her to leave well enough alone. Send her question in a note, through Elton. Or simply wait until her next visit to ask Ian herself.

She couldn't, G.o.d help her. She had to know now.

She picked up the PalmPilot. She called up the address book, scrolled the alphabet, finding the Vs.

There was only one name and number there. Elle Vanmeer.

The device slipped from her fingers and she stumbled backward as if from a physical blow. The dead woman's name was on her husband's PalmPilot. Why? Physicians did not carry their patients' phone numbers on their PDAs.

Trembling, Jane searched for a logical explanation. Perhaps he and the woman had enjoyed a personal relationship before he met and married her?

That didn't work because he'd gotten the PalmPilot several months after they were married.

Perhaps the two of them had been friends? Perhaps Marsha had simply imported all the names and numbers from his old address book into the PDA? That could happen.

Except that would make Ian a liar. He'd told the police that Elle Vanmeer had been strictly a patient, that

they hadn't had a personal relationship.

Jane curved her arms around her middle. This was the kind of information the police already had.

Records of phone calls. Calendars with blocks of unaccounted-for time.

No wonder they thought him guilty. A hysterical-sounding laugh bubbled to her lips. No wonder they

thought her the naive, too-trusting little wife.

She bent and defiantly s.n.a.t.c.hed up the PDA. She scrolled the alphabet, beginning with the As. There were a number of women's names, but none that jumped out at her. Gretchen Cole was not listed. Nor was Lisette Gregory.

Two down, one to go.

Her relief was short-lived. There in the Ls, screaming her husband's guilt was another number, one she couldn't imagine a reason for him to have.

La Plaza.

THIRTY-TWO Friday, October 24, 2003 3:20 P.M.

Shortly after three that afternoon, Stacy hung up the phone and turned to Mac who was lounging in the chair beside her desk. "Hold on to your shorts. That was Pete. Autopsy's ready."

"Well?" he asked.

"Neck was broken. That's what killed her. No sign of s.e.xual activity pre death. No defensive wounds or

other injuries. Nails were clean."

"Drug use?"

"None."

"How long's she been dead?"

"Three days, give or take."

Mac scratched his head. "For now we've got ourselves a Jane Doe. No ID. No identifying marks. No wedding ring or other personal effects found in the Dumpster."

"No missing person who fits our vic's description?"

"Not yet. Ran her prints, nothing in the data bank."

Stacy hadn't expected there to be. Jane Doe had not been a working girl.

She drummed her fingers on the desktop. "Wearing pajamas. No jewelry or shoes. Broken neck.

Clearly, she knew her attacker. My guess is we're talking husband or boyfriend. She turns her back, he snaps her neck. Clean break. He knew what he was doing. Took a lot of strength. Happened fast.

Probably went down in her own home."

Mac nodded. "Her loved one wraps her in plastic, loads her in the family sedan and dumps her in a

remote trash bin. Canvas turn up anything?"

"Nada. n.o.body saw a thing. Typical." Stacy shuffled through the notes she had ama.s.sed on Jane Doe already. "Bubba's Backyard Barbecue closed a week ago. Trash hasn't been picked up since."

"What do we know about the plastic sheeting?"

"Garden variety, literally. Landscapers use it as a weed guard. You can buy it at any lawn and garden center or hardware store."

"What about trace evidence?"

She flipped through the file. "Some hair, which may or may not be consistent with hers. a.n.a.lysis isn't

back. Carpet fibers. Bermuda gra.s.s."

"The stuff you smoke?"

"The kind you mow, city boy." She glanced at the report. "Dirt."

"Dirt?" he repeated.

"Mmm. Also being a.n.a.lyzed."

"We can't go much further without a name." He frowned. "What about the cell phone?"

"No word yet."

"What's the holdup?"

"Privacy issues. The request was b.u.mped up to Corporate." Mac opened his mouth; she held up a hand.

"They a.s.sured me we'd have it, the local manager just didn't want to take responsibility."

"We're going nowhere with this until we have a name. You know that, right?"

He didn't expect a response; she didn't give him one. Silence fell between them. Mac broke it first. "Talk

to your sister recently?"

She looked at him, instantly on edge. "Not yet today. Why?"

He glanced over his shoulder as if to make certain he wouldn't be overheard, then leaned toward her.

"We searched the loft today."

Stacy knew that meant a warrant. And she knew what they had hoped to find-the leather jacket and baseball cap. "Get what you were looking for?"

He replied with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "You research 1987 new stories yet?"

"Begun, not finished. Nothing about screams yet. Jane insisted from the get-go he did it on purpose."

"Any more contact from Jane's wacko?"

"No."

"Maybe you should call her. She looked pretty shook up this morning."

As if on cue, her desk phone rang. They both looked at it. Mac grinned. "I planned that. To make myself

look psychic."

"Psychotic, you mean." She reached for the phone. "Detective Killian."

"Hey Detective Killian, Bob Thompson from Verizon Wireless. Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to

you."

"No problem." She straightened slightly and signaled to Mac that this was the call they had been waiting for. "Do you have that name for me?" He did and she hung up, the ramifications of his answer ricocheting through her. She picked up her Jane Doe file and held it out to her partner.

He frowned. "What?"

"I'm out of it."

His frown deepened. "I don't-"

"I'm out of it," she said again. "The cell phone belonged to Elle Vanmeer."

THIRTY-THREE.