"What are you getting at?"

He leaned toward her. "He dumped you for her because she was the one with the money."

Truth was, at the time she had told herself the same thing. Consoled herself with it.

But she had been angry, hurt. She hadn't really believed it. Not when she had seen them together.

Could that chemistry have been faked? Could Ian have manufactured how besotted he had appeared?

How head-over-heels?

She didn't think so. "Ian loves Jane. I believe that. Besides, Ian's a plastic surgeon. A successful plastic surgeon. Why would he need to be a fortune hunter?" "We're talking about money with a capital M. f.u.c.k-you money. The kind Westbrook couldn't earn in a lifetime of b.o.o.b jobs."

Stacy pursed her lips in thought. She hadn't looked at it quite that way before. f.u.c.k-you money: enough to never have to take anyone's s.h.i.t again. To have what he wanted, when he wanted it.

By marrying Jane, Ian had hit the jackpot.

I'm pregnant, Stacy. Eight weeks.

Uneasiness rolled over her, a kind of queasy fatalism.

"I'd like us to pay Westbrook's office manager a visit," Mac continued. "She takes his calls, checks his mail and keeps his appointments. In other words, she knows everything going on in that office. If there was any hanky-panky going on between the doctor and Elle Vanmeer, my bet is she'd know."

"My gut's telling me you're barking up the wrong tree."

He lowered his voice. "How did you meet him, Stacy?"

She hesitated, knowing how d.a.m.ning her answer would be. "A consultation," she admitted. "But I wasn't a patient. And he wasn't married."

When he simply gazed at her, she made a sound of irritation. "Why are you so certain Ian's dirty?"

"Why are you so certain he's not?" He leaned forward. "Van-meer's ex claimed Westbrook was sleeping with Elle. His words. And Westbrook looks better than anything else we've got. I think we should go with it."

When she didn't reply, he pressed on. "Are you a cop, Stacy? Or Westbrook's sister-in-law? You can't be both."

He was right, d.a.m.n him.

"Fine," she said. "Let's make the call."

FOURTEEN.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003.

5:15 p.m.

Jane came up from the studio, humming under her breath. She had made the molds of Anne's face, thighs and pubis, right hip, shoulder and breast. Ted had promised to stay until he had them metal-ready. Time was growing tight and if she wanted to include Anne in the show, she needed to move on to the next step of the process in the morning.

The process was simple, almost too simple. In fact, she had been criticized for its simplicity. She cast the molds in plaster. Once dry, rough surfaces were smoothed, pits and bubbles filled and smoothed again. When the mold was ready, using solder wire and a propane torch, she heated the metal to its liquid state and liter-ally dripped the molten metal into the mold. No foundry, lost wax, sprues, centrifuge, lifts, pulleys or the like.

In graduate school she had worked in the traditional cast-metal techniques. She had created ma.s.sive works that had required a huge studio s.p.a.ce, a full foundry and the help of several of her fellow grad students to bring the pieces to completion.

She had found the process inhibiting. Incongruous with her vision.

Jane had stumbled upon her present mode of working while sorting through her mother's things after her death, her lace wedding veil among them. When she had fitted the veil on, she had been taken by the way her features had been defined by the lace.

It had called to her. Intrigued her. She had asked herself: how could she create the same effect in her work?

After several years of trial and error, she had settled on the solder.

What her process lacked in gadgetry, it made up for in sheer time consumption. Not only did she build the sculptures one drip at a time, she stopped every few moments to a.s.sess her progress and study the emerging image.

The material, a mixture of tin, lead and in her case, silver, made the finished product beautiful, lighter in

weight than traditional bronze but still permanent. The surface could be polished or a patina added.

She stepped from her studio into the loft foyer, turned and locked the door. Ranger bounded in, tail wagging.

"Hey, buddy," she said, bending to scratch behind his ears. "You have a good day?"

He whined and gazed up at her adoringly. "How about a walk before Ian gets home?"

"Too late. I'm already here."

"Ian?" Frowning Jane glanced at her watch and crossed the foyer to the kitchen. She found her husband

there, standing at the picture window, staring out at the Dallas skyline. Their loft provided a clear view of the Chase Tower, also called the Keyhole Building because of its dramatic and distinctive cutaway. At night it was particularly beautiful, as the gla.s.s top was illuminated with spotlights set into the building's midsection.

She crossed to his side. She saw he held a gla.s.s of red wine. "You're early. Bad day?"

He brought the gla.s.s to his lips. "You could say that."

"You should have come to the studio. I'd have quit early."

"I needed some time alone." He looked at her then. She made a sound of dismay. His eyes were red, as

if he had been crying.

"What's wrong?" she said softly. "What's happened?"

"The police came by the office this afternoon."

"The police?" she repeated, feeling his words like a blow. "Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. They questioned me about Elle some more. About our relationship.

Same things they asked last night."

"Was Stacy-"

"Yes."

Anger took her breath. A sense of betrayal. "I saw her today. I stopped by headquarters. She didn't say

anything about questioning-"

She bit the words back. Of course she didn't.

Jane curved her arms over her middle. "I told her about the baby. I was trying to mend fences. It didn't go well."

"She's just doing her job."

Jane looked away. Placing a finger under her chin, he turned her face toward his. "If it helps, she was

apologetic. Seemed almost embarra.s.sed to be there."

"You always stick up for her."

"I have to."

"And why is that?"

"She introduced us. I owe her."

Jane's anger melted away. She wrapped her arms around his middle and tipped her face to his. "I love

you."

He bent, kissed her lightly, then stepped away from her embrace. "The truth is, I don't think they were there to talk to me."

"Then who?"

"Marsha."

Marsha Tanner was Ian's office manager. She had been his a.s.sistant at the Dallas Center for Cosmetic

Surgery. Jane drew her eyebrows together. "But why?"

"I don't know." He frowned. "They questioned her privately."

"Did she say anything afterward? Give you any indication what they talked about?"

He shook his head. "They weren't with her for more than a couple minutes. But she-" He bit the words

off.

"But what?" she coaxed.

"She acted strangely after they left."

"What do you mean?"

He met her eyes. "Secretive. Guilty. Like she had-"

Again he bit the word back; again Jane pressed him to finish his thought.