See Jane Die (28 page)

Friday, November 7, 2003
6:45 p.m
.

J
ane became aware of the sound of traffic from the street out front, the chime of the mantel clock, Ranger shifting at the foot of the bed. She cracked open her eyes. The light had changed from the bright edge of afternoon to the dim glow of evening.

She turned her head. And found Ted standing in her bedroom doorway, staring at her.

She scrambled into a sitting position, dragging the spread up with her. “Ted? What are you doing up here?”

“I brought you some flowers.”

He pointed. She turned her head. A short vase of mixed blossoms sat on her bed stand.

He had been in her bedroom while she slept. Had stood beside her bed. Gazing down at her
.

A chill slid up her spine. A week ago, his presence wouldn't have unnerved her. But a week ago she hadn't been threatened. Her husband had been home with her; the future had stretched before them rosy and bright.

Her sister had planted a seed of distrust that had now taken root.

“The locks have been changed. They just left.”

While she was sleeping?
From the corner of her eyes she caught sight of the bottle of painkillers the doctor had prescribed. Percodan. She'd only taken one. Hadn't she?

“I closed your door so you wouldn't be disturbed,” he said. “Directions for changing your security code are on the kitchen counter. I figured you'd want to take care of that yourself.”

Stacy's warning popped into her head.

How well do you really know Ted Jackman? Would you stake your life on that trust? Would you stake Ian's freedom on it?

“Jane?” he said.

She blinked, struggling for a semblance of normalcy. To hide her discomfort. “Yes?”

He looked distressed. “I overstepped my bounds. Again.”

“It's all right, Ted.”

“No. No, it's not.” He clenched his hands. “I didn't want to disturb you, but wanted to do something to make up for…before. And because I'm sorry about your baby.”

Sudden tears burned her eyes. What was she suspecting him of? This was Ted. Her friend and confidant. Not some stranger with a hidden agenda.

She motioned him into the room. “Pull the chair up, we need to talk.”

He crossed to the antique armchair against the wall, lifted it and carried it over. Ranger thumped his tail. Ted took a moment to pet him, then sat. And waited.

“Never again, Ted. Never again invite a stranger into my studio. Never again expose me or my family that way.”

“I won't. I promise.”

“Someone was in my home today. Someone who wished me ill. He may have gained access to me and my house because of your actions. Do you understand how frightening that is to me? How vulnerable that makes me feel?”

“Please, give me another chance.” He leaned forward, expression earnest. “I love my job. If I lost it…or you, I don't know what I'd do.”

“You're not going to lose my friendship.”

“I would never deliberately hurt you.”

“I know that.” And she did—no matter what her sister thought. “I need you to tell me more about this woman. What she looked like. What she—”

That night at Ian's office. The woman who took the file
.

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

She brought a hand to her mouth. She couldn't believe she hadn't made the connection before. She had been hurting, not thinking clearly.

But now she was.

She had to tell Stacy. This could be it, the break that would lead to the real killer. And to Ian's freedom.

“This woman, Ted, I think she might have been in Ian's office. The night after he was arrested.”

He frowned. “I don't understand.”

“I haven't told this to anyone else. That night, I went to his office. I thought maybe the police had missed something. Something that would help prove his innocence.

“It was late. I let myself in the back. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, so I didn't turn on the lights.

“Someone walked in on me. A woman. I hid in the supply closet.”

He went white. “My God, Jane.”

She continued as if he hadn't spoken, working to remember details of the woman's appearance. “She came in the same way I had, through the back. She was dressed entirely in black and had a penlight. She went directly to the file cabinet, removed something, then left.”

“What did she take?”

“I don't know for sure. I think a patient file.”

“So her name wouldn't be found by the police.”

“Exactly. Why else remove a file? She didn't want the police to connect her to Ian's practice.”

“She had a key, then?”

“Maybe. But I don't think I locked the door after me. I know I didn't set the alarm. It wasn't set when I arrived.”

For several moments he said nothing. She sensed he was processing what she had told him. “Even if you didn't lock the door behind you, which would have been very stupid, by the way, although as the recently crowned king of stupidity, I have no right to talk, how had she intended to get in? She was either going to break in…or she had a key.”

“Ian and I both have keys. So did—”

Marsha. Of course
.

Had the police checked to see if her keys were missing?

Of course not. Why would they have? That would have been outside their frame of reference—proving Ian's guilt.

She saw by Ted's expression that he had come to the same conclusion as she. “Whoever killed Marsha could have taken it. She could have coaxed the alarm code out of her as well. And used both to remove a piece of incriminating evidence from the office.”

Jane rested her head against the pillow, acknowledging exhaustion. “Truthfully, I don't think she would have been worried about the alarm code. She knew exactly what she was looking for. By the time the police arrived, she would have been long gone.”

“What can I do to help?” Ted asked.

She tipped her face to his. “What did she look like?”

“Dark hair. Short and sleek. She was one of those intense-looking chicks. You know what I mean?”

She shook her head that she didn't and he went on. “Not pretty in a soft way. Sharp features. But sexy.”

“Height? Weight?”

“Medium height. Maybe five-six. Slim.”

Jane had been able to make out little of the woman that night in the office, but the woman's size sounded similar. And she'd had dark hair, either short or pulled back from her face.

“What was her name?”

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie? That's it?” He nodded. “You didn't ask for her number?”

“She got away before I could.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“No.”

“Before that night?”

He shook his head.

“She told you she was a student at UT Dallas, but that could have been a lie. If what I'm thinking is true, it probably was.”

“She definitely lived here,” he offered. “We talked about the city. She knew Dallas.”

Jane searched her memory. Sometimes Ian would mention a patient by first name only. She didn't recall a Bonnie—if that was even her real name. She would have Elton ask Ian, anyway.

“I could go on a bar crawl. See if I can find her.”

“Where would you start?”

“She had several tattoos. All spiders. Talked about several local clubs. A place called the Web in the Fair Park area. Another one called The Black Widow. I think that one's on Greenville. I could branch out from there.”

“I don't know, Ted. If she's the one, she's dangerous. And if she discovered you were on to her—”

“She won't.” He smiled, squeezed her fingers and stood. “Don't worry about me. The worst trouble I might get myself into is a killer hangover. That's why it's called a
crawl
, you know.”

Jane wasn't convinced. “Maybe I should talk to Stacy. She or Mac could tail you. If you found her they could back you up.”

He made a face. “Your sister and I don't see eye to eye. And that partner of hers, he gives me the creeps.”

“Mac? He's a little intense, but creepy?”

“Let's see what I can do on my own. When I locate her we can call in the Mounties.”

She acquiesced. “But only if you promise to be careful.”

“I lived through a stint in the navy, remember?” He crossed to the bedroom door, then stopped and looked back at her. “What I said earlier, I meant it. I love you, Jane. I'd never do anything to hurt you.”

Saturday, November 8, 2003
1:45 a.m
.

T
he phone dragged Jane from a deep sleep. She found the receiver, brought it to her ear. “H'lo.”

“Jane? It's Ted.”

“Ted?” She sat up, struggling to hear over the noise on the line. “Where are you?”

“I found her,” he shouted. “A bar in Fair Par…th…ole.”

“The what? Hole?” she repeated, uncertain if she had heard correctly.

“I'm go…to follow…er.”

“No!” She pressed the phone tighter to her ear. “That's not a good idea. Stacy's here, I'll get her—”

“No nee…in control. Gotta go…she's—” She heard voices, then a sharp clacking sound.

“Ted! What—”

“—call you when I know more.”

“No, please—”

The line went dead. Heart thundering, Jane held the receiver to her ear for a moment before hanging up. She lay back against her pillow. Should she wake Stacy? She glanced toward the bedside clock. Ted said he had it under
control. That he would be careful. She wasn't even certain which bar he had called from.

He would be fine. Tomorrow he would fill her in and Stacy could take over.

Jane closed her eyes, acknowledging the chance of her falling back to sleep was slim and that the hours until daylight would be long, filled with worries.

And with the loneliness of her empty bed. She missed Ian. She longed for the child that would never be.

She wondered if her life would ever be easy—or good—again.

Saturday November 8, 2003
9:10 a.m
.

S
tacy pulled into Mac's driveway, threw her Bronco into Park and flipped open her console-mounted cell phone. She punched in Mac's number; he answered, voice thick with sleep.

“Shake it off, McPherson. I'm in your driveway.”

He hung up without responding and she got out of her vehicle. She hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder, computer printouts tucked safely inside.

She reached his front door at the exact moment he swung it open. He wore a pair a boxer shorts and nothing else. His naked chest and the expanse of belly revealed by the boxers were nothing short of spectacular.

His bloodshot eyes were another matter. “Big night last night?” she asked.

“I was feeling sorry for myself. Hooked up with a couple of my old buddies from Vice. Drank too much. Stayed out too late. Feel like crap today.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that the world's smallest violin I hear? Playing just for—”

“Play this.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside,
slamming the door behind her as she landed against that magnificent chest.

His mouth came down on hers. He took it with authority, backing her up to the door, pressing her against it.

She allowed herself a moment of pure pleasure, then ducked out of his arms. “Sorry, McPherson. We've got bad guys to catch.”

“But it's Saturday morning.
Early
Saturday morning.”

“Criminals don't take the weekend off, do they? Neither can we.” She slapped him on the rump. “Move it.”

Instead, with a laugh, he hauled her against his chest once more. She pressed her palms against it in a halfhearted attempt to push him away.

“Mac—”

“Hmm?” He slid his hands to her fanny, cupped her and drew her closer. He was fully aroused. Ready. She imagined making love there, against the door. Him thrusting into her. Her thrusting back. Crying out in release.

“It's about my sister,” she managed. “It's import—”

“I'm not thinking about your sister right now. Only you, Stacy Killian. Only you.”

The words, their husky promise, filled her head. She grew drunk on them; they crowded out other, more urgent thoughts.

And as they did, he let her go.

“Bad guys to catch,” he said with a smirk.

She blinked, disoriented. “What?”

“Bad guys. Important.” He headed for his bedroom.

“I'm starting to think I don't like you,” she called after him. “In fact, I'm pretty sure of it.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right. We'll talk about it later.”

While Mac showered and dressed, Stacy made coffee. She was delighted to see he had bought a loaf of bread, and she popped a couple of slices into the toaster.

He arrived just as she had slathered peanut butter on both pieces.

“You're an angel,” he said, taking the toast and mug she held out.

“And you're a devil. I can't believe I'm being so nice after that stunt you just pulled.”

“I'll make it up to you.”

“If you're lucky.” She licked peanut butter off her thumb. “The lab called this morning. We got a print match. You were right, Jackman's been using an alias.”

“Real name?”

“Jack Theodore Mann.”

“Priors?”

“Oh, yeah.” She stood on tiptoes, kissed him, then dropped back onto her heels. “I'll fill you in on the road. Figured I'd pay Mr. Jackman a little visit this morning. Figured you might want to tag along?”

“You figured right. But you drive. I've got a screamer of a headache.”

They left his house and climbed into her Bronco. She fastened her belt and started up the vehicle. “Here.” She dug the printouts from her purse, handed them to him, then pulled away from the curb.

“Mr. Mann's been a busy boy,” Mac said. “Possession. Dishonorable discharge from the navy. Assault and battery. A couple years in the state pen. Bet none of that made it onto his résumé.”

“No joke. But none of it makes him a murderer.”

“What does it make him?” Stacy countered, glancing at her partner. “That's what I'm wondering.”

Ted lived on Elm, above a disreputable-looking tattoo parlor named Tiny Tim's. Stacy wondered if the name referred to the character in Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
or the musician from the seventies who had played a ukulele and sung about tiptoeing through the tulips.

She was leaning toward the musician simply because the walls were painted in free-form, psychedelic-looking flowers.

She rapped on his door. “Ted. It's Stacy Killian.”

She waited a moment with no response, then tried again. “Ted! I need to talk to you about Jane.”

“You looking for Teddy?”

Teddy?
Stacy turned. A young man had come up behind them. He carried a guitar case and looked as if he was just arriving home from a night on the town. His shoulder-length dark hair needed a brush; Stacy judged him to be in his early twenties.

“We are. Have you see him?”

“Nope. Not today. Not last night.”

“And you are?”

“His roommate. Flick.”

“Hi, Flick. It's kind of important we speak to him. Could you check and see if he's home?”

The kid narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Suddenly, it appeared, smelling the law. “Who are you?”

“Stacy.” She held out a hand. “I'm Cameo's sister.”

“That artist he works for? She's awesome.” He dug in the right front pocket of his skintight black jeans for his keys. “He talks about her all the time. I'm a musician, you know. Play with a group called Neon. You heard of us?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Oh…that's cool. I understand. We're just, you know, getting going.” He retrieved the keys. They moved aside, giving him access to the door. “It's cool Cameo's made it, you know. It's ferocious out there.”

The lock turned over; the door swung open. “Com'on in. Ted, buddy,” he called. “You got company.”

The apartment interior was Spartan, the pieces of furniture mismatched, castoffs. A wooden crate served as coffee table, a straw mat as area rug.

It was surprisingly neat, considering its inhabitants. Smelled clean, too.

Flick grinned at her. “Ted's a neat freak, you know. That's cool with me except when he starts bitchin' about it.”

“Ted,” he called again. “Company.”

Stacy pointed to the two closed doors to the right of the living area. “One of those a bedroom?”

“Yeah. Ted's. He pays the lion's share, so he gets the
bedroom. I use the couch. It's a drag if I've got company, but the rest of the time it's cool.”

“Maybe he's asleep?”

Flick shrugged. “Dude sleeps light, ‘'cause of the navy,' he says.”

More like because of the pen, Stacy thought.

The kid crossed to the door, cracked it open and peered inside. “Nope. He's not home.”

“You sure?”

He swung the door wide. Stacy peered around him. Again, Spartan. And neat. The bed was made.

Had it even been slept in? she wondered. After yesterday, maybe he had realized she was onto him. Maybe he had noticed the Coke can missing, and had put two and two together. If so, Ted Jackman was long gone.

“Mind if I use the john?” Mac asked suddenly, distracting the kid.

Flick looked surprised. Stacy suspected he had all but forgotten the other man was there. “Sure.”

Stacy smiled. While she looked around the bedroom, Mac would check out the bathroom. Divide and conquer.

“Ted spend the night out a lot?” Stacy asked, moving her gaze over the room, taking stock: nightstand, dilapidated chest of drawers, closet.

“Nah.” Flick scratched his head. “Sometimes he goes into work on the weekend. You checked there?”

She didn't answer. The phone rang. “That could be him,” she said.

Flick hesitated; the phone jangled again. “Why don't you go see?” she suggested. “I'll wait here.”

The moment he did, Stacy moved into the bedroom. She looked under the bed. Nothing. Crossed to the small closet and quickly slipped through the contents. Nothing again.

She moved on to the nightstand. There, she hit the jackpot. A pack of letters, bound together with a rubber band. The envelopes were frayed, as if they had been handled a lot.

Stacy frowned. They were all addressed to Jane. Stamped but judging from the lack of postmark, never sent.

She rolled off the band, selected the letter on top and began to read.

A love letter to Jane. From Ted
.

He spoke of his undying love. His adoration. The passion that kept him awake at night. Burning. Fantasizing. His desire to be with her always.

She selected another letter, skimmed it, then tried a third. He wrote of his despair over her marriage. His hatred for the man who had taken her from him and shattered his dreams.

She was his everything. Forever and always.

Dear God, she had been right. Ted was the one
.

Mac emerged from the bathroom. “Nothing.”

“Look at this.”

Mac crossed to stand beside her. She handed him the letter. While he read it, she quickly checked the others.

“They all like this?” Mac asked.

“Yup.”

Stacy handed him the stack and dug deeper in the drawer. Beneath a six-month-old issue of
Art in America
, she found a small photo album. She flipped it open. And discovered it was filled with photos of Jane and Ted. From events they had never attended together. Vacations they hadn't taken. Intimate moments together in a home Ted fantasized they shared.

Stacy swallowed past the bad taste that filled her mouth. The studio assistant had spent a lot of time and money creating these images. He may even have created them in the studio, on Jane's equipment.

To feed his fantasy life.

What other fantasies did Ted have?

“Creepy,” Mac said, peering over her shoulder at them.

“No shit.”

“This is your guy.”

“I'm thinking.”

“Hey! What do you think you're doing?”

Stacy turned to Ted's roommate. She removed her shield, held it out. “Police, Flick. We need to ask you a few questions about your roommate.”