"Yeah? And that would be?"

"How'd you two rank La Plaza? We spent the last four hours with a stiff at the Bachman Transfer Station."

Bachman Transfer was one of three garbage-collection points for the city of Dallas. "You smell like it, too," Stacy tossed over her shoulder. "I'd do something about that if I were you."

"I'm pretty sure it's discrimination," Bell called after them. "It's because you're a girl."

"Get over it," Mac returned, chuckling. "You're just jealous."

"Beane here retires, I'm partnering with a chick, too. Just watch me."

Still chuckling, they went in search of their captain. Tom Schulze, a twenty-year veteran of Homicide, had proved to be a tough but fair superior. During the course of their a.s.sociation, Stacy had learned to respect not only his faultless instincts but his explosive temper as well. Pity to the detective on the receiving end of that temper.

She tapped on his door casing. He was on the phone but waved them in. Mac took a seat. She chose to stand.

A moment later, he ended the call. In the ten years she had known the man, his light red hair had thinned and faded to gray, but his eyes remained an almost electric blue. That startling gaze settled on her now. "Fill me in."

Stacy began. "Vic's name was Elle Vanmeer. Looks like she was strangled. Pete promised us his report before morning."

The captain arched an eyebrow at that. "Go on."

Mac took over. "She checked in about eight last evening, alone. The housekeeper found her around 11:15 a.m. today. Hotel management refused to let us canvas the guest rooms or question any of the guests."

"However," Stacy jumped in, antic.i.p.ating his reaction, "we did convince the general manager to turn over security tapes from the elevators and stairwells."

"How many elevators?"

"Two public. One service. Three stair exits."

Captain Schulze did the math. "Depending on when Pete sets the TOD, that's fifteen and a quarter hours

of surveillance each tape. Same for the stairwells."

"He estimated she'd been dead ten to twelve hours."

"That helps."

"Seems Ms. Vanmeer was a La Plaza regular. Had a standing order for fresh flowers, champagne and

chocolate-dipped strawberries in her room."

"Thoughts?"

"Definitely there to meet a lover. My suspicion is one or both of them were married."

"Traveled light," Mac offered. "Just the stuff she needed to horizontal mambo."

"You think her lover's our guy?"

"Yes." Stacy glanced at her partner. "Or a jealous mate."

"You'll need help reviewing the tapes."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll give you Camp, Riggio, Falon and-"

"Falon's out with the flu," Mac offered. "So's Moore."

The captain swore. A virulent stomach flu had been running rampant through the department. Some divisions were operating half staffed, officers who were healthy were pulling double shifts.

"Then make do." He reached for the phone, indicating their meeting was over. "This one feels like a no-brainer. Let's get it closed."

FIVE.

Monday, October 20, 2003.

3:15 p.m.

Jane peered through the video camera's viewfinder. Her subject, a woman named Anne, sat on a platform ten feet in front of the camera. Jane had covered the platform in white fabric. A roll of white seamless paper provided the backdrop.

Jane wanted the lighting to be as stark as possible. Unrelenting, even cruel. She wanted her subject to be stripped naked. Of all the devices she would normally hide behind-soft light and shadows, cosmetics, clever clothing, coiffed hair.

Instead, the woman's face was bare, her hair slicked back into a tight knot; she wore nothing more elegant than a hospital gown, belted at the waist.

Total exposure. Psychological. Emotional.

"Ted," Jane said, glancing at her studio a.s.sistant, standing to her right. "Could you adjust the light on the right? There's a slight shadow across her left cheek."

He did as she requested and waited as she checked the viewfinder again.

Ted Jackman had approached her a couple of years ago about a job. He had seen an exhibition of her work, he'd said, and loved it. She hadn't been actively looking for an a.s.sistant, though she had been tossing around the idea of hiring one.

She had decided to give it a try; Ted had proved to be a find. Efficient. Loyal. Smart. She trusted him completely. When Ian expressed doubts about Ted's character, she reminded him that Ted had been with her longer than he had.

Although she didn't share her husband's worries, she understood why he might have them. Ted had packed a lot of experience into his twenty-eight years of life, including a stint in the navy, lead guitarist for a moderately successful, local garage band, a turn in rehab and, before he came to her, a gig as a makeup artist for a mortician.

Physically, he was both beauty and beast. Cla.s.sically proportioned, muscular and lean, with dark, almost hypnotic bedroom eyes, Ted was also heavily pierced and tattooed and wore a his dark hair long, streaked in front with patches of white.

Beauty and beast. Not so different from herself.

"Should I sit like this?" Anne asked, curling her legs under her on the hard platform.

"Whatever's comfortable for you."

She squirmed, her gaze touching on Ted, then moving back to Jane. "I must look terrible."

Jane didn't comment. The woman reached up to fluff her hair, only to drop her hand as she remembered

that Jane had pulled back her luxurious mane of auburn hair. She laughed nervously and clasped her

hands in her lap.

Most artists strove to put their subjects at ease, make them feel relaxed and comfortable. She strove to do the opposite.

She meant to plumb the dark places. To communicate fear, vulnerability and despair.

Jane began. "Tell me what you're afraid of, Anne. When you're alone with your thoughts, who's the monster?"

"Afraid?" the woman repeated nervously. "You mean like...spiders or something?"

She didn't, but told her to begin there if she'd like. Some of her subjects knew exactly what she was

after; others, like Anne, had answered her ad, knowing nothing more about the artist Cameo than that

she paid a hundred bucks for a few hours' work.

Jane's subjects had been of all ages and from all races. They had run the gamut from anorexic to obese, drop-dead gorgeous to painfully disfigured.

Interestingly enough, they all shared a common fear, a thread that seemed to bind all women to one another.

"I hate spiders," she said.

"Why, Anne?"

"They're so...creepy. So ugly." She paused, then shuddered. "They've got those little hairs on their legs."

"So it's a visual thing? A physical response to the creature's appearance?"

She frowned but the flesh between her eyebrows didn't wrinkle. Botox, Jane realized, recognizing the effect.

"I never thought of it that way," she said.

"Do you have that response to people who are ugly or deformed? People who are obese?" Jane hated the words, the labels. She used them now, purposefully, for effect.

Anne's cheeks reddened. She shifted her gaze.

She did, though she was embarra.s.sed to admit it.

A form of discrimination, one Jane was quite familiar with.

"Tell me the truth, Anne. That's what we're here for. It's what my work's about."

"You won't like me. You'll think I'm stuck up."

"I'm here to doc.u.ment, not judge. If you can't be honest with me, tell me now. I won't waste our time."

Anne hesitated a moment more, then met Jane's direct gaze. "I know it's wrong, but it's like...it hurts to

look at them."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do."

Anne shifted uncomfortably. "When I look at those people, I...in a way I hate them."