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 b.i.t.c.hin'

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?"

Rick 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 c.o.ke 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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 alb.u.m. 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 a.s.sistant 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 s.h.i.t."

"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