See Jane Die (19 page)

Friday, October 24, 2003
3:20 p.m
.

S
hortly after three that afternoon, Stacy hung up the phone and turned to Mac who was lounging in the chair beside her desk. “Hold on to your shorts. That was Pete. Autopsy's ready.”

“Well?” he asked.

“Neck was broken. That's what killed her. No sign of sexual activity pre death. No defensive wounds or other injuries. Nails were clean.”

“Drug use?”

“None.”

“How long's she been dead?”

“Three days, give or take.”

Mac scratched his head. “For now we've got ourselves a Jane Doe. No ID. No identifying marks. No wedding ring or other personal effects found in the Dumpster.”

“No missing person who fits our vic's description?”

“Not yet. Ran her prints, nothing in the data bank.”

Stacy hadn't expected there to be. Jane Doe had not been a working girl.

She drummed her fingers on the desktop. “Wearing pajamas. No jewelry or shoes. Broken neck. Clearly, she
knew her attacker. My guess is we're talking husband or boyfriend. She turns her back, he snaps her neck. Clean break. He knew what he was doing. Took a lot of strength. Happened fast. Probably went down in her own home.”

Mac nodded. “Her loved one wraps her in plastic, loads her in the family sedan and dumps her in a remote trash bin. Canvas turn up anything?”

“Nada. Nobody saw a thing. Typical.” Stacy shuffled through the notes she had amassed on Jane Doe already. “Bubba's Backyard Barbecue closed a week ago. Trash hasn't been picked up since.”

“What do we know about the plastic sheeting?”

“Garden variety, literally. Landscapers use it as a weed guard. You can buy it at any lawn and garden center or hardware store.”

“What about trace evidence?”

She flipped through the file. “Some hair, which may or may not be consistent with hers. Analysis isn't back. Carpet fibers. Bermuda grass.”

“The stuff you smoke?”

“The kind you mow, city boy.” She glanced at the report. “Dirt.”

“Dirt?” he repeated.

“Mmm. Also being analyzed.”

“We can't go much further without a name.” He frowned. “What about the cell phone?”

“No word yet.”

“What's the holdup?”

“Privacy issues. The request was bumped up to Corporate.” Mac opened his mouth; she held up a hand. “They assured me we'd have it, the local manager just didn't want to take responsibility.”

“We're going nowhere with this until we have a name. You know that, right?”

He didn't expect a response; she didn't give him one. Silence fell between them. Mac broke it first. “Talk to your sister recently?”

She looked at him, instantly on edge. “Not yet today. Why?”

He glanced over his shoulder as if to make certain he wouldn't be overheard, then leaned toward her. “We searched the loft today.”

Stacy knew that meant a warrant. And she knew what they had hoped to find—the leather jacket and baseball cap. “Get what you were looking for?”

He replied with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “You research 1987 new stories yet?”

“Begun, not finished. Nothing about screams yet. Jane insisted from the get-go he did it on purpose.”

“Any more contact from Jane's wacko?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should call her. She looked pretty shook up this morning.”

As if on cue, her desk phone rang. They both looked at it. Mac grinned. “I planned that. To make myself look psychic.”

“Psychotic, you mean.” She reached for the phone. “Detective Killian.”

“Hey Detective Killian, Bob Thompson from Verizon Wireless. Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you.”

“No problem.” She straightened slightly and signaled to Mac that this was the call they had been waiting for. “Do you have that name for me?”

He did and she hung up, the ramifications of his answer ricocheting through her. She picked up her Jane Doe file and held it out to her partner.

He frowned. “What?”

“I'm out of it.”

His frown deepened. “I don't—”

“I'm out of it,” she said again. “The cell phone belonged to Elle Vanmeer.”

Monday, October 27, 2003
9:30 a.m
.

M
onday morning arrived. Ian's arraignment was scheduled for ten-thirty in courtroom number two in the Frank Crowley Courts Building. She had promised Elton she would meet him at a quarter past the hour.

Jane dressed carefully, wanting to look her best. Wanting to appear rested and confident. Elton had warned her that considering the charges, her demeanor was important. It could sway both the jury and public opinion.

She let out a pent-up breath. No problem. All she had to do was create an illusion that was a complete lie.

The information she'd found in the PDA had tormented her. She'd had difficulty sleeping, and when she had managed to fall asleep, she had tossed and turned. She had eaten only because she knew she had to for the baby's health.

Desperate, she had turned to her work.
Anne
was complete. And she was beautiful. In Jane's opinion, the most beautiful, most evocative grouping in her
Doll Parts
series.

She owed
Anne
more than she could repay. Being able to immerse herself in her work, creating something of beauty though her soul had been in despair, had been her salvation.
Without her art she wasn't certain she would have made it through the weekend.

She had longed to talk over what she had found in the PDA with Stacy, Dave or Elton. Had longed for their reassurances.

But to utter the words would have made her a traitor to her husband and marriage. To say them aloud would have somehow made her doubts real.

So she had been alone with her horrible thoughts. The fears and insecurities that had threatened to eat her alive.

She had prayed. Had thrown herself into her work. Had walked the floors.

In the end it had come down to this: she believed Ian innocent of these crimes. He wasn't a murderer.

And she loved him.

For now, she would squash her doubts about his faithfulness. When she spoke to him, she would ask about the lunches, the phone numbers. He would have a logical explanation; she would feel foolish for having doubted him.

Following her heart had never proved to be the wrong decision before; it wouldn't this time, either.

The front buzzer sounded. That would be Dave. He had insisted on accompanying her to the arraignment.

She met him at the door. “Ready?” he asked.

She said she was and they crossed the sidewalk to his car. He held the door for her, then went around to the driver's side. They rode in silence for several miles.

The uncomfortable tone of the silence distressed her. Would this travesty touch every area of her life? Every relationship? Even one as old and comfortable as hers and Dave's?

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke. “Any developments over the weekend?”

“Not that I know of.” She clasped her hands in her lap. Her palms were damp.

“Any word from Stacy?”

“She called. She seemed distracted.”

“Is she coming today?”

“I don't know.”

He didn't comment, though she knew what he was thinking. That she should have asked her. Expressed that her presence would be reassuring.

And it would have.

She hated the distance between her and her sibling but either didn't know how to breach it or didn't have the energy to try. The accusations she had flung at Stacy had widened the chasm. She wished to God she had never uttered them.

Dave found a spot in the lot nearest the court's entrance. Jane spotted Elton right away, waiting at the bottom of the front steps, just as they had arranged.

They reached the attorney and Jane introduced the two men. They shook hands.

Elton turned to her. “Are you ready?”

She forced a smile. “Rested and confident.”

“Good girl.”

He briefed her as they made their way into the building and through the metal detectors. “Ian pulled Judge Phister. He's tough and doesn't put up with any shenanigans, not from the attorneys, the clients or the press. Since I don't play games, it's not going to be a problem.”

They crossed to the elevator and stepped into a waiting car. “Today the judge will read the charges against Ian and ask how he pleads. As you know, Ian is pleading not guilty. Since he's being charged with capital murder, there will be no bail. Then it's over until the pretrial hearings.”

As if anticipating her despair, Dave squeezed her elbow reassuringly.

The elevator car whooshed to a stop on the seventh floor and Elton steered her toward the courtroom where Ian's case would be heard. Stacy stood outside the closed door. She looked tired and tense.

Their gazes met. Relief and affection rushed over Jane and she hurried toward her. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered, hugging the other woman.

“Of course I came,” Stacy responded, drawing away. “You're my sister.”

She and Dave embraced; she introduced herself to the lawyer. An emotion flickered across the attorney's face, then was gone. Even as Jane wondered at it, Elton herded them into the courtroom.

No sooner had they gotten settled than the bailiff called Ian's case. A lump in her throat, Jane watched as a uniformed guard led her husband into the courtroom in cuffs. He looked at her, his expression lost. Tears stung her eyes. Moments later, the judge read the charges; Ian pleaded not guilty and it was over, ending as quickly as it had begun.

The guard took Ian's arm to lead him away. Jane jumped to her feet. “Ian!”

He turned. Their gazes locked. Her heart lodged in her throat. He mouthed that he loved her.

And in that moment she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was innocent. That he had been faithful to her.

Then he was gone.

Stacy touched her arm. “Jane, it's time.”

She glanced at her sister. “He didn't do it. Any of it.”

“I know, Jane. It's going to be okay.”

“I've sent Dave for his car,” Elton said. “The press is out front. Prepare yourself, it won't be pleasant.”

The lawyer hurried them from the courtroom. When they cleared the elevator on the first floor, Jane saw that several reporters were indeed waiting outside the banks of glass doors.

“Take a deep breath and let me handle this. Do not engage, Jane. No matter how much they bait you.”

She nodded. With Stacy on her left and Elton on her right, they cleared the doors. The reporters spotted her and rushed forward.

A reporter thrust a microphone in her face. “Do you have a statement, Mrs. Westbrook?”

“Did he do it?” another called out.

“Mrs. Westbrook has no comment,” Elton said, pushing through the group, leading her down the stairs. “Talk to us after the trial and the not guilty verdict.”

Dave pulled up to the curb and tooted the horn. They hurried toward him.

“Is it true what they're saying, Mrs. Westbrook?” a reporter shouted as she reached the vehicle. “Was your husband unfaithful?”

Jane froze. She turned to the reporter who had shouted the question, ignoring Elton's warning grip on her arm.

“Was your husband unfaithful?” the reporter called again.

“No,” Jane answered, surprised by the strength of her voice. Her calm determination behind it. “He was faithful and he is innocent. And I'm going to prove it.”

A ripple moved through the crowd. “How?” shouted a reporter in back.

“No further comment,” Elton said, steering her toward the car.

Dave threw the passenger door open. She stepped inside, fastened her safety belt, then glanced back as he pulled away from the crowd.

A good thing Elton had stepped in, she admitted, because she didn't have a clue how she was going to prove her husband innocent.

An answer they would have crucified her with.

Monday, Ocotober 27, 2003
2:45 p.m
.

O
ver the next several hours, the promise she had flung at the reporters became a firm plan. Jane had decided that she would continue the investigation she had begun that night in Ian's office. She would call Gretchen Cole, Sharon Smith and Lisette Gregory, her art subjects who had become Ian's patients. She would question them about their relationship with her husband and how they had come to see him professionally.

Hopefully, they would vouch for Ian's professionalism.

She needed to discover the identity of the woman who had stolen the file, though she had no clear idea of how to do that. She had also decided to pay Ian's ex-wife a visit. Face the beast, if the things he had said about the woman were true. As for the information she had discovered in the PDA, she thought she might call La Plaza, Ian's ex-partners and the office manager at the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery.

None of her plans would prove Ian innocent in the eyes of the law, but they would go a long way toward reassuring her. And, if used by Elton, a long way toward creating doubt in the eyes of the jury.

Jane entered the studio and found Ted standing before
Anne.
“She's beautiful,” he said, not taking his gaze from the sculpture.

“She is, isn't she?” Jane crossed to stand beside him. “I spent the entire weekend on her.”

“I didn't think you would be able to work. You know, because of Ian.”

“Working saved me. I think I would have gone crazy without it.”

He turned, met her eyes. “If you need anything, Jane, call me. I'm here for you.”

She squeezed his hand in thanks. “I'm looking for three phone numbers. Gretchen Cole, Lisette Gregory and Sharon Smith.”

“Sure.” He crossed to the computer and pulled up the address book. He jotted the three numbers on a Post-it note and handed it to her. “If you're wondering, I made certain all your subjects got invitations to the opening.”

“I wasn't wondering. I know you did.”

She saw the question in his eyes but ignored it. “I'll be upstairs if you need me.”

Jane headed up and, after pouring herself a glass of orange juice, curled up on the end of the couch with Ranger at her feet. She called Gretchen first.

The woman answered. “Gretchen, it's Jane. How are you?”

“Jane! My God, how are
you?
I can't believe what they're saying about Ian.”

“It's not true,” Jane said evenly. “It's all a mistake.”

“Of course it's not true.” Gretchen lowered her voice. “Is he still in jail?”

“Yes.” Jane cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Did you get your invitation to the opening party?”

“I did, though I wondered if it was still on.”

“Ian made me promise not to cancel.”

“He's like that.” She paused, as if realizing what she had just said. “I'll see you there, then.”

“Gretchen, one more thing.” Jane attempted nonchalance. “Ian mentioned that you had become his patient. I was a bit
put out and worried that he may have, I don't know…used our relationship to solicit business.”

“Oh, Jane, I'm so embarrassed. You know how I am about my looks. And actually, I mentioned his name to a friend, and she raved about him. That's what sold me on him.”

“So, he didn't approach you?”

“No, absolutely not.”

Jane admitted to being almost comically relieved. She hid it with a self-conscious laugh. “He's an excellent surgeon, no doubt about it. In my slightly biased opinion, gifted.”

“Exactly! He tried to point me to a colleague because of you, but I wouldn't hear of it.”

First hurdle cleared
. Jane drew a deep breath.
Now for the tough question
. “May I ask you something, Gretchen? It's really important that you be honest with me.”

“Sure, Jane. Of course.”

“Did Ian behave…inappropriately with you? In any way?”

“Inappropriately?”

“You know, did he come on to you?”

“God, no!” Her emphatic and spontaneous response rang true. “Ian was nothing but professional.”

Jane couldn't hold back her sound of relief.

“What are they telling you about him, Jane? Because whatever it is, it's not true. Ian loves you, that came through loud and clear.”

They talked a few more moments before saying goodbye and hanging up. Jane tried Lisette next, got her machine and left a message, then called Sharon.

The third woman was home. Their conversation was a nearly verbatim repeat of the one she'd just had with Gretchen. Jane hung up, buoyed by the things both women had said about Ian, feeling confident. They had approached him, not the other way around. He had behaved professionally at all times.

Now for the ex-wife. Mona Fields, former Miss Texas, wealthy, well-connected and successful. Jane had met the woman once; she and Ian had run into her at an opening at the Dallas Museum of Art.

She had been pleasant toward Jane, and any discomfort Jane experienced had been the result of her own insecurities, not any overt ugliness from the other woman.

Mona simply possessed the kind of looks that always made Jane feel inadequate. A natural blue-eyed blonde with a striking figure and features. The face of an angel and the heart of a demon was how Ian had described her. They had been married less than two years.

Jane collected her handbag and jacket, put Ranger in his kennel and headed downstairs. She stopped by the studio on her way out. “Anything happening that I should know about?”

“An RSVP from the art reviewer for the
Times
.”

“New York or L.A.?”

“L.A. Awesome, huh?”

“Awesome,” she repeated, acknowledging being pleased—but not feeling pleasure. As if intellectually she could recognize what a huge thing that was, but that on an emotional level…it didn't matter.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.” She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “I'm going to pay Ian's ex a visit.”

“His ex-wife?” Ted frowned. “Why?”

“I need to talk to her. Face-to-face.”

“They're getting to you, aren't they? The police, the things they're saying?”

Her cheeks heated. “I refuse to sit back and allow others to decide Ian's fate.”

“So you're launching your own mini-investigation? Isn't that your attorney's territory?”

“Elton doesn't care if Ian's innocent. Only about proving him not guilty. I
know
he's innocent.”

“Of the murders? Or of infidelity?”

She hated the question. It hurt. The answer made her squirm. She struck back, angry. “Maybe you should mind your own business.”

His features tightened. “I'm your friend. Friends tell the truth. Let the police and lawyers do their job.”

“I can't do that.” He wanted to argue, she saw. She didn't give him the chance. “I need Lisette Gregory's address. Could you get it for me?”

“Lisette's?” Her shift of subject had surprised him. “Now?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He turned, crossed to the computer and called up the address book. He looked over his shoulder at her. “If you need me to send her another invitation—”

“I don't. Lisette was a patient of Ian's. I want to talk to her before the police do.”

He looked alarmed. “What you're doing is dangerous, Jane. It could blow up in your face. You don't need that right now.”

“I've made up my mind. That address, please.”

“Are you going to talk to all his patients? What will it prove? What if one of them—” He bit the thought back. “Never mind. You're a grown-up, do what you want.”

He turned back to the computer, scribbled the address on a Post-it, then held it out to her.

“What if they what?” she asked, taking the Post-it.

“What if one of them tells you something you don't want to hear?”

The words rocked her. She hadn't really considered that option. What would she do?

He touched her cheek, his finger a whisper against her skin. “You're not that strong, Jane. I know you're not.”

“You're wrong.” She jerked away from him, angry. “You don't know me at all.”

“Go then,” he said shortly. “Have a ball.”

She made a sound of regret. “I'm sorry, Ted. I shouldn't have said that.” She paused. “But I have to do this.”

“Whatever.”

“Will you be here when I get back?”

He looked at her then, emotion akin to anger shining from his eyes. “You really
don't
know me, do you?”

She opened her mouth to apologize again, thought better of it, turned and left the studio.

The day was bright but cool. She slipped into her jacket
and walked up the block to her vehicle. Jane knew where Ian's ex lived because it was the home the couple had shared when the two were married. It was located in University Park, home to prestigious Southern Methodist University and bordered on the south by equally prestigious Highland Park.

Jane found Mona's street, Bryn Mawr, then the house number. She parked in front of the Mediterranean-style home and climbed out. The landscaping was lush, the fall azaleas, autumn crocuses and fire bushes were all in bloom, their colors a visual feast.

Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach, Jane rang the front bell. A middle-aged woman wearing a crisp black uniform answered the door. With a heavy Spanish accent, she invited Jane into the foyer and asked her to wait.

Several minutes later, Mona appeared. She wore a pair of tight white slacks and a black, V-neck sweater. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat.

Jane had forgotten how beautiful the woman was.

“Hello, Mona,” she said.

The woman smiled, the curve of her lips practiced rather than warm. “Why, if it isn't Ian's new Mrs. How can I help you?”

“Not me. Ian.”

“He is in a bit of a jam, isn't he? Poor baby.” She motioned the parlor to the right of the foyer. “Come in.”

Jane followed her. The room was richly feminine, slightly understated. They sat across from each other. As soon as they had, the woman who had answered the door appeared. “Can I get you anything, ma'am?”

“I don't think so, Connie.” Mona waved her off without, Jane noticed, thanking her. She returned her attention to Jane. “How can I help Ian?” she asked.

“He didn't murder those women. I know he didn't. I was hoping you would agree with me.”

“And what? Vouch for him in court? As a character witness?”

“If our attorney agrees, yes.”

“The police beat you to it, doll.”

Jane's stomach fell. “They've been here?”

“Days ago, actually.”

“What did they ask you?”

The woman smiled again and crossed her legs. Jane noticed how long they were. The kind of legs that won beauty pageants.

“If Ian had been faithful to me. Or if he…you know, hadn't been.”

Jane's mouth went dry. She thought of Ted's question:
What if one of them tells you something you don't want to hear?

Mona leaned forward, angelic smile in place. “You know, I always thought that dick of his would get him in trouble. It looks like it has.”

Jane made a sound of shock. Mona went on, voice as sweet and smooth as fresh honey.

“At best, the man's a womanizer. At worst, a sex addict. He cheated on me and every other woman he's ever been with. But you knew that when you married—”

An expression of pity came over her beautiful face. “Oh, I see. You didn't. You thought he would be faithful to you. That he was faithful to you.” Mona shook her head, her blond hair brushing her shoulders with the movement. “That man doesn't know the meaning of the word. His dick is his life.”

“You're lying.”

Mona made a sound of sympathy. “It doesn't mean he doesn't love you, sweetie. Just that he has needs you can't take care of.”

“It's not true.” Jane stood and took a step backward, hating the telltale quiver in her voice. “You're a liar.”

Mona stood. She held out a perfectly manicured hand. “I am sorry. Believe me, I know how you feel. He did it to me, too.”

Tears choked her. Turning on her heel, Jane started toward the door. Mona caught her before she reached it. She gripped her arm tightly.