See Jane Die (18 page)

Friday, October 24, 2003
9:25 a.m
.

S
unlight spilled over Jane, warming her skin. She stood on the beach, toes curled in the warm sand. With one hand she held the wide brim of a straw hat, with the other she waved at Ian, playing in the surf. With a child, a beautiful child with golden curls.

They were laughing.

A seagull flew overhead, throwing a shadow over the sun. It screeched, shattering the moment. “No!” she cried. It screeched again, and she swatted at it.

Her hand connected with something cold and hard, sending it tumbling. It hit the floor with a crash and she jolted awake.

Disoriented, Jane looked around. She was sitting in Ian's study, at the computer. It was on. As she watched, the image on the screensaver morphed from one image of tropical paradise to another. Sun streamed through the blinds, falling across her.

The beach from her dream. The sun.

Her feeling of loss was acute. For the happiness of her dream. For Ian. Their once beautiful, bright future.

She shifted her gaze. Her mug lay shattered on the floor,
the remnants of her herbal tea a puddle on the gleaming wood. She stared at the puddle, the events of the previous night filling her head. The reporter's call, her trip to Ian's office, collecting the box of CDs. The woman.

Jane dragged a hand across her eyes. Who was she? Whose file had she taken? Her own? Most probably, but not certainly. What could the file have contained that was so sensitive it was worth breaking and entering over?

Jane shivered and turned her attention to the computer screen. She hit the return button, the machine hummed and the financial information she had fallen asleep while reviewing appeared on the screen.

Everything had been as she'd expected it to be, no surprises.

And nothing had jumped out, shouting Ian's innocence.

This morning she would review the rest of the CDs. But first, she needed a shower and breakfast.

Before she could make a move to do either, the front buzzer rang. At the sound, Ranger began to bark.

Jane stood, crossed to the intercom and hit the call button. “Yes?” she managed, voice thick.

“Mrs. Westbrook? Police.”

“Police,” she repeated. Her gaze went to the computer and the box of CDs. Could they have discovered her midnight visit to Ian's office? But how?

Jane cleared her throat. “It's not a good time.”

“We need to speak with you. Now, ma'am.”

Something in his tone alarmed her. “Is Ian…has something happened to my husband?”

“Not that we know of, ma'am.”

She recognized the voice then. Stacy's partner. McPherson.

But not Stacy. She had been taken off the case.

“I just got up. I need a minute.”

She made a quick trip to the bathroom, relieved herself and brushed her teeth, then threw on the clothes she had worn to Ian's clinic the night before.

Instead of buzzing the detectives in, she went down to the street level entrance and peeked through the sidelight. Sure
enough, Mac and his new partner stood outside the door. Surprisingly, they had two uniformed officers with them as well.

She frowned, finding that weird. If they were here to question her, why the additional cops? The night they arrested Ian, the detectives had been accompanied by two uniformed officers as well. Were they going to arrest her? Why?

Mac saw her and held up his shield. With trembling fingers, she unlocked and opened the door. The minute she did, the other detective handed her a folded paper. “We have a warrant to search these premises, Mrs. Westbrook.”

Stunned, she looked at the paper, then at the detectives. “A warrant?” she repeated, confused.

“We'll begin down here.” The policemen moved past her, into the foyer.

She struggled to get her bearings. “Wait a minute. I don't even know if this is legal.”

Detective McPherson stopped, looked at her. “It's legal, Mrs. Westbrook.”

Defiantly, she unfolded the paper, skimmed it. It looked authentic, had been signed by a Judge Kirby, dated this morning. She handed it back.

“Wait here, I'm going to call my lawyer.”

“You have that right, ma'am,” the second detective said. “But we have the right to search these premises and we intend to do just that, immediately.”

Her studio door opened. Ted poked his head out. He looked from her to the officer, expression fierce. “What's going on, Jane?”

“Ted,” she said, mustering her most authoritative tone, “could you keep the officers company while I make a phone call?”

Mac checked his watch, obviously irritated. “Two minutes.”

She hurried into the studio; Ted ambled out. She found the phone, used information to get Elton's number, then dialed it. Voice shaking, she explained the situation to his secretary and the woman buzzed her through.

“The police are here,” she said when the attorney came on the line. “They have a search warrant.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes, it looks legal. A judge signed it. Judge Kirby.”

“Was it dated?”

“Yes, today's date.”

“I wondered when this would happen. Seems to me they're a little late.”

“What are they looking for?”

“Specifically, I'm not sure. Generally, anything that links Ian to the crimes or victims.”

Jane thought of the CDs. No doubt they would confiscate them. All the effort of acquiring them had been for naught. If only she hadn't fallen asleep; if only she had gone through them all. Now the information was lost to her.

“Listen, Jane, examine the warrant carefully. By law they're only allowed to search the exact places listed in the warrant. For example, if it names the residence but not the garage, they cannot search the garage. They may not search your vehicles unless they are named. Is your studio a separate address with a dedicated entrance?”

She answered yes to both and he went on. “If they want to search it, it must be specifically named on the warrant. Also, in a warrant, the judge specifically grants them the right to look for—and seize—specific things. They may only look for those things, though they may be as general as financial records or correspondence. Still, this isn't a blanket fishing expedition, they have to have probable cause.

“They'll try to bully you to get what they want, so hang tough. By Texas law, you must remain on the premises. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Jane hung up and returned to the foyer. Ted looked uncomfortable, the detectives impatient.

“May I see that warrant again, please?” she asked.

“Of course.” Mac passed to her. “You'll find everything in order.”

She scanned it. “This lists 415 Commerce, our residence,
and garage and vehicles.” She lifted her gaze to the detective's. “You realize of course, that my studio is excluded from this warrant?”

“Excuse me?”

“My studio is
413
Commerce. This warrant doesn't grant you access to it.”

The second detective's face reddened; he muttered an oath. The uniformed officers shifted slightly.

Mac held out a hand. “One call to the judge and we'll be back. Be reasonable, Jane—”

“Mrs. Westbrook,” she corrected. “And if you want to search my studio, you'll need a warrant.”

He made a sound of frustration. “We'll be back today. Why not save us all the trouble—”

“No trouble at all, Detective. I'm not going anywhere.”

Friday, October 24, 2003
10:20 a.m
.

W
hile the detectives searched, Jane waited in the front foyer with Ranger, one of the uniformed officers baby-sitting her. Elton had been correct: they were looking for specific items that would link Ian to the crime and victims. Items of clothing, documents, photographs, receipts and the like. Curiously, the warrant specifically named two articles of clothing: an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a leather bomber jacket.

Ian owned neither.

As Jane had feared they would, they took the computer and all the CDs she had gotten from the office the night before. They also confiscated Ian's cell phone, the address book from his office, bank statements and canceled checks.

Ranger growled low in his throat. She had leashed him and he stood at attention beside her.

This felt wrong to him as well. An invasion. A violation.

Jane wondered if she would ever feel totally comfortable in her own home again.

Elton arrived. He examined the warrant, found it in order and excused himself to follow the detectives around the loft.
Before he did, she asked if it would be all right if she waited in the studio.

He said it would, and after taking Ranger for quick pit stop outside, she headed there.

“What's happening?” Ted asked.

“They seem to be having a great time rummaging through my closets and drawers.” She sank onto the white wicker sofa in the reception area. “I'm pretty certain that by now they know what size bra and panties I wear.”

Ted's face reddened. “This pisses me off. It's not right.”

She thought of the private things looked at by strangers. Touched. Snickered over.

Their things. Their privacy. Invaded.

She wished she could muster anger.

She told him so.

“Sounds like a good goal.”

“Something redemptive I could work for.”

“Exactly.”

Her stomach growled then, loudly.

“See there, even your stomach agrees.”

“No, it's pissed off because I haven't fed it. You have any grub around here?”

“A peanut butter sandwich and an apple?”

Turned out Ted hadn't eaten breakfast yet, either, so they shared the juicy red apple and chunky-peanut-butter sandwich on homemade wheat bread.

It was delicious. She saved a piece of the crust for Ranger, then angled toward Ted. “Homemade bread? I didn't realize you were so domestic.”

He looked embarrassed. “It's a health thing, I use whole grains, all organic. No sugars.”

“I'm impressed. Do you grind your own organic peanuts, too?”

She offered the last as a joke, but the joke was on her when she saw by his expression that he had.

“You look so surprised, Jane. There's a lot you don't know about me.”

“I know everything I need to.” She tilted her head, studying him. “I know I trust you completely. Because of the kind of man you are. Honest. Dependable. Loyal.”

“That description makes me sound a bit like Ranger.”

She reached across the space and squeezed his hand. “And I
adore
Ranger.”

He flushed, obviously pleased.

Feeling buoyed by the food and his friendship, Jane sent him a cocky smile. “I believe I'm going to change my goal. I prefer to pretend none of this is happening. Ian's at the office and three strangers aren't poking around in my unmentionables drawer.”

He returned her smile. “Sounds like a plan. Since this is your fantasy, where do we start?”

“With
Anne
. I think I'm in the mood to play with molten metal.”

Jane threw herself into her work. As she did, her mind emptied of everything but the emerging form.

She found it incredibly liberating. Energizing. So much so that when Elton appeared in the studio an hour later, Jane couldn't have felt more refreshed if she had just awakened from a three-hour nap.

“They're gone,” he said. He handed her a copy of the warrant; on the back was a list of the items they had taken as evidence. He smiled slightly. “I don't think they found what they were looking for. If I was reading their aura of disappointment correctly.”

She scanned the list, seeing little more than the items they had collected before Elton arrived.

“They warned me they'd be back with a warrant for your studio. Personally, I don't think they're going to be able to convince the judge. It's all about probable cause. And making the connection between Ian, the crime he's being charged with and your place of business is stretching it.”

“They probably think I'm hiding incriminating evidence.” The sarcasm in her voice left no doubt what she thought of the police and their tactics. “To protect my murdering husband.”

“That's the way they think, Jane. It's not personal.”

She knew that. But it didn't feel that way. “How will we know if they've gotten what they wanted?”

“For certain? Maybe never. They're on the other side, they're not going to let us into their heads.”

Jane fisted her fingers. “I hate this.”

“I know.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Call me if they do get Judge Kirby's go-ahead. I'll tell Susan to put the call through, no matter what I'm doing.”

She thanked him and turned to Ted. “I'm going to get cleaned up. I'll be back down after.”

“Got the fort, Jane. Take your time.”

Ranger by her side, she walked the attorney out. At the door he stopped. “The warrant's good for three days. It doesn't happen often, but if they decide they missed something they can come back. I don't believe they will, however. They did a thorough job.”

She thanked him again and headed upstairs. She stepped into the foyer; Ranger slipped past her and ran through the loft, woofing softly.

She followed him more slowly, a lump in her throat. They had made a mess: drawers hung open, their contents spilling out; closet doors gaped wide, shoes tossed in a heap; clothing a jumble; shelves stripped clean.

She moved from the bedroom to the kitchen. In this room, too, drawers stood open, their contents jumbled. The pantry and her cabinets had been rummaged through, the refrigerator as well.

Jane took a deep breath. She crossed to the pantry. She began straightening, reorganizing. Once she began, she couldn't bring herself to stop.

In a sort of frenzied haze, she moved from one drawer to the next, one room then the another. This was her home. These were her things. And Ian's. With each drawer reassembled, each closet put back to order, each shelf straightened, she expunged the evidence of their presence. The
sense
of it. And restored her sovereignty over her own life.

She saved Ian's study for last. The police had walked around the broken cup and puddle of tea. She bent, collected the crockery shards, then wiped up the liquid with a couple of tissues from the box on the desk.

As she did, her gaze fell on her handbag, tucked under the desk, right where she had put it the night before. Obviously, the police hadn't gone through it. Either they had overlooked it or the warrant hadn't granted them access to it.

She stared at it a moment, something plucking at her memory. Something she should remember but couldn't quite grasp.

And then she did.

Ian's PalmPilot
. She had gotten Whit's number from it, the night Ian had been arrested. She'd stuck it in her handbag, in case she needed other numbers.

She grabbed the purse. Heart thundering, she fished around inside. Her hand closed over the personal data assistant and with trembling fingers, she drew it out.

Ian loved his PalmPilot. She remembered the day he had brought it home. A technological wonder, he had crooned. Every morning Marsha could simply import his schedule onto it. All his appointments. Marsha had updated three times a day: first thing in the morning, noon and at the end of the day.

Jane turned on the device and the small screen came to life. Using the stylus, she called up Ian's calendar. It went back six months.

Jane studied the calendar entries. Marsha, she saw, had been incredibly organized—her entries minutely detailed. Each appointment had included not just time, location and who the meeting was with, but whether it was personal or professional. Each also contained a contact number.

However, twice a month the woman had simply blocked out a two-hour lunch. Noon to two. No other information, not even a name.

Jane frowned. She flipped forward and back. The blocked lunches typically occurred on Wednesdays and
Fridays. A couple of times the days had varied, but they had never been missed.

What had Ian been doing during those blocked hours? Who had he been meeting?

She hated what she was thinking. Hated the suspicions that were making her sick to her stomach.

Her husband had been faithful to her. He wasn't a liar or a cheat.

He wasn't a murderer.

Ian would have a reasonable, logical explanation for the lunches.

But she couldn't ask him, not for another six days.

She placed the device on the desk, then brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. Where had her husband been during those long lunch hours? Who had he been with?

Check the address book on the PalmPilot, Jane
.

She glanced toward the desk and the waiting PDA. If she doubted Ian now, it would tear them apart. He would never forgive her. And without trust, what would they have?

What are you afraid of, Jane?

Of finding Elle Vanmeer's name there? Of finding Gretchen's, Sharon's or Lisette's?

She stiffened against her own thoughts. She wasn't afraid. Her husband had been faithful. He loved her.

She turned. Crossed to the desk. The device seemed to mock her for its secrets. Her every instinct told her to leave well enough alone. Send her question in a note, through Elton. Or simply wait until her next visit to ask Ian herself.

She couldn't, God help her. She had to know now.

She picked up the PalmPilot. She called up the address book, scrolled the alphabet, finding the
V
s.

There was only one name and number there.
Elle Vanmeer
.

The device slipped from her fingers and she stumbled backward as if from a physical blow. The dead woman's name was on her husband's PalmPilot. Why? Physicians did not carry their patients' phone numbers on their PDAs.

Trembling, Jane searched for a logical explanation. Per
haps he and the woman had enjoyed a personal relationship before he met and married her?

That didn't work because he'd gotten the PalmPilot several months
after
they were married.

Perhaps the two of them had been friends? Perhaps Marsha had simply imported all the names and numbers from his old address book into the PDA? That could happen.

Except that would make Ian a liar. He'd told the police that Elle Vanmeer had been strictly a patient, that they hadn't had a personal relationship.

Jane curved her arms around her middle. This was the kind of information the police already had. Records of phone calls. Calendars with blocks of unaccounted-for time.

No wonder they thought him guilty. A hysterical-sounding laugh bubbled to her lips. No wonder they thought her the naive, too-trusting little wife.

She bent and defiantly snatched up the PDA. She scrolled the alphabet, beginning with the
A
s. There were a number of women's names, but none that jumped out at her. Gretchen Cole was not listed. Nor was Lisette Gregory.

Two down, one to go
.

Her relief was short-lived. There in the
L
s, screaming her husband's guilt was another number, one she couldn't imagine a reason for him to have.

La Plaza
.