See Jane Die (30 page)

Saturday, November 8, 2003
8:30 p.m
.

S
tacy let herself into Jane's loft. She paused a moment, listening to the quiet. Nothing. Not even Ranger.

She frowned, thinking it too quiet. Jane could be sleeping, but where was Dave? She had called him herself; he had promised to stay until she returned.

She wasn't taking any chances
.

Stacy quietly set the bag of take-out food on the entryway table, slid her right hand under her jacket to hover over her holstered weapon and moved forward.

She found Dave in the kitchen. He stood statue still, gazing out the bay window.

“Hey,” she said, dropping her hand.

He jumped, then swung to face her. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Sorry. We cops are like cats. Quiet and quick. It's part of the job.”

He didn't reply. She sensed he had been lost in thought when she'd interrupted him. That he was still in that place.

“How's she doing?” Stacy asked.

He blinked; his expression cleared. “About as well as can be expected. I tried to get her to talk.”

“Any luck?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “You might do better.”

“Maybe. Where is she?”

“Resting.”

Stacy glanced toward the bedroom. The door was closed. Ranger, she realized, must be with her. “You could stay? I brought Chinese.”

“Thanks, but I think it'd be better for her if I go.” He passed a hand across his face. He looked exhausted. “Besides, I have patient calls to return.”

“Are you okay?”

“Just worried about her.”

“Me, too.” She paused. “You're a therapist, Dave. She's suffered so many emotional blows, all at once. What should I do? I don't know how I should talk to her. Or what I should say.”

“Listen to her. That's the biggest thing.” He looked in the direction of her closed bedroom door, expression naked with yearning. “She's a smart woman. She'll figure it out.”

Stacy noticed his smile didn't reach his eyes. Her heart went out to him. She could only imagine how difficult it must be to love someone who was in pain but be unable to help them.

She opened her mouth to tell him so, then decided against it. “Thanks for being here for her. For us.”

“I always will be.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on. “Call me if you need anything.”

Stacy walked him downstairs. She hugged him, watched him go and then returned to the loft. She peeked in on Jane.

And found that she was awake. She was sitting up in the bed, Ranger sprawled across her lap.

“Hi,” Stacy murmured. “I have egg rolls. And sesame chicken.”

Jane looked at her. Stacy was surprised by the clarity in
her gaze, the determination. “Ted was attacked from behind. His throat was slit. Isn't that right?”

Stacy hesitated, then nodded.

“It wasn't a robbery. I know it wasn't.”

“Jane, don't do this.”

“You don't find this all too coincidental? The same night he went searching for the woman he had brought to the studio, he's killed.”

“Maybe there was no woman here at the studio. Maybe Ted's story was a fabrication.”

“A fabrication? Why would he lie?”

“To protect himself. To hide the truth.”

“What truth?”

“You didn't know Ted as well as you thought. Information's come to light that suggests Ted might actually have been the one sending you the letters.”

Jane stared at her, expression registering shock, then denial. “Ted was my friend. He would never—”

“His real name was Jack Theodore Mann. He was an ex-con, Jane. He had a rap sheet and a list of priors that went back a dozen years.”

“I don't believe you.”

Stacy had expected that response and pressed on. “I suspected he was lying. Hiding something. So we ran his prints through the computer.”

Jane paled. “My friend is dead and I won't let you smear his—”

“He was in love with you. We found a pack of love letters, written to you by him. They were addressed and stamped, but never sent. He kept them in a drawer by his bed. From their dog-eared condition, he read them often.”

“No.”

“And photos. Of the two of you. Ones he had fabricated, probably on your computer.”

She shook her head, expression stricken. “I don't want to hear this.”

“Jane, you have to know—”

“Don't you get it? He was my friend. And now he's gone.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Just leave me alone. Let me grieve the man I cared about.”

Stacy took a step back, realizing what she was doing. Dave had said the most important thing was listening.

She had done the opposite. What was wrong with her? Why did she always have to prove she was right?

“I'll be out front, if you need me.”

Jane didn't comment. Ranger jumped off the bed and trotted to Stacy's side. She bent and patted him. “Need to go out, boy?”

In response, he exited the bedroom, heading, no doubt, for the front door. Stacy watched him, then turned back to her sister. She lay curled into a fetal position, facing away from Stacy.

“I'm your sister, Jane,” she said softly. “I'm on your side. I'm sorry if I sometimes…if it doesn't always feel that way.”

The other woman didn't respond and, aching for her, Stacy backed out of the room.

 

Forty minutes later, Stacy paced, restless. She had walked and fed Ranger. He lay in front of the sofa now, sleeping. She had opened the carton of the sesame chicken, then closed it without serving herself. Food, she had realized, was the last thing on her mind.

As she paced, Stacy sifted through the events of the day: the things she had discovered about Ted, then his murder. They had missed something. But what?

She crossed to the foyer, unlocked the entrance that led to Jane's studio, flipped on the light and started down the circular staircase. She noted the metallic rattle on the staircase, its slight sway.

She paused when she reached the ground level, taking stock. Silence, save for sounds from the street. The sense, perhaps one only she felt, that a violent act had occurred there. The lingering smell of death. And stronger, that of industrial-strength pine cleaner. After the criminalists and
coroner had done their thing, she had cleared the scene for cleaning, then contacted a service herself.

Jane, she had been certain, would want to work again soon. She used it as a buffer for pain. She always had.

Stacy turned and started toward the street-level studio entrance. She reached the foyer, stopped and moved her gaze over the area. Windowless, with a small alcove, little more than an indention for a potted plant. She lifted her gaze. The foyer light was burned out. In here and out front.

Ted's attacker had heard him entering. He had melted into the alcove, hiding in the darkness. Stacy pictured Ted stepping through the door, arms filled. He tried the light, found it out and proceeded.

He'd never known what had happened. His killer had leapt out of the alcove and slit his throat. Goodbye, birdie.

But why? That was the question.

Stacy frowned. Nothing had been taken. The studio didn't seem to have been disturbed. Deep Ellum attracted more than its share of addicts, runaways and other unsavories. The street festivals attracted them. The alternative bars and tattoo parlors. Many existed on panhandling and larceny. The area boasted more than its per capita share of felonies.

But whoever cut Ted had known what he was doing. Pete hadn't noted any marks that indicated hesitation on the part of the killer. The blade had been sharp, double-edged and approximately four inches long.

Stacy crossed to the door, stopping on the spot where the man had fallen. She studied the door, its lock, the alarm keypad.

No sign of forced entry. How had the killer entered? Jane hadn't changed the alarm code until this morning.
After
Ted Jackman had been killed. The locks had been changed before.

Could Jane be right? Stacy wondered. Could Ted have stopped by the studio and been surprised by her stalker? Or could he—or she—have followed him?

Stacy frowned. Could Ted have been telling the truth about the woman?

Stacy flipped open her cell phone and dialed Mac. He answered on the second ring. “What're you doing?” she asked.

“Thinking of you.”

She felt his words to the pit of her gut. “I wish I was there.”

“How's Jane?”

“Not great. I'm giving her some space.”

“I'm sorry.”

His sincerity curled reassuringly around her, giving her something—someone—to hold on to. She hadn't realized until that moment how alone she had felt. Until now. Until Mac.

Dear God, she was treading on dangerous ground, indeed
.

“You talk to her about Ted? What we found in his apartment?”

“I tried to. She got upset. Refused to discuss it.”

“Understandable. She's been through a lot.”

They fell silent a moment. “I've been thinking, if robbery was the motive, why wasn't something taken?”

“Scared off?”

“Ted's killer was no runaway, strung out on drugs. He knew what he was doing. Something's not adding up, Mac. Too many pieces don't seem to fit.”

“Maybe because they don't. Because they're unrelated.”

“Maybe.” She heard a sound from the loft, like the creep of footsteps. Upstairs, Ranger woofed softly.

“Shit. Gotta go.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'll check in later.” She flipped the phone shut and drew her weapon. She made her way to the second floor as quietly as she could, cursing the creaking metal stairs.

Stacy stepped into the entryway. Light spilled into the space from the kitchen. A shuffling sound with it. Stacy glanced toward her sister's bedroom, saw the door was still shut.

Ranger was inside. He pawed at the closed door. The hair on her arms prickled. She had left him in the living room not thirty minutes ago. How had he gotten locked in Jane's bedroom?

Dammit. She never should have left the loft
.

Stacy inched forward, staying in the shadows, Glock out. From the kitchen, she heard a drawer slide open, the sound of someone rifling through its contents.

She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen doorway. “Freeze!”

Saturday, November 8, 2003
10:10 p.m
.

J
ane screamed and whirled around. The chopsticks slipped from her fingers, clattering as they hit the floor.

“Jane!”

“Stacy!”

“What are you doing up?” Stacy holstered her weapon. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Me? I didn't sneak up on you with a gun!”

“Sorry.” Her sister looked irritated. “The bedroom door was closed. I heard Ranger pawing…I worried—”

“He wanted in earlier…I thought you were sleeping and didn't want him barreling in here, making a big scene.”

They stared at each other a moment, then Jane laughed.

“What's so funny?” her sister asked, scowling.

“Big, bad Stacy and her Walton and Johnson.”

“Funny.” Stacy smiled. “You're lucky I didn't shoot you.”

“Maybe you should try decaf, sis.”

Stacy bent and retrieved the chopsticks. Jane saw that she was smiling. She waved them in front of Jane's nose. “And what were you planning to do with these?”

“Stuff my face, actually.”

“Want some company?”

“Only if there's enough to share.”

“Hog.”

It was said without malice and Jane laughed and crossed to the refrigerator. She opened it and found the take-out cartons. Together they reheated the food, then carried it all to the coffee table in the living room. Jane released Ranger, who charged in, obviously ecstatic to have been invited to the party.

They ate out of the cartons, passing them back and forth. As they munched, they commented on the food, the weather, the dog, both studiously avoiding the subjects foremost in both their minds.

Ted. His murder. The things Stacy had told her about his feelings.

The way Jane had responded to those things.

Finally, every last morsel consumed, fortunes read and laughed over, Jane met her sister's gaze evenly. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For earlier. For shooting the messenger.”

“It's okay, Jane. I understand.”

Jane lowered her gaze a moment, then returned it to her sister's. She cleared her throat. “I'm sorry, too. For messing up our lives.”

“You messed up our lives?”

“Hot-dogging that day at the lake. Swimming past where it was safe. For being such a show-off.”

Stacy shook her head. “Jane, I dared you to do it. My friends dared you. The only reason you were even there was because we skipped school.”

“It was my choice.”

“I was the big sister. I was supposed to look out for you. Be a role model for you. Instead…” She pressed her lips together as if overcome with emotion. “You almost died, Jane. And your face—”

She bit the words back; Jane reached across the table and
lightly touched her hand. “It wasn't your fault. I never blamed you, Stacy. Never.”

Stacy's eyes flooded with tears. “I blamed myself. Mom and Dad blamed me.”

“They didn't. Yes, they were angry. But at us both.”

“Angry at you? Hardly.” She laughed, the sound brittle. “They were never angry at you again.”

“That's not true.”

“No?”

“After that day, they always treated you with kid gloves. Never yelled. Never dealt out harsh punishments the way they did to me.”

Jane thought back, wondering if her sister was, to some degree, right. Her mother had reprimanded, her father scolded. They had occasionally suspended her phone or television privileges. Sent her to her room.

It had all amounted to little more than a slap on the hand.

Stacy interrupted her thoughts. “I heard them one night. Arguing. Mom crying. You had just been through another surgery. You were in a lot of pain. Had gotten an infection.

“He was furious. At my irresponsibility. He called me
her
daughter.” She paused, as if struggling with a painful memory. “He wondered if I had done it on purpose. Because I was jealous of you.”

Her sister's words cut like a knife. Because Jane knew they weren't a true representation of her parents' feelings. They had been frightened. For her. Their future. They had been grieving.

She told her sister so.

For a long moment, Stacy was silent. When she spoke, her voice shook. “The problem is, he was partially right. I was jealous. Before the accident. And after.”

“Jealous of me? But why?”

“How can you ask that? I wanted to belong to Dad. Really belong. I used to lie in bed and wonder, why did my dad have to be the one who died? Why couldn't you have been the other daughter? You be the outsider, not me.”

“You were never an outsider,” Jane said, hurting for her sister. “Not to me. Not to Dad.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Dad loved you. He thought of you as his daughter.” At her sister's disbelieving expression, Jane found her hand and held it tightly. “He did. He looked at you with such love. Such pride. When you graduated from the academy, I thought he was going to burst, he was so proud.”

Stacy's eyes filled. She curled her fingers around Jane's. “I loved him so much. And after the accident…”

She didn't finish and Jane recalled how they had begun this discussion. “What about after the accident?”

Stacy freed her hand, stood and crossed to the windows that faced Commerce Street. “Truthfully? I was even more jealous of you. I had no right to be, I know that. And I feel awful about it.”

“Jealous of me? My God, Stacy…I was so ugly. And my life was so…awful. I wouldn't have wished it on anyone.”

“That's just it, don't you see? It was all about you. Everything was always about you. From that point on.

“Nobody had time for me. Not even for small things. Help with homework. Advice about school, a friend or boyfriend. Not an outsider? Give me a break! If I hadn't been before, the accident clinched it.”

Jane stood, stunned. “I didn't know you felt that way.”

She swung to face her, cheeks bright with color. “Of course you didn't. Nobody did. Our lives revolved around you, your health. Your mood. Your future. The surgeries. The bills from them.

“It's a good thing it was you who was hurt—Grandmother wouldn't have helped pay to restore my face.”

“Of course she would have. She wasn't a monster, Stacy.”

“No? That would be a matter of perspective. The unvarnished truth is, that woman wouldn't have given me a crumb of bread if I had been starving.”

Jane held out a hand. It trembled. “How can I make this right?”

“You can't. Because—” Her throat closed over the words; she cleared it and went on. “Because this isn't about you. It's not your fault. It's about me. My problem.”

Both their lives changed that day, Jane realized. How could she not have seen it before? No wonder her sister was angry. Resentful. None of them had worried about how she was handling what had happened. None of them had worried about her feelings. Her life.

“I was so blind,” she said softly, taking a step forward. Her voice quivered. “Forgive me?”

“Forgive you? There's nothing to…It's not your fault. And I feel so…guilty. All these years…resenting you. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't seem to stop.” She took a deep breath. “Will you forgive me?”

Jane's eyes welled with tears. “Are you kidding? There's nothing to forgive. All I ever wanted was my big sister's love.”

They moved into each other's arms in unison. They held each another tightly. Jane felt the years of hurt and misunderstandings falling away from them, leaving her feeling almost giddy.

Stacy did, too. She saw it in her eyes.

They talked some more, then cleaned away the remnants of their meal and rinsed the few dishes. Jane was reminded of the way they had been as children, of how comfortable it had been between them.

She had missed that. She was so happy to have her sister back.

Stacy tossed the dish towel on the counter. “It's getting pretty late. Think you can sleep?”

“Not yet. I—” She took a deep breath. “I want to talk about Ted. What you told me about him.”

She saw her sister stiffen; she plowed on, anyway. “He may not have been honest about his past, but he would never have hurt me.”

“He lied about his past,” Stacy corrected. “He was an ex-con. That's a big lie, Jane.” Jane opened her mouth to argue;
Stacy held up a hand, stopping her. “You didn't see those letters. Or the photographs. His feelings for you were inappropriate and obsessive.”

Jane recalled the times she had caught him staring at her. How uncomfortable the intensity of his gaze had made her. She had shrugged it off as being his way. Now she knew better.

She rubbed at goose bumps on her arms. She couldn't think of him that way. She wouldn't.

“In his journal,” Stacy continued, “he wrote of hating Ian. For taking you away from him.”

Jane frowned. Neither man had been overly fond of the other, but hate? She shook her head. “Ted wasn't the one sending the letters. The person writing the letters hates me, Stacy. Not Ian. He wants to hurt me. Ted didn't. He loved me. And he was killed.”

“By your stalker? The boater from sixteen years ago?”

“Yes.”

“And you still believe Ian's innocent?”

“Absolutely.”

“When you went to his office, you found evidence that made him look guilty, didn't you? That's why you didn't tell anyone about being there.”

“I found things that made me doubt him,” Jane corrected. “His fidelity. I couldn't bear to say them aloud. They made me feel a traitor to him. My marriage.”

“You and Ian fought about it the last time you visited.”

“Yes. How did you know? Did Dave—”

“Ian told me.” Stacy looked away, then back. “He made his excuses. Wanted me to pass them along.”

“And you waited until now?” Jane heard the hurt in her voice. The hint of betrayal.

“I didn't know if I believed him.”

“I don't think that was for you to decide. He's my husband—”

“And he's in jail, awaiting trial for capital murder. I'm a cop, Jane. And big sister.”

“You can't protect me, Stacy. Because you can't stop me from loving him.”

Stacy gazed at her for a long moment, then nodded. “He claimed Marsha blocked out two hours twice a month for paperwork. By his account, Marsha had transferred every number in his address book onto his PalmPilot address book. Many of them dated from before your marriage.”

Jane digested that. It made sense. It could be the truth.

“He begged me to tell you he loved you. That he was sorry for arguing. He never cheated on you, he said. You're everything to him.”

“Thank you,” Jane murmured thickly, wishing she could blindly believe those words, the way she once had.

“Your turn.”

Jane detailed the things she had found in Ian's Palm-Pilot: the long, unspecified lunches, both Elle Vanmeer's phone number and La Plaza's. That those discoveries had come on the heels of learning from Ian's files that three of her art subjects had become his patients after she had introduced them.

“Who besides Lisette Gregory?”

“Gretchen Cole and Sharon Smith.”

“The call you made to Lisette wasn't about your show opening.”

“No.” Jane explained why she had called all three and what Gretchen and Sharon had said about Ian's integrity and professionalism. Lisette, of course, she had never reached.

Because she'd been dead. Murdered.

“Jane,” Stacy said gently, interrupting her thoughts, “Elle Vanmeer's ex-husband claimed she and Ian had an affair. He claimed she spent more time in Ian's bed than in his. If that's true, Ian lied. To you. And to us. Why?”

Jane curved her arms around her middle. The question was damning. It hurt. Almost more than she could bear.

“I know I asked you before, but I have to ask you again. Are you still certain that Ian's been faithful to you?”

Jane couldn't meet her sister's eyes. “I was, before. I would have died before doubting him. But now—”

She bit the words back, scrambling to organize her thoughts. Her feelings. “Everywhere I turn,” she said finally, “I'm presented with evidence against him. His ex-wife told me he'd married me for my money. That he was a sex addict who didn't know the meaning of monogamy. The numbers in his PalmPilot, the things you've told me.”

She clasped her hands together. “But when I see him, I believe in him. His love and total fidelity.”