She cut him off. She didn't have the time or patience for his husbandly concern. Things were moving too

fast for that. She leaned forward. "Stacy's helping us. So's her partner, Mac. We're going to get you out of here, Ian. I promise you that."

He leaned forward. "Don't do anything... Let them take the chances. I'd rather rot in here than have you

hurt."

The guard stepped forward; they had used their thirty minutes. They both stood, though they hung on the phone.

"Promise, Jane," he begged. "Promise not to get hurt."

"I'll be careful," she said, then paused and added, "I love you, Ian."

As she walked away, she realized not loving him would be d.a.m.n near impossible.

The realization left her light-headed with fear.

SIXTY.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

11:45 a.m.

Her visit with Ian left Jane strangely energized. Hopeful. She had called Stacy's cell phone and left a message, then headed to her studio. She had begun a portrait of Ted one rainy afternoon months ago, had taken the molds but never readied them for metal.

She would do that today. As a remembrance for his family.

Ranger with her, she made her way down the circular staircase to her studio. The dog forged ahead, whimpering. He disappeared around the corner that led to the studio's street-level entrance.

Ted. Facedown in a sea of blood.

Jane froze. Her breath became short; the hair on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kling with an ominous sense of deja vu. Ranger reappeared. She dropped her gaze to his paws.

No blood, no b.l.o.o.d.y pawprints. Thank G.o.d.

The dog c.o.c.ked his head and whined. The fur along the ridge of his back stood up. Jane realized the animal still smelled death here. That the cleaning solutions were ineffective against his sensitive sense of smell.

"Think we'll get used to it, buddy?" she said to the dog. He looked at her, as if considering an answer, then turned and loped back to the foyer. She heard him snuffling and snorting, no doubt confused by the different, strong scents.

She had to. This was her studio, and she wouldn't allow the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to chase her out.

Swallowing hard, Jane took the last step. She collected the molds of Ted's face and carried them to a tall worktable at the back of the studio. She ran her fingers over the plaster, over his familiar features. Tears stung her eyes. He had been her friend. Nothing Stacy-or anyone else-said could make her believe otherwise.

She retrieved one of the rolling supply carts and set it up with the things she needed to bring the molds to their metal-ready state: fine and extra fine grit sandpaper; a container of water; paper towels; and her Dremel, for quickly knocking off any large imperfections.

The minutes ticked past. As they did, the work drew her into its comforting womb. The place where the world beyond her and her art ceased to exist.

She stopped, ran her finger over the mold's surface. Nearly there, she decided. Just a little more detail work. As she reached for the extra-fine grit sandpaper, her gaze landed on a small silver key, peeking out from under the rubber mat on the cart's top.

She lifted the mat, collected the key. For the cart, she realized. It was the right size. She checked the door to the storage bin and found it locked. Odd, she thought. Why'd Ted lock it?

Squatting in front of the cart, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the bin door. Not supplies, she saw. Clothing. She reached in and pulled the articles out.

She stared at the items, a cry lurching to her throat. Of denial. Betrayal.

A leather bomber jacket. Gloves. And an Atlanta Braves base-ball cap.

They smelled faintly of perfume. A woman's scent, musk mixed with floral.

Not her scent. The kind a woman like Elle Vanmeer would wear.

Jane dropped the items and stumbled backward. She brought a hand to her mouth. The night Elle Vanmeer had been murdered, Ian had been in the studio. She had awakened from her nightmare to find him in the doorway to her screening room. He had taken her into his arms. The cold had clung to him. But he hadn't been wearing a coat.

Because he had already removed it. Dear G.o.d. She closed her eyes and pictured him, letting himself into the studio. He would have removed the coat, cap and gloves before he entered, on the chance that they ran into each other. He had crossed to the cart, stuffed the garments inside, locked it and tucked the key under the mat.

Why the studio? she wondered. Why not return to the loft, tuck the items into a closet or drawer? Or leave them in his car, hidden under the seat or in the trunk?

A sob slipped past her lips. She felt sick. It couldn't be. Not Ian.

She turned, made it to the wicker couch. She sank onto it. Her gaze fell upon the coat and hat. She thought of Lisette. Of Marsha.

She thought of Ted.

Ted. Ian hadn't been responsible for his death. He'd come into the studio that night. Surprised a burglar.

Or someone else. She lifted her head. Someone in her studio for another reason.

To plant the items of clothing. Physical evidence that would unequivocally tie Ian to Elle Vanmeer's

murder.

Jane jumped to her feet. Of course!

She had to call Stacy. Had to tell her what she'd found. What she 'd realized.

She stumbled toward the desk. She tried her sister's cell and got her voice mail. Instead of leaving a

message she hung up and tried her number at headquarters.

"Crimes Against Persons."

Kitty, Jane realized. She greeted the woman and asked for Stacy.

"I'm sorry, Detective Killian's out today. May I direct your call to one of the other detectives?"

Out? That wasn't right.

"Ma'am? Is this an emergency? If so-"

"N-no. It's...I'm her sister." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, high and tinny.

"Did you try her cell pho-"

"Yes, thank you."

She hung up. She had to see Stacy now. Had to talk to her, before anyone else learned what she'd

found. She had to convince her the items had been planted. That Ian wasn't a killer.

Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had to think. Kitty had said Stacy was out, but she had headed in to headquarters this morning. On the way out she'd said she planned to stop home

sometime during the day to collect some of her things, check her mail and answering machine and water plants.

Of course, that's where she was. She dialed her sister's home number-and again got a machine.

Without pausing for thought, she collected her purse and Ranger and headed for her car.

She reached the M Streets and turned down the one closest to her sister's. A red ball sailed into the

street, a laughing toddler following behind. She hit the brakes, squealing to a stop. The child's mother swooped him up, then turned and glared at her. She had been going fast. Way too fast for a neighborhood with children. Dear G.o.d, anything could have happened.

Pull yourself together, Jane.

She eased forward. Slowly this time. Cautiously. As she did, she glanced to the right. Marsha's house, she realized, heart lurching to her throat. The last time she had seen it, bright yellow crime-scene tape had been stretched across the front. The tape was gone, replaced by a bright blue-and-white Coldwell Banker For Sale sign.

Jane drove the remaining two blocks to Stacy's bungalow. She parked in the drive, cracked the windows for Ranger, climbed out and hurried up the walk. The garage door was closed. She rang the bell. Her sister didn't answer. She peeked in the front sidelight. The living room beyond looked empty.

From somewhere nearby came the sound of a dog barking. Ranger's answering bark.

A dreadful feeling of deja vu moved over her. She thought of Marsha. Pictured herself entering the woman's house, remembered the smell. The sound of her own voice as she called out.

Pictured Marsha tied to the chair, face purpling. Jane froze, the taste of fear on her tongue. Stacy had left for headquarters. What if she'd never reached it?

She fought the fear off, reached out, tried the door. And found it locked.

Jane went around back. The small backyard was empty. She let herself in the gate and went to the kitchen door. The kitchen, like the front room, was empty.

Stacy was fine. Already here and gone. Sure.

She had to make certain, anyway.

Jane dug her keys out of her handbag. For emergencies, the sis-ters had exchanged keys when Stacy bought the house. She fumbled for it, unlocked the door and stepped inside. At the warning whine of the alarm system, she crossed to the pad and punched Stacy's pa.s.s code, hoping that she hadn't changed it.

She hadn't. The system disarmed and Jane let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She called her sister's name as she moved farther into the house. The interior smelled clean, like pine and lemon cleaner.

Jane checked the powder room, dining room, guest room. Stacy's bedroom.

There she found the first hint of disorganization. Her bed had been hastily made. Several garments were thrown in a heap on the floor near the head of the bed. One, the lovely silk blouse she had given her sister last Christmas.

Jane crossed to it. She bent to pick it up, intending to lay it neatly over the bed. As she did, her gaze landed on a file folder, peeking out from the nightstand's lower shelf. A pink tab, neatly labeled vith her sister's name.

A medical file. Like the ones Ian prepared for his patients.

With trembling fingers, she slid it out. Flipped it open. It con-ained a mere two sheets. One a patient information form. The other the doctor's consultation notes. Jane recognized her hus-band's handwriting before she even noted his clinic's logo atop the page.

She stared at the sheet, confused. Her sister had gone to Ian for a consultation. That's how they had met.

What she didn't under-tand was why she had the file here- The woman. That night at Ian's office.

But when she had told Stacy about the incident...

Her sister had said nothing.

Jane realized she was shaking. Light-headed. Vaguely, she wondered what time it was. She closed the

file and slid it back onto the shelf.

She left the house the way she had come, through the back door. She made her way to her Jeep.