See Jane Die (23 page)

“Or addiction to plastic surgery?”

She stiffened. “Yes.”

“Did Lisette Gregory suffer with any of those?”

“Yes, though she was working with a therapist. And making progress.”

“Her therapist's name?”

Jane thought a moment, then shook her head. “I never asked.”

“In Lisette's case, those negative comments came from who?”

Jane shifted, uncomfortable. “Her father. She was a chubby youngster and apparently her father was quite cruel.”

“What does that mean? Exactly?”

“Perhaps you should view my show. Get it straight from her.”

He met her eyes. Something in them chilled her.
Did he think she had something to do with Lisette's death?

“I will,” he said. “Was her father a part of her life?”

“Her father's dead.”

He jotted that fact in his notebook. “You have an address for her?”

“Of course. In a computer database in my studio.”

“Can anyone access the database?”

She frowned, confused. “I guess. It's not password-restricted, if that's what you mean. But who would want…”

She let the words trail off, the answer to who would want the woman's address obvious: a murderer.

“Ms. Gregory was a patient of your husband's?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“I sense some uncertainty. Was she? Or not?”

Her cheeks flamed. “She was. Yes.”

“But that's not how you met her?”

“No.”

“Is that typical?”

“Typical? I don't follow.”

“Are many of your subjects also patients of your husband's?”

She struggled to keep her discomfort from showing. “Not many, no.”

“You called Lisette Gregory on Monday. Why?”

Jane stared at the man, heart beginning to thump painfully in her chest. “Pardon me?”

“You left a message for the woman to call you. Said it was important. You sounded…upset.”

She had forgotten
. Guilty heat stung her cheeks. “I wanted to make certain she had received an invitation to my opening.”

“Why were you upset?”

“I didn't say I was.”

He gazed at her a moment, eyebrows drawn together. “You have an assistant to take care of such things, don't you? Why not have him call her?”

“I am—was—particularly fond of Lisette. Her pieces were some of the best in the show. My opinion only, of course.”

“Did you call any of your other subjects with personal…invitations?”

She couldn't hide the truth from him, she realized. He would find out. All he had to do was check Ian's patient files, cross reference them with
Doll Parts
, then check her phone records.

And he would. She hadn't any doubt of that.

“Yes. Sharon Smith and Gretchen Cole.”

“Were they also patients of Ian's?”

“What are you getting at, Mac?” Stacy demanded.

He ignored her. “Were they?”

“Yes! And they're alive and well, if you're worried. Both attended the opening last night.”

Mac's gaze slid to Stacy. Jane thought she saw apology in his. Regret.

A moment later she knew for what.

“I'd like to propose another scenario to you, Mrs. Westbrook,” he said. “You called Lisette because you were worried about her. Because you wanted to make certain she was alive.”

“No! That's preposterous!”

“Because you suspected your husband was having an affair with her. Just as you had learned he was with Elle Vanmeer.”

“No!”

“You were afraid he'd killed her, too—”

“That's enough, Mac,” Stacy said, stepping between them. “You've crossed a line.”

“Whose line, Stacy? Yours?”

“The line of decency.”

He hesitated, then backed off. “I'd like to speak with your assistant. Ted's his name, right?”

“Ted Jackman.” She glanced at Stacy, then looked back at the detectives. “He may be in today, though since it's Saturday…”

“Could you check?”

She agreed and led the men to her studio. Ted was in, sitting at the computer terminal.

He saw her and jumped to his feet, expression concerned. “Jane, are you all right? I was so—”

He caught sight of the detectives and stiffened.

“Ted Jackman?” Mac asked. When he nodded in response, Mac went on. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

Ted eyed them suspiciously. “About last night?”

“Last night?”

“The flowers that were…delivered to…”

His words trailed off. Mac stepped in. “No. We're here about one of Jane's subjects. Lisette Gregory.”

“Lisette?” he looked at Jane, obviously surprised.

“She was murdered,” Jane said, voice shaking.

Ted went white. “What? When?”

“Nearly a week ago,” Mac said. “Her neck was broken.”

“My God. Who—”

“How much interaction did you have with Ms. Gregory?”

“Me?” Ted looked taken aback. “Almost none. I help Jane with the videotaping. I schedule appointments for the sittings. Do prep work. Stuff like that.”

“She talk to you at all about a boyfriend? Problems she
might be having with friends, co-workers? Any concerns at all?”

“No. She hardly spoke to me.”

“Really? Why not?”

Ted glanced at Jane, then back at the detectives. He straightened. “She didn't like me much. None of Jane's subjects do.”

“And why's that?” Mac asked.

“Ask them.”

“I can't ask Lisette, now can I? Why didn't
she
like you much?”

Ted held out his heavily tattooed arms. “Take a look. Make a guess.”

“I don't play guessing games, Mr. Jackman.”

“Let's just say I'm a tad unconventional for the kind of woman Jane interviews.”

“The kind of woman Jane interviews. What does that mean?”

“They're all about the physical. And the material.”

Mac narrowed his eyes. “A lot of women are like that, right? Isn't that what you've found?”

“Not Jane.” He shifted, as if uncomfortable. “Jane sees people for who they are. On the inside. She doesn't judge by what someone has. Or doesn't have.”

“She's almost a saint,” Liberman cracked.

Jane laid a hand reassuringly on Ted's arm. The muscles beneath her hand were rock hard; he trembled at her touch. The detectives were baiting him, Jane realized. Why? She glanced at Stacy. And why didn't her sister stop him?

“Ted's interaction with my subjects is minimal,” Jane murmured. “Just as he said. If that's all, I'm not feeling particularly well this morning and I think you should go.”

Stacy stepped forward, glancing at her watch. “If this party's over, I'm going to take off. Mac?”

He flipped his notebook closed, expression irritated. “I'll be in touch.”

Stacy looked at her. “You going to be okay?”

Jane nodded. “Call me later?”

She said she would and escorted her fellow police officers out. Jane watched them go, then turned to Ted. He stared after them. He looked angry.

“I'm sorry they put you through that.”

She laid a hand on his arm and he jerked slightly. “You don't need to apologize. Those idiots…they should be trying to find the creep who's after you. You're the one in danger. Why can't they see that?”

“I don't think I'm the only one in danger. I'm afraid for my art subjects.”

He met her eyes in question. She shared the story Stacy had told her, about the snitch named Doobie, then her own theory that the boater, her tormentor and Lisette's killer were all one and the same person.

Ted crossed to the couch and sat down heavily.

“Stacy's promised to find him,” she continued. “When she does, Ian will be exonerated. I believe that. Someone's playing a sick game and I have to stop him. I can't allow another one of my subjects to be—”

“You stop it,” he said sharply. “This isn't a game. You're talking about a killer.”

“I know, but—”

“No.” He jumped to his feet. She saw that he shook. “Think about your baby, Jane.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “When terrorizing you isn't enough to get him off, what's next?”

They both knew the answer to that question. Neither voiced it, but it hung heavily between them.

Killing her.

Thursday, November 6, 2003
9:30 a.m
.

J
ane prepared for her weekly visit with Ian. She had been waiting seven long days to see her husband again and now had absolutely no idea what she would say to him. She had tossed and turned all night. Should she come clean about being stalked and threatened? Should she ask him about what she had discovered in his PalmPilot?

Elton had already talked to him about Lisette Gregory. The handwriting was on the wall—it looked as if he would be charged with her murder as well, though the state didn't appear to be in a rush. Why should they be? In their opinion, the guilty party was already incarcerated, facing a charge of capital murder.

In the wee hours, Jane had decided to trust that she would know what to do when she saw him.

Still, sleep hadn't come.

Her mind had whirled with thoughts of Lisette's murder, the boater stalking her and Ian's innocence.

Or his guilt. Not of murder. She believed with every fiber of her being that the boater who nearly killed her more than fifteen years ago was the one who had killed Marsha, Lisette
and Elle. She believed he had orchestrated Ian's arrest, somehow manipulated the evidence, to isolate and corner her.

Ian's faithfulness was another matter. She feared his infidelity had opened a window for a madman to slip through.

Her doubts hurt. They ate at her. How could she love him and still suspect him of being unfaithful?

He married me for my money, too
.

It doesn't mean he doesn't love you. Just that he has needs you can't take care of
.

She had always thought Ian's love too good to be true. Why? Because it was?

No. God, please no. Jane brought a hand to her temple. Her head hurt. She turned her thoughts to her conversation with Ted.

When terrorizing you isn't enough to get him off, what's next?

She laid her hands protectively over her abdomen. Ted was right, she had to think of her baby. Had to protect it.

But until the monster doing this was caught, no one was safe. Including her art subjects. Her relationship to them made them targets. She believed Lisette had been killed as part of this campaign of terror.

She and Ted had spent the previous afternoon calling each of them. She had told them about Lisette and warned them to be extra careful. It hadn't gone well. By turns, they had been frightened, horrified and angry. Some had questioned her about Ian. Others had pressed for details about Lisette's murder or about why she would think the woman's murder was connected to them.

Jane had been forced to be evasive. Consequently, she had come off as a neurotic alarmist. A woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She prayed that even so, they would take her seriously enough to act with an abundance of caution at all times.

Ranger began to bark a moment before the buzzer rang. Jane took a final glance in the mirror, then hurried to the intercom. Dave had offered to drive her this morning. After assuring him it was absolutely unnecessary, she had
accepted. Although she could have driven herself, she was secretly grateful for his company and support.

She told him she would be right out, gave Ranger a treat, locked the door and headed down to the street. Dave was waiting for her. He gave her a quick, reassuring hug and led her to his silver BMW convertible, parked at the curb.

“Ready?” he asked when they had climbed in.

“For seven days now.”

He nodded and pulled into traffic. They rode in silence for several minutes, until Dave was safely on the I-30, heading west, toward the jail.

He glanced at her. “Have you told him about the threats?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don't know. I don't want him to worry.”

“Jane—”

He didn't finish the thought and she looked at him. “You think I should, don't you?”

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Yeah, I do. If you try to protect him now, he'll resent it later.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Sure it does. Up until now you've had a marriage built on sharing and trust. He'll be angry that you felt he needed to be protected. Emasculated by it. And he'll feel guilty that you had to face this alone. Betrayed that you didn't trust him.”

Betrayed that she didn't trust him. That she doubted him. His fidelity
.

She clasped her fingers in her lap. “But…if I tell him, won't it make him feel powerless?”

“He already feels powerless. Your sharing, leaning on him for support will help him. No, he can't physically do anything to help you, but emotionally he can. Besides, shared experiences strengthen a relationship. If you don't share now, it'll always be a chasm between you.”

She reached across and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Dave. What would I do without you?”

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere.” He shot her a quick smile. “A quick junket to Vegas, maybe. But no farther.”

She smiled. “Look out, showgirls.”

“Longest legs in North America. And so many in one place. Be still, my heart.”

They reached the jail. Dave walked her in. She took a last glance back at him as she made her way through the metal detectors. He gave her a bold smile and a thumbs-up.

She returned both, feeling buoyed. By his friendship and advice. And because in a minute she was going to see her husband for the first time in a week.

The guard deposited her at the bank of cubicles. She was too excited to sit. Luckily she didn't have long to wait. The guard escorted Ian in; the moment she saw him, she snatched up the phone.

But as she opened her mouth to speak, to pour out her heart, she found that no words would come. She simply stared at him, eyes welling with tears, feeling as if she might drown in love. And despair.

Seconds ticked past. A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek.

“Don't,” he said. “It's going to be all right.”

“Is it? Now Lisette. I—” She swallowed what she was going to say. “I love you,” she said instead.

“I love you, too.” He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling? Is the baby—”

“Fine,” she said. “I had a little spell the other night, but I'm fine now.”

“A spell?” His brow furrowed with concern. “What do you mean?”

“It was nothing,” she hurried to reassure him. “I was crampy and light-headed. The doctor advised rest. No big deal.”

He didn't look convinced. “Is that normal?”

“It can happen when a woman's under extreme stress. Or on her feet too long. It was the night of my opening.”

“I was thinking about you that night.” He lowered his voice. “Wishing I could be with you. Hating that I wasn't.”

“I know, I—” Her throat closed over the words. “I have to tell you something, Ian. About the night of the opening. And before.”

Deciding the forthright approach best, she simply began. She told him about the newspaper clipping and note that was left for her the night he was arrested, then the roses the night of her opening.

He visibly struggled to collect himself, his emotions. “Why didn't you tell me right away?” he asked finally, tone vibrating with hurt.

“I didn't want to upset you.”

“Dammit, Jane, I'm your husband.”

“I'm sorry.” She glanced at the guard, then lowered her voice. “Don't be angry.”

“I'm not angry. Just…I've got to get out of here. How can I protect you when I'm locked up? Dear Jesus.”

“You will get out of here, Ian. You're innocent.”

“I used to think that mattered. But now I'm not so sure.”

The defeat in his voice broke her heart. The bitterness that was so foreign to the man she knew and loved. “Don't you do that, Ian Westbrook. Don't you dare give up on me. I'm not strong enough to do this alone.”

He struggled to pull himself together. “I'm so worried about you. About our baby.”

“I'm going to be fine. The baby's fine. Stacy stayed with me. She's promised to catch this guy.”

“She's a cop,” he said. “The cops are convinced they got their man. Case closed.”

“She promised to investigate. I believe her.”

His expression altered slightly. “I see a lot's changed since I've been locked up.”

Something in his tone got her back up. “Life goes on, Ian. For better or worse.”

“For better?”

“You know what I meant.” She let out a frustrated breath. “Dave told me you'd feel this way.”

She saw immediately that had been the wrong thing to say. “What the hell does Dave have to do with this?”

“He's my friend, Ian. I'm grateful he's there for me.”

“But I'm not there for you?”

Anger shot through her. “How can you be? Thirty minutes a week isn't quite enough support right now.”

“You think this isn't tearing me apart? Knowing you're alone out there…turning to others for comfort. He probably even drove you here today.”

He saw by her expression that it was true. His face flamed with color. “Good old Dave, always there. Johnny on the spot.”

“Why are you picking a fight with me? We only have a few more minutes.” Aware of those minutes ticking past, she laid her hand on the glass. “I don't want to waste them arguing.”

He ignored her plea. “If you want to know why, ask Dave. I'm sure he'll have some insight.”

She dropped her hand, hurt. Feeling betrayed. She masked both with anger. “You're right, Ian. I do need some insight. Why was Elle Vanmeer's phone number in your PalmPilot?”

He looked startled. “What?”

“You heard me. Her number's in your PalmPilot. So's La Plaza's. Want to tell me why?”

She saw several different emotions chase across his face as he struggled with what she was saying. “You promised they couldn't poison your mind against me. How long was that promise good for? A week? Less?”

“This isn't about them. It's about what I need. I need an answer, Ian.”

“But you shouldn't need one. I'm your husband. It's my baby you're carrying, Jane. Mine. Doesn't that mean anything to you anymore?”

“That was low, Ian.”

“And your accusation wasn't?”

“I didn't accuse you of anything. I asked you a question. Is that a guilty conscience I hear talking?”

“It must be.” He motioned with his free hand. “I'm wearing an orange jumpsuit. That makes me guilty, right?”

Tears stung her eyes. She lashed back at him. “What about the long lunches? The undesignated two-hour blocks of time? Also in your PalmPilot.”

For what seemed like an eternity, he remained silent. When he finally spoke, his tone vibrated with despair. “Now it seems I have to defend myself to everyone. Even my wife.”

“I talked to Mona. She said you married me for my money. That you had never been faithful to anyone.”

His features twisted with pain. He stood. “You have to decide who you're going to believe in. Me and our love. Or what everyone else is saying.”

She followed him to his feet. “The police are going to ask you the same thing in court.”

“And I'll answer them. Goodbye, Jane.”

He hung up the receiver and signaled the guard that the visit was over. She called his name. He didn't respond, simply turned his back and walked away.”

“Don't go!” She pounded on the glass. “Ian!”

A guard caught her arm before she could strike the glass again. “That's enough, ma'am. Step away from the window.”

Jane nodded and did as he ordered, vision blurred by tears. He escorted her back to the waiting room. Dave was on his cell phone but ended the call when he spotted her.

“How'd it go?”

She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes, knowing if she did, she would burst into tears.

They headed outside, then crossed the parking lot to his car. After they'd climbed in and buckled up, Dave angled toward her, making no move to start the engine. “We're not going anywhere until you talk to me. You know that, right?”

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a choked sob. “We fought.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.” She pressed her lips together, composing herself. “It was fine at first. I told him everything that's been going on and he got…upset. Because he couldn't help.
Because he was concerned. But when I mentioned you, he…he was awful, Dave.”

“Probably jealous of my dashing good looks.”