"We?" She heard the smile in his voice. "You actually starting to think of me as your partner?"

She was, she realized, and scowled. "Sleep fast, McPherson. Headquarters, 7:00 a.m. I'll bring the Joe."

TWELVE.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003.

11:45 a.m.

Jane stood outside the Munic.i.p.al Building and gazed up at its art-deco-inspired facade. She hadn't slept well the night before. She had tossed and turned, mind whirling with the events of the previous day:

Dave's advice, the realization of how badly her and Stacy's relationship had deteriorated, her sister's visit the night before. The reason for it.

Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?

The question had been appropriate, Jane told herself. Stacy had simply been covering all the bases, just

as she had said. That was her sister's job, after all. Ask questions. Sift through the answers, put the

pieces together, solve the crime. Just doing her job, she thought again. It hadn't meant anything.

Then why had it chilled Jane so? Why had it intruded on her sleep, tormenting her with the possible meanings behind it?

Her sister's baldly stated words, played through her head again.

Was your relationship with Elle Vanmeer anything but professional?

Had she imagined it, or had the question unnerved Ian? Had a guilty moment pa.s.sed before he had

adamantly denied it?

She knew her husband hadn't been a saint before he met her. He'd even been married briefly before, to a

woman named Mona Fields. Handsome, successful and in an industry women-beautiful women-gravitated to, Ian had dated a lot. He had admitted so to her. Freely.

So why avoid the truth? Because the woman had been a patient? Or because she was dead?

The image from her nightmare filled her head, stealing her breath.

The boat captain, circling back, readying to make another pa.s.s at her. To finish the job.

No. She was not about to have her happiness stolen from her. To believe so was irrational. A result of the trauma she had lived through. Nothing more.

Ian hadn't avoided the truth. He wasn't a liar. Most likely he had been as surprised by the question as she. It had given him pause- just as it had given her.

There, she thought, feeling a measure of relief, she had faced her fear. The reason for it. Just as Dave had advised.

Dave had also advised her to confront her sister about their relationship. Extend the olive branch. But that wasn't why she was here. Not solely, anyway.

Jane took a deep, steadying breath and started up the building's front steps. She meant to discover what, if anything, her sister was up to.

And if necessary, prove to her that she was barking up the wrong tree.

At the top of the steps, an exiting police officer held the door open for her. She thanked him and stepped into the dim, too-warm interior. Easing past cl.u.s.ters of people waiting in lines to pay traffic fines, she headed for the information desk.

Although Jane had visited her sister before, it had been a long time. She greeted the uniformed clerk manning the desk. "I'm here to see Detective Killian in Homicide."

"Name?"

"Jane Westbrook. Her sister."

The man, skeletally thin with a cheesy mustache, swept his gaze over her, as if searching for a family resemblance. "One moment." He picked up the phone, dialed, then turned his back to her as he sought the okay to send her up. When he had it, he hung up and pointed toward the elevators, located directly around the corner. "Take the elevators to three. Follow the signs."

"Thanks," Jane said, though he had already moved on to the next inquiry. She made her way around the corner to the elevators. She remembered the star-adorned silver doors from her last visit, their richness belying the shabby, inst.i.tutional feel of the rest of the building's interior.

She pressed the call b.u.t.ton; a moment later a car arrived. The doors slid open. As she stepped inside, her heart began to race, her palms grew damp. When was the last time she had actually popped in on her sister?

The day their grandmother died. What a b.l.o.o.d.y disaster that visit had been.

The car lurched to a stop on three; the doors slid open. Stacy stood in the alcove waiting for her. She looked wary.

"Hi, Stacy." Jane cringed at the singsong tone of her voice. She sounded guilty. Like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She stepped out of the elevator, conscious of the doors whooshing shut behind her.

"Is everything all right?" Stacy asked.

"Fine. Just wondered if you might want to go to lunch?"

"Lunch?" her sister repeated. "You and me?"

"Why not? I have it on good authority that's what sisters do."

"Some sisters. We haven't been to lunch in at least a year."

"Maybe I'd like to remedy that."

"Can't," she said shortly. "Sorry."

She sounded anything but sorry. Jane refused to give up. "How about a cup of coffee, then?"

Stacy's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. "I suppose I could squeeze that in. Come on, my

treat."

Stacy led Jane through a door labeled Crimes Against Persons. "Anybody in interrogation one?" she asked the gum-popping secretary.

"Nope." The young woman eyed Jane, obviously curious.

Stacy ignored her. "That's where I'll be."

After grabbing a couple of cups of a sludgy-looking brew from the community pot, they made their way

to the interrogation room. Stacy closed the door behind them. She motioned to the room's one table.

They crossed to it, though neither sat. They faced each other, both clutching the foam cups. Silence

stretched between them. Awkward. Unnerving.

"How have you been?" Jane asked finally.

"Good. And you?"

"Great. Excited about my show."

"You're doing so well. I'm happy for you."

"I wish I believed that."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Her softly spoken words sounded more a challenge than a question. But a challenge to do what? Prove it

true? Or false?

Their relationship was a two-way street, Jane reminded herself. Just as Dave had said. She was as responsible for the strain between them as Stacy.

And it wasn't going to get any better until one of them addressed it honestly.

Jane set down her coffee and crossed to stand directly before her sister. "When did it get so bad between us, Stacy? When did it become so difficult for us to simply talk to each other?"

"This homicide has me distracted."

"What about two days ago? And two days before that? We're like wary strangers."

When her sister didn't reply, Jane pressed on. "We were close once. Weren't we?"

Her sister looked uncomfortable. "I suppose. But we've grown apart. Lots of siblings do."

"I'm sorry about what Grandmother did."

"I didn't want her money."