See Jane Die (26 page)

Friday, November 7, 2003
9:30 a.m
.

A
fter leaving Mac, Stacy hurried home to change clothes, then headed to the hospital to see Jane.

Her sister was awake, sitting up in bed, untouched breakfast in front of her. The scar along her right jaw stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. “Hi, sweets,” Stacy said gently, forcing a smile.

“Hey.”

“Dave's gone?”

Her sister frowned. “He was here?”

“Last night. Late.”

“I don't remember. I was out of it.”

Stacy went to her sister's side. She swung the breakfast tray aside and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “I wish there was something I could say to make it better. I feel so bad about this. About…everything.”

She cleared her throat. “I don't know if it helps at all, but I'm here for you. If you need me.”

“It does help,” Jane whispered. “Thank you.”

“Has the doctor been in?”

Jane nodded. “He's releasing me today, sometime after lunch.”

“I'll take you home.”

“But you need to work—”

“I'll take a personal day. That's what they're for.”

They sat in silence for several moments, the sounds of the hospital swirling around them: the nurses making their way from room to room, calling out cheery good mornings; a cart being trundled down the hall; family visiting the patient next door.

“Sis?”

Stacy met her sister's gaze. At times like these the difference in Jane's eyes was so apparent: one reflected a world of emotion; the other…nothing.

“Ian…I need you to tell him. About the baby. I can't and I…I don't want him to hear it from Elton. Or by phone. Will you do it for me? Please?”

 

Stacy hadn't been able to refuse. So there she sat, waiting for the guard to bring Ian out, wishing she was anywhere else.

She let out a pent-up breath. How was she going to tell him? How was she going to look him in the eyes and tell him that his unborn child was no more? That the woman he loved needed him and he could do nothing to comfort her?

If he did, truly, love her. A big if, indeed.

Stacy shifted her thoughts from the ordeal ahead to the evening past. To Mac. She smiled spontaneously. She felt as if she had been given a gift. A sliver of sunshine while storms raged all around her.

Who would have thought? Mac McPherson, for heaven's sake. The man she had dreamed of finding? One who was funny and gentle and moral? One who wanted her?

Slow down, Killian. Take a deep breath, then one step at a time
.

Truth was, he hadn't been her partner that long; she didn't know him that well. Certainly not well enough to be thinking such things.

She was setting herself up for a fall. A big one.

But still…it felt right. It felt good.

The guard brought Ian in. He saw her and crossed directly to the phone. She followed his lead.

“Stacy?” he asked, alarmed. “Is Jane all right?”

She hesitated, uncertain how to tell him. She decided being direct would be best. “Jane lost the baby,” she said. “Last night.”

He stared blankly at her, as if what she said hadn't registered. She saw the moment it did. The hand gripping the receiver went white. “How…I don't…she was fine. I saw her Thursday. She was…fine.”

“It was serious. The placenta tore away from the uterine wall. She's out of the woods. But she—” her throat closed over the words; she cleared it “—she could have died. Could have bled to death.”

“Dear God.” He sank on the chair, expression strangely flat.

“She's…the doctor thought she'd be released today. Physically, you know, she's doing okay. But emotionally…She's pretty torn up, Ian.”

He dropped his head, brought his free hand to his face. She saw that it shook.

Seconds ticked past. She gave him time, space. A chance to grieve. She could only imagine what he was feeling.

Unless he was the monster they had portrayed him to be. A heartless killer who cared for no one but himself. And money
.

When he lifted his head, she saw that his eyes were red and wet, the expression in them filled with anguish. “She was here Thursday…I picked a fight. I was so jealous. Of Dave. You. Everyone. Because she needed me and I was locked in here. Because she was turning to others for comfort. And now—Our baby. We've lost our…my God, what have I done?”

He and Jane had fought? Jane hadn't told her
.

Stacy swallowed hard, torn. Between her feelings for the man her heart thought him to be. And the man the evidence said he was. A liar and a cheat.

A cold-blooded killer.

“Tell her,” he begged. “Stacy, please. Tell her I'm sorry. That I love her. That I never strayed…that I never would.”

Stacy drew her eyebrows together. Could a man who loved his wife and unborn child as deeply as Ian professed to, be capable of the crimes with which he had been charged? Or was Ian Westbrook a consummate actor, one deserving of an Academy Award for this performance?

“Tell her the lunches were nothing,” his said suddenly, tone urgent. “You have to promise me. I was angry, defensive…I thought her questions were a betrayal of trust. I was wrong. She had every right—”

He choked on the words. He looked away. She saw him struggle for control.

When he returned his gaze to hers, something in his expression had changed. Become clearer, more determined.

“Marsha scheduled two-hour blocks of time twice a month for paperwork. She input the phone numbers in my PalmPilot. She did all those things for me. She—”

His voice rose, cracked. “I'm innocent, Stacy. Of it all. Tell her, please.”

Stacy straightened, his words, their meaning, crystallizing in her mind. Jane had found something incriminating in his PalmPilot. She had asked him about it and they'd fought.

She had seen the list of items confiscated from Ian's office and the loft. A PalmPilot hadn't been on that list.

They'd missed it. Because Jane had had it.

“What exactly did Jane find in your PDA, Ian?”

His expression turned wary, as if he had suddenly realized he was talking not to his sister-in-law, but to the police.

“Just tell her, Stacy. She'll know what I'm talking about.”

“Ian, I can help you. If there's something—”

“Just tell her everything, promise me. Please, it means everything to me.” His voice deepened. He leaned forward. “She means everything to me.”

Stacy drew her eyebrows together. What had her sister
done? What was she keeping from the police? And how could she plead the case of a man she suspected of being a vicious killer? If he had committed these crimes, she wanted him as far away from her sister as possible.

But what if he wasn't guilty? And the real killer was laughing as he pulled all their strings?

She stood and signaled the guard that she was through. “I'll think about it, Ian. No promises.”

He rose from his chair. “Please, Stacy—”

“Sorry, Ian. It's the best I can do.”

As she walked away she wondered who she could believe? And what the hell she was going to do when she decided?

Friday, November 7, 2003
3:30 p.m
.

J
ane cautiously made her way up the flight of stairs to her loft. Stacy held her elbow to steady her, though Jane had insisted it was unnecessary.

The doctor had released her, prescribing bed rest for twenty-four hours and restricted activity for forty-eight hours afterward. Her body, he had told her, would tell her if she overdid. He had warned her to listen to it. If she started bleeding, she was to call immediately.

Physically, she felt weak. Shaky and sore.

But her heart hurt. She had been carrying a baby. Her and Ian's child.

No more. Its loss had left a gaping hole inside her. An emptiness that left her aching to hold her husband, to cling to him. For him to cling to her.

He had been devastated, Stacy had said. He had been worried about her. He had asked Stacy to tell Jane he loved her.

Jane didn't know why, but she had expected more.

They reached the top of the stairs. Stacy glanced at her. “Okay?”

When she nodded, Stacy unlocked the door and swung
it open. They stepped into the loft's foyer. From his kennel in the kitchen, Ranger whined.

Jane made a sound of distress. “Oh, no, poor Ranger. I forgot all about—”

“He's been taken care of,” Stacy said. “I came by earlier. I'll help you to bed, then take him out again.”

“I can put myself to bed.”

“You're weak.”

“You're hovering.”

“Can't help it, sis. You're bringing out a protective streak in me. Up next, plumping pillows.”

“Florence Nightingale and Vin Diesel all rolled into one.”

“That's me. Kick their asses, then nurse them back to health.”

Jane glanced in the direction of her bedroom, a feeling of dread moving over her.

As if reading her thoughts, Stacy touched her arm. “I took care of it,” she said softly. “Mattress cleaned and turned, fresh bedding.”

She looked at her sister, a lump forming in her throat, vision blurring with tears of gratitude. How did she thank her? And what would she do without her?

Stacy squeezed her fingers. “That's what sisters are for, silly. I tell you what. You climb into bed, I'll take care of Ranger and check your answering machine. But—” She wagged a finger at her. “You'd better be in that bed when I come back. The doctor said—”

“To stay off my feet. I know. I know.” She waved her sister off and headed cautiously for the master suite. She visited the bathroom, then kicked off her shoes and started toward the bed.

Stacy had not only changed the bedding, but turned down the bed as well.

A beautifully wrapped box waited on the pillow. It was about the size of a shoe box, the wrapping paper a pastel print, the bow yellow. A gift from Stacy? she wondered. Or maybe Ted?

Jane neared the bed. Baby-shower paper, she saw. Little ducks carrying umbrellas.

In light of recent events, cruel.

Not from her sister or Ted, she realized. From
him
.

She glanced over her shoulder, opening her mouth to call Stacy. She heard the sound of the back door opening and closing.
Her sister had taken Ranger outside
.

Heart thundering, she returned her gaze to the box. Taking a step forward, she reached for it. Picked it up. Gave it a shake. Its contents thumped against the sides.

Should she open it? Or wait for Stacy?

Ignoring the wisdom of the latter, she unwrapped the box, removed the lid and peered inside.

There, nestled in a bed of dead white roses, lay a mutilated baby doll. Its ivory plastic body was chewed and torn, as if it had been put into a garbage disposal. Its neck had almost been severed, the doll's one good eye gazed vacantly up at her.

Was it meant to represent her? Or the baby she had just lost?

Jane stared at the doll, bile rising in her throat. He knew. That she had been in the hospital. That she'd lost her baby.

Maybe he was watching her now? If so, did her sorrow amuse him? Was he laughing? Or waiting to hear her scream?

Fury came upon her so suddenly, it took her breath. He wanted her terrified. The son of a bitch fed on it.

She would die before she gave him the satisfaction. If he fed on her terror, he was about to starve to death.

“Jane? Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, she turned. Her sister stood in the doorway, the dog's leash dangling from her hand. Jane held out the box.

Stacy dropped her gaze to it. “What is that?” she asked.

“A baby gift. From my sick friend. Where's Ranger?”

“With Ted. I thought you'd rest better if—” As if realizing it didn't matter, she bit the words back. “Put it down, Jane. On the bed. Step back, please.”

Jane did as her sister ordered. Her sister drew her weapon, cocked it. Walton and Johnson to the rescue, Jane thought, a nervous laugh bubbling to her lips.

She watched as Stacy crossed to the closet, gun out. “Where did you find it?”

“On the pillow.”

She opened the closet, checked it, then did the same with the bathroom, then under the bed.

“Stay put. I'm going to check the rest of the loft.”

Several minutes later, she returned. “Nothing. Nobody here but you and me. No signs of a forced entry. The front door was locked. And so was the back.”

Jane looked at her sister. “What about the studio entrance?”

“Open.”

Stacy reholstered her weapon, crossed to the bed. She plucked a tissue from the box on the night stand beside the bed and, using it to prevent contaminating possible evidence, examined the doll and box.

From underneath the doll's mangled body, she extracted a small card, the size of a gift enclosure. Jane watched as her sister opened and read it.

“Son of a bitch.”

Holding it with the tissue, Stacy held it out.

It read, simply:
Sorry for your loss
.

Jane grabbed the bedpost for support, holding tight to both it and her anger.
She would not allow this bastard to beat her
.

“It wasn't here an hour and a half ago,” Stacy said.

Someone had broken in after Stacy had come by and changed the bedding. After she had kenneled Ranger
.

Ranger would have gone nuts caged, with a stranger in the loft. Without a word, Jane headed to the kitchen. Stacy followed. They stopped in front of the dog's kennel. Sure enough, Ranger's bedding was in disarray and claw marks on the dark green plastic tray in the bottom looked fresh.

She looked at her sister. “Ted might have heard.”

Stacy nodded, brow furrowed slightly with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Mad as hell.” She motioned to the foyer and the door to the studio. “Maybe we should talk to Ted?”

“Not we,” Stacy said. “Me. You're getting into bed.”

“Like hell.”

When it looked as if Stacy was going to argue, Jane held up a hand. “This is my house a stranger invaded. My life being threatened. If need be, I'll lie on the couch downstairs.”

Stacy acquiesced, though she didn't look happy about it.

When they entered the studio, Ted jumped to his feet and hurried to hug her. “Stacy told me about the baby. I'm so upset for you.”

She hugged him back, a knot of emotion in her throat. “Thank you, Ted.”

“Are you okay?” He looked accusingly at Stacy. “I thought you were supposed to be in bed.”

“Something's happened. We need to talk to you about it.”

He shifted his gaze between the two of them, expression wary.

Stacy took over, telling him about the package left on the bed. “It wasn't there when I left this afternoon, which leaves a window of opportunity of about an hour and a half. From roughly two to three-thirty this afternoon.”

Jane jumped in. “The only unlocked entrance was the door from the studio to the loft.”

“Were you in the loft today, Ted?” Stacy asked.

He looked at Jane, then back at Stacy. “No.”

“Did you hear Ranger barking anytime during the past hour and a half? He would have been pretty riled up. Going crazy, I imagine.”

He thought a moment, then shook his head. “Didn't hear a peep out of him after you left. Of course, I ran out for a sandwich and a Coke.”

He motioned to the waste basket beside the desk. On top lay a crumpled take-out bag and Coke can. “I'm very careful,” he said. “I always lock up when I leave. I always set the alarm.”

“Always?”

He hesitated. “Once or twice I've left it unlocked when I was just going for a couple minutes. But not today. I had a couple other stops to make. I remember setting the alarm.”

“What stops?”

“The newsstand. The drugstore for some Advil.”

“How long were you gone?”

He drummed his fingers nervously against his thigh. “I don't know. Thirty, maybe forty minutes.”

“What about the key or alarm code?” Stacy pressed. “Ever give anyone the code? Ever give anyone the key?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Ever bring someone by the studio? After hours?”

He looked nervous. “What do you mean?”

“I thought it was a pretty straightforward question, Ted. Have you ever invited someone into the studio without Jane's knowledge?”

Jane noticed he was sweating. Jittery. She reached out and touched his arm. “This isn't an interrogation, Ted.”

“No?” He shot an angry look at Stacy. “It sure feels like one.”

“We're just trying to figure out who was in my home today. And how they got in.”

“So, have you?” Stacy asked. “Ever had someone into the studio without Jane's knowledge?”

“Once. I met this woman at Spider Babies, the bar over on Elm.”

Stacy nodded, said she knew the place.

“She was an art student over at UT Dallas. She was all over the fact that I was Cameo's assistant.”

He looked miserable. “I wanted to impress her. You know. So I asked if she wanted to see your studio.”

“Oh, Ted,” Jane said, disappointed. Heartsick.

“I didn't think it would hurt anything. I…I brought her here. We looked around. It was like a total aphrodisiac for her. She was all over me.”

Jane swallowed hard, uncomfortable with his revelation. Feeling violated by it.

“Did you have sex here?” Stacy asked.

His face turned scarlet. He shifted his gaze. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I must have passed out. The next morning she was gone.”

“You didn't know anything about her,” Jane said. “She could have taken a piece of my work. She could have entered my home. Anything could have happened.”

He hung his head. “The next morning…I was sick about what I had done. How I'd let you down. I checked the studio carefully. Nothing had been taken.”

“What about the alarm code?” Stacy pressed.

“She might have seen it when I punched it in. I was a little drunk.”

Stacy, Jane saw, was furious. “And your keys?”

“Hanging in the door the next morning.” He looked pleadingly at Jane. “I didn't mean this to happen. I love you, Jane. I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“You left the keys in the door,” Stacy repeated, voice vibrating with anger. “I want the locks changed and security system recoded. Today.”

A wave of dizziness washed over Jane. She grabbed Stacy's arm for support.

Ted rushed forward, catching her other arm. They guided her to the couch. She sank onto it and dropped her head between her knees. She breathed deeply through her nose, using the oxygen to steady herself.

After several moments, the wave passed—though she still felt shaky and light-headed.

“Are you okay?” Stacy asked. She squatted in front of her, caught her hands and rubbed them between hers. “Your hands are like ice.”

“I feel like a twit.”

“You've been through a lot. Don't minimize it.”

“Can I get you something?” Ted asked, voice shaking. “A Coke or mineral wat—”

“Don't you think you've done enough?” Stacy snapped.

His face flooded with color. Jane opened her mouth to jump to his defense, then sucked in a sharp breath as a cramp speared through her abdomen. Tears stung her eyes. “I think I need to lie down. And some pain medication.”