"Is she?"

Jane made a sound of irritation. "Shrink double-talk."

"I'm talking to you as a friend, Jane. Not a doctor. Break the cycle."

"Know-it-all."

"Stupor genius," he corrected.

A smile tugged at her mouth even though she was p.i.s.sed that he wouldn't agree with her. "I love you, you

know that?"

"Yeah, I know. I love you, too."

They talked a few more minutes, Jane turning the conversation to him, his practice. The redhead he had

been dating. She learned that the redhead was already history, the practice was thriving and that he was planning a spring trip to Paris.

As they parted, he kissed her cheek. "I'm glad you called. I've missed you."

"I'm glad, too. And thanks for the insights. I think I'll sleep better tonight."

"Glad to hear it." His smiled faded. "Call Stacy, Jane. She needs you, too."

"I wish I believed that."

"It's true." He kissed her again. "Promise you'll do it."

She promised, but as he walked away, she wondered which she was more afraid of facing, her irrational fear of losing it all? Or her sister?

SEVEN.

Monday, October 20, 2003.

5:30 p.m.

Stacy sat slouched in front of the video monitor, staring at the flickering black-and-white images. She stretched and checked her watch. Two and a half hours. And so far, zip. No one out of the ordinary. Couples. Kids playing in the elevator, going up and down. Geriatrics.

Deland had said the hotel was running at less-than-fifty-percent occupancy rate, coming off three weeks in a row at nearly one hundred percent thanks due to the Texas State Fair and the big Southern Methodist University vs. Oklahoma State University game.

It showed in the tapes.

Of course, the stairwell videos could tell the tale.

Mac had offered to do the legwork, notifying Elle Vanmeer's next of kin, talking to her neighbors, following up leads. Stacy had nudged him in the direction, but wished he was here, reviewing the tapes, as well. He was a good cop. Committed. Observant.

Camp and Riggio, on the other hand, were a couple of burned-out slackers. She itched to check up on them, their work. She didn't trust them not to miss something. Maybe she was a control freak, Stacy thought, thinking of the things Mac had said to her.

More like a distrustful, p.r.i.c.kly b.i.t.c.h.

Tough s.h.i.t, she thought. If her tapes didn't reveal a lead, she would review the others as well.

Elle Vanmeer's killer had to have reached the eighth floor somehow. And he sure as h.e.l.l hadn't flown.

She thought of coffee. And a doughnut, left over from the morning box. Maybe one of the cream-filled ones.

Fat chance of that. Those rarely made it past 10:00 a.m. Her stomach growled and she glanced longingly at the door. Still, even a dried-out glazed would be better than nothing. She reached over to switch off the machine, then stopped, her gaze on the monitor. A man getting off on the eighth floor. The time read 10:36 p.m.

Stacy hit the rewind b.u.t.ton.

He alighted the elevator at the lobby level. Alone. He was tall. Slimly but strongly built. Wearing blue

jeans, a leather bomber jacket and a baseball cap.

Stacy squinted at the screen. It looked like it might be an Atlanta Braves cap, but she wasn't positive.

The cap and the angle of his head shielded his face from the camera.

Stacy watched as the car stopped on the eighth floor and he stepped out.

She rewound the segment and watched it again. Then again.

He knew where the camera was-he'd deliberately averted his face.

She'd been right. He was smart. He'd planned ahead. He punched the b.u.t.ton for the eighth with no

hesitation. He wore gloves. She searched her memory. How cold had it been the night before? Fifties?

Below? Cold enough that he had not drawn attention to himself by wearing gloves? Stacy calculated how much time the murder had taken. Imagined the scenario. Enter the room. Greets his paramour. She's there, waiting. Maybe posed on the bed. It's part of the fun. The game. He talks dirty to her for a minute or two, teases her, maybe even with the sash of her robe. Leaves his gloves on. Maybe his coat, too. Kinky. She trusts him, doesn't think a thing about it.

Then he does it.

He's out of there in twenty minutes. Maybe less.

The time recorded on the tape would be right, smack-dab in the middle of Pete's early estimation of

Vanmeer's TOD.

Excitement pumped through her. The juice, as she thought of it. Even though the odds of him taking the same car down were one in four, Stacy fast-forwarded.

One in four, but there he was. Mr. Braves cap, seventeen minutes after alighting on the eighth floor, making a return trip.

Got you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Stacy rewound the tape, then jumped to her feet to go get the others.

EIGHT.

Monday, October 20, 2003.

6:15 p.m.

Mac joined the group as Stacy rewound the tape for the fourth time. He tossed his jacket on the table.

"What? No popcorn?"

"Fresh out," Stacy said. "But we have something even better to nosh on. Take a look."

Mac grabbed a chair, swung it around and straddled it. He watched the flickering image in silence. When

the suspect exited the elevator at the lobby level, Stacy froze the tape and looked at her partner. "What do you think?"

"He knew where the cameras were."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Timing's right," Camp offered. "He looks good."

Mac pursed his lips. "Have anyone else?"

"Not yet," Riggio answered. "A couple single females. A teenage couple. That's it."

"Anything in the stairwells?"

"Nada." Camp glanced at his watch. "I have about an hour more tape to review."

"Then do it." Stacy checked her own watch. "Mac and I will begin tracking down leads on what we have."

The other detectives filed out, leaving Stacy and Mac alone.

"What'd you turn up?"

He took out his notebook. "Twice divorced. Most recently two years ago. Both husbands were

considerably older. And wealthy."

"She work?"

"Called herself an interior designer, but neighbors I spoke with said she didn't work much. Figured she

used her license to get designer discounts at every home-decor boutique in town. Her divorces left her very well off."

"A boyfriend?"

"Not one, unfortunately. According to her housekeeper, she liked men. A lot."

"Interesting." Stacy drummed her fingers on the scarred wooden tabletop, mind racing. A jealous ex-husband. Or one scorned-and bled dry in a divorce settlement.

"You're thinking there might be motive there?"

"Maybe."