See Jane Die (17 page)

She jerked backward, certain she had been caught. She brought a hand to her mouth, holding back a cry.

For the space of a heartbeat, the woman stared at the closet. Jane held her breath, certain she had been found out. A moment later the woman was gone.

For several minutes, Jane stood frozen. She struggled to slow her runaway heart. Get a hold of her ragged breath. Who, Jane wondered, was that woman? Why had she been in Ian's office? Obviously, she'd come for a patient file. But her own? Or someone else's?

Clearly, the file contained something she hadn't wanted the police to find. But what?

Jane eased the closet door open. She poked her head out and listened. From outside came the sound of barking. Ranger, she realized. Barking at the woman.

Jane stumbled from the closet. She snatched up the box of CDs and hurried to the rear of the building.

Ranger's barking ceased. His sudden silence terrified her. She battled the urge to yank the door open and race into the parking lot. Instead, she inched it open and peered out. Empty save for the back of her SUV, peeking out from the other side of the Dumpster.

She set the alarm, closed and locked the door behind her. Box of CDs tucked under her arm, she darted for the vehicle. When she was halfway across the lot, a scuffling sound came from behind her. Her steps faltered, her heart leaped to her throat.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

The sound came again. Followed by another. Breathing? A soft laugh?

Fear choked her. He could have followed her. Been waiting out here for her. With a cry, she broke into a run. She reached her vehicle, got the door open and scrambled inside. Only half aware of Ranger, she hit the auto-lock, got the engine started and backed out of the spot, so fast her tires squealed.

Then she looked.

The parking lot appeared empty.

She searched the shadows, the row of tall bushes along the side of the building. A cat darted across the dark lot; the branches of the trees swayed in the breeze.

A tight laugh bubbled to her lips. She was losing it. Letting her imagination get away from her. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel. The bastard wanted her afraid. He wanted to terrorize her.

He had succeeded, dammit. She was scared to her core.

Friday, October 24, 2003
5:45 a.m
.

S
tacy parked her vehicle beside Mac's. She swung open the door and stepped out, looking left, toward Fair Park. Star, the park's permanent Ferris wheel, jutted into the dawn sky, a large, dark silhouette against the pastel light.

She slammed the door and started for the alley and the crime-scene tape stretched obscenely across its front. Stacy's breath made frosty clouds in the chilly air. She rubbed her hands together, wishing for a pair of gloves. Leather, lined with fur.

Some mornings latex just didn't cut it.

Mac met her at the alley entrance. “How-dy folks,” he said, mimicking Big Tex, the fifty-two-feet-tall cowboy who had been greeting Texas State Fair visitors since 1952.

“Put a sock in it, Tex.”

She ducked under the crime-scene tape. Mac handed her his foam cup of hot coffee. “Seems like you need it more than I do.”

“Thanks.” She accepted the cup and sipped. Mac, she learned, took his coffee black and sweet. Real sweet. She took another sip, anyway.

“What've we got?”

“Don't have much yet. Woman. A bag lady found her while scavenging for breakfast.”

“In the Dumpster?”

“Yup.”

“Our lucky day. Professional girl?”

“Could be. Neighborhood for it.”

The blocks surrounding the 277-acre Fair Park had earned the title of the most dangerous real estate in Dallas. The area was home to gangs, drugs, prostitution and all the goodies that went along with those endeavors.

Stacy and Mac made their way toward the Dumpster. The alley stank, despite the cold. She nodded at the uniform standing closest to the bin, looking miserable.

“You answered the call?” she asked him.

“Yeah. We were in the neighborhood. Partner and I called it in, secured the scene.”

She nodded toward the other uniform, hovering just beyond the mouth of the alley. “That him?”

“Yeah. He rounded up the bag lady. She called it in from a cell phone. Can you believe that shit? Even bums have cell phones now.”

Stacy frowned. “You touch anything?”

“Nope. Verified the body, called it in. That's it.”

She looked at Mac. “You want to do the honors or shall I?”

“Ladies first.”

She handed him the coffee and fitted on her rubber gloves. Someone, most probably the bag lady, had built a makeshift step stool out of gallon paint cans.

“Flashlight?” she asked no one in particular.

“Got it.” The uniform handed her his. She thanked him, flipped it on and stepped onto the cans.

Stacy pointed the beam into the three-quarters-full bin. The murderer had wrapped the victim in dark plastic sheeting. The bag lady had peeled a corner of the sheeting away, enough to reveal part of a woman's face.

Stacy made a quick sketch, then peeled it farther back, gagging at the smell. Her eyes teared.

“The flu's starting to look damn good to me,” Mac said, interrupting her thoughts. “How about you?”

“Retching's never been my thing.”

“You'd rather be freezing your ass off while you fish around for a stiff in a stinking Dumpster than hugging the porcelain god in the warmth and comfort of your own home?”

“Something like that.” She looked at him. “Do you mind?”

“Have a ball.”

The vic appeared to have been dead several days. The cold weather had slowed the decomposition process slightly. The unnatural angle of the head suggested her neck might have been broken. She was naked from the waist up and had been well endowed—whether by nature or design the coroner would determine later.

Carefully, Stacy peeled the sheeting back. The vic wore what appeared to be pajama bottoms. White cotton with lace insets. Feminine. Modest.

She shifted the beam. No rings or watch. No earrings.

Working girls always wore earrings. Flash was a big part of the package.

Her feet were bare. Her toenails painted bright pink.

Stacy moved the light to the contents of the bin. Food wrappers, chicken and rib bones, cups, paper products. Beer bottles. Aluminum cans. Newspapers. Nothing jumped out at her. No handbag or wallet, though her killer could have tossed it in first and the crime-scene guys would find it when they moved the body.

“When's the last time this Dumpster was emptied?”

“I suspect it's been a while.” Mac hunched deeper into his coat. “I'd call this address the middle of fuckin' nowhere.”

“Let's confirm. It'll help us determine when she was dumped.”

Stacy scanned the alley. Several businesses lined it, one—judging by the contents of the Dumpster—a restaurant. She asked about it.

“Bubba's Backyard Barbecue,” the uniform offered. “It's out of business. So's the Nail Emporium right next door.”

“And next to it?”

“Pawn shop. Opens at 9:00 a.m.”

Stacy stepped down, handed Mac the flashlight. After passing the coffee back to her, he donned his gloves and stepped up. “Yup,” he said. “She's dead.”

“Funny man.”

She sipped the now-lukewarm coffee while Mac repeated the process she had just completed. She watched him work, studying his expression. His heart wasn't in Homicide, she realized, even as she wondered why he had transferred from Vice. Higher-profile cases? A better, quicker path up the ladder? Maybe he even had an eye on being chief someday?

Whatever the reason, it wasn't the process.

At a sound of car doors slamming, they turned. The crime-scene guys had arrived, as had the pathologist.

“Man, does Pete look pissed,” Mac said.

Stacy glanced over. The man did, indeed, look pissed. When he was within earshot, she called out a greeting. “Well, if it isn't my favorite deputy coroner.”

“I see we were both born under an unlucky star, Killian.”

“Seems so. She's all yours.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled. “To think, I could have been a pediatrician. Thought treating runny noses and ear infections all day wouldn't be exciting enough.”

“You're up to your ass in excitement now.”

“That I am.” He donned his gloves. “Anything I should know?”

“Looks like she's been dead awhile. My bet is neck was broken. Killed at another location, natch.”

“Working girl?”

“Don't think so.”

“You want to hold the light for me, McPherson?”

The man stepped onto the cans. Stacy glanced toward the mouth of the alley and the bag lady huddled beside her
grocery cart. She touched Mac's arm to indicate she meant to question her, then headed that way.

As she neared, Stacy heard the bag lady mumbling to herself. The commentary sounded like the woman's own version of a language, similar to the pig Latin Stacy and her friends had used to convey secret messages in elementary school.

Stacy squatted down in front of her. “Hello.”

The woman didn't meet her eyes. Stacy held out the cup of coffee. “Would you like this? It's not hot anymore. But it's sweet.”

The woman took the cup, curled her fingers around it. Stacy noticed that her hands were surprisingly clean. She brought the cup to her mouth and drank, making slurping sounds as she did.

Stacy reached in her coat pocket for the granola bar she had grabbed on her way out of the door. She had meant to eat it in the car but hadn't gotten around to it. She held the bar out to the bag lady; again the woman snatched the offering.

“Sorry you had to find her,” Stacy said, indicating the body in the Dumpster. “Thanks for calling us.”

The woman grunted, tore the wrapper off the bar and shoved as much as she could of it into her mouth.

“You spend a lot of time in this alley?”

She shrugged, didn't look at Stacy.

“Some?”

She nodded, mouth hanging slightly open as she chewed.

“When's the last time you came around here? Before tonight?”

She mumbled something Stacy couldn't make out.

“I know you can speak because you called this in. Are you going to talk to me here or do I take you downtown?”

“Been a few days. M'be a week.”

She had an unusual accent. A mixed-up combination of Old South and country. Slightly guttural tone.

“Since you visited this alley?” Stacy asked for confirmation.

The woman nodded.

“Ever see anything strange around here? Anyone who didn't belong?”

“Nuh.”

“How about tonight? Anything strange?” The bag lady pointed toward the Dumpster. “Besides the dead woman. See anything? Find anything we should know about?”

She dropped her hand. Curled her fingers around something encased in the layers of clothing she wore.

“The officer over there said you used a cell phone to call. That true?”

The woman looked at Stacy then. Was that suspicion she saw in her gaze? Or fear?

She shook her head.

She had been a pretty woman once, Stacy thought. And although her age was difficult to determine because of the dirt ground into every line and crease of her face, she seemed young to be in the position she was. Stacy wondered how she had come to be here, looking through Dumpsters for food.

“Here's the deal,” Stacy said, keeping her tone non-confrontational, “we know you called from a cell phone. If somebody dropped that in this alley or you found it in the Dumpster with the victim, I can confiscate it as evidence.

“I don't want to do that. But I have to have that phone. How about we trade? You name it.”

The woman didn't hesitate. She pointed to Stacy's crucifix. Stacy brought her hand to her throat, to the thin gold chain and turquoise-and-mother-of-pearl crucifix that had spilled out of the neckline of her shirt. Jane had given it to her when she graduated from the academy. So the Lord would always be with her, Jane had said. Keeping her safe from harm. Stacy believed in what the crucifix represented and in the power of faith; she never took it off.

At the thought of being without it, a feeling akin to panic came over her.

She could say no, insist the woman choose something else. She, not the indigent, held all the power cards. But per
haps this woman needed God's watchful eye more than she. Stacy unfastened the chain and held it out.

The woman flashed her a triumphant smile and reached for it. Stacy drew her hand back. “First, the phone.”

The woman dug in her layers of clothing, then handed the device over.

A Verizon flip phone, Stacy saw. She opened it. Color display. Looked like the latest technology. Expensive. She took an evidence bag from her jacket pocket and dropped it in.

“Where'd you find it?”

The woman turned and pointed at the Dumpster.

“In the bin? With the body?”

She nodded. “On top. Give to me.” She pointed to Stacy's necklace.

Stacy fulfilled her part of the bargain, though not without a moment of regret. She watched as the other woman hooked it around her neck.

Stacy stood. “Wait here, we may have more questions.”

The woman didn't acknowledge her in any way, and Stacy returned to the Dumpster.

“Get anything?” Mac asked.

“Mmm.” She held up the evidence. “She found it in with the vic. On top.”

“Hot damn. There is a God.”

Stacy thought of her crucifix.
Yes, there was
.

Pete stepped down. “It looks like she was in her mid-twenties. Neck was broken. Autopsy will tell the rest.”

“When?”

“With everybody else out with this damn flu, I don't know. I'll get to it as fast as I can.”