?”

“Please.”

She crossed to the couch. Before she sat, she gazed out the window. Elton Crane's office was located in Fountain Place, one of the most recognizable and prestigious commercial addresses in downtown Dallas. From this vantage point she had a clear view of the Bank One Center towers.

The man's secretary entered, carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies and coffee service. She deposited the tray on the coffee table. “May I serve?”

“Just leave it, Susan. Thank you.”

Jane took a seat on the couch; Elton sat across from her. She refused both coffee and cookies. The butterflies in her stomach precluded eating.

“I knew your grandmother,” he said. “We sat together on the boards of several philanthropic organizations. Laurel Killian was a strong-willed woman.”

“Some called her opinionated and immovable.”

He laughed. “Yes, some did.”

Jane shifted their conversation to the reason for this meeting, too agitated for small talk. “Has Whit filled you in on the details of Ian's arrest?”

“He did.” His expression sobered. “As you're already aware, your husband is in serious trouble.” He glanced toward Whit, who nodded. “They are accusing him of capital murder, which in Texas, among other things, means the first-
degree murder of more than one person. A charge of capital murder makes Ian ineligible for bail and allows the state to request death.”

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to register. When they did, her head went light, her limbs weak. Jane laid a hand on the arm of the couch to steady herself.

“You don't, you can't mean the…death sentence?”

“Yes,” he said softly, expression sympathetic. “I'm sorry.”

She had never thought much about capital punishment, had never pondered the moral ramifications of putting another human being to death, or actually asked herself whether she was for or against it.

She was against it now.

“In Texas…how—”

She bit the words back. Elton knew what she was asking. “Lethal injection,” he supplied.

Jane cleared her throat, forcing the thought from her head. “Will the prosecutor…do you think he'll ask for the…for it?”

“Maybe, though I haven't a doubt when the charge comes in it will include what's called special circumstances.”

“Special circumstances, I don't understand what that means.”

“Are you familiar at all with the judicial process?”

She shook her head. “No. Sorry.”

“There's no reason you should be.” He smiled slightly. “Although, many people are fascinated by such things and consider themselves crime buffs. If you don't mind, I'll digress to explain?”

She indicated he should, and he began. “Ian has been arrested, but not yet formally charged. From arrest, the prosecution has forty-eight hours to present their case to the grand jury. They do this in the form of an indictment, a formal document charging someone, in this case Ian, with a crime. If the grand jury indicts, which I feel certain they will, the indictment is presented to the defense attorney. No less than two full days after, they will arraign Ian. At that time, they will charge him and hear his plea.