See Jane Die Part 85

The way she had been that day in the water.

"The first victim was key. We needed to find a woman who had been both Ian's patient and lover. A woman who wouldn't hesitate to fall into bed with me. Elle was perfect."

"You arranged to meet her at La Plaza."

"She did," he corrected. "The woman had a voracious s.e.xual appet.i.te."

"How did you find her?"

"Davey boy. Marsha trusted him, because of you. He happened to b.u.mp into her at her favorite

coffeehouse. He made it a regular thing. Chatted her up. Pretended great interest in all her plastic surgery stories."

Jane fought to maintain a semblance of calm. "Elle was one of Marsha's stories."

"You got it. She didn't care for the woman. Didn't know why her boss had ever had anything to do with her."

"But why?" she whispered. "Why have you done all this to me?"

He leaned toward her and she saw amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes. She ealized he was enjoying himself. "The money, Jane. Of course, the money. All those pretty millions of yours."

He grasped either end of the cord, wrapped them around his hands and gave them a tug. "Unfortunately I

arrived too late to save you. Of course, I didn't know that and had to shoot Nash to get him to release you."

His call to Stacy. Dave's prints on the cord. It all fit.

"Stacy will be devastated, but I'll be there to help her through her grief. I'll be the man she's always dreamed of." He moved to-ward her, his smile chilling. "Dave knew all of Stacy's fears as well."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she cried. "Leave her alone!"

He laughed softly. "Sorry, no can do. In fact, I'm thinking she and I will marry. The sooner the better.

We'll live happily ever after...at least until one of us pa.s.ses away. Prematurely. Tragically."

Jane darted her glance from right to left, realizing he had trapped her. At least if she forced him to use his

gun, she would make it harder for him to get away with it.

Stacy wouldn't just accept; she would be suspicious. She would uncover the truth. She wouldn't fall for

his tricks.

Dear G.o.d, please, don't let her fall for them.

Jane made a run for it. He caught her easily. Laughing, he dragged her against his broad chest. Got the

cord around her neck. In the kitchen, it sounded as if Ranger was going to tear his kennel apart.

Jane fought. She didn't have a chance at escaping, she knew that. Her hope was to mark him in a way that would raise suspicion. Stacy's suspicion. His fellow officers'.

"Enough," he muttered, and tightened his grip.

Pinp.r.i.c.ks of light danced before her eyes. Jane clawed at his hands; the gloves protected him. She

kicked, her efforts ineffective. Her feet slipped out from under her. From the corners of her eyes, she

saw a flash of black and white. Ranger, she realized, her vision dimming. He had torn his kennel apart.

The next instant she was sprawled on the floor. Free. Coughing, gasping for breath. She heard Mac's grunt of pain, the animal's snarl. A shot rang out. A high whine of pain followed.

Ranger! G.o.d, no!

"f.u.c.k this!" Mac shouted, dragging her back to her feet. "Come on, then. Time to see Jane die."

SIXTY-EIGHT.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

7:35 p.m.

From the street-level foyer, Stacy heard the gunshot, an animal's cry of pain. She holstered her cell phone and heart pounding, raced up the stairs, gun out, hugging the stairwell wall. She prayed she wasn't too late.

Her cheeks were wet. While with her captain and the Internal affairs officers she had realized the truth: Dave didn't have the ability to pull off this plan on his own. He'd had an accomplice.

Someone who understood the intricacies of crime scenes and the laws of evidence. Someone who'd had a connection to all the play-ers: a snitch, a prost.i.tute, the prosecution and the homicide divi-sion of the Dallas Police Department.

And a connection to her.

Mac was the one. He had worked Vice. He had most probably met Dave because of his gambling problems. By his own account, he had used Doobie's services. And she would bet if she dug into Sa.s.sy's file, she would see that Mac McPherson had been the ar-resting officer on one-or several-of her busts. He was the only one who had known about her checking out the La Plaza security tape and showing it to her sister.

He had set her up. Tipped Internal Affairs. To tie her up while he completed the last part of his plan.

Killing Jane.

All the pieces had fallen into place while the IA guys and her captain had been questioning her. It had

been so clear. When he had transferred to Homicide, Mac had requested to partner with Stacy. She had a.s.sumed their partnership had been the captain's doing.

She had asked her captain if it was true. He'd confirmed it.

The last piece of the puzzle.

They hadn't believed her, of course. Had thought her claim that Mac was a murderer a pathetic attempt

to divert. To exonerate her. So she had asked to use the bathroom and had simply walked out.

Knowing they would come after her. Praying they would.

Jane's door stood open. She heard the sounds of a scuffle: a man grunt of exertion, Ranger's whimpers of

pain. Heart in her throat, Stacy stepped through, gun drawn.

No time to wait for back-up.

"Back off, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she shouted. "Back the f.u.c.k off, now!"

Mac loosened his grip but didn't release Jane. He grimaced. "You made it. I'm surprised. I thought this

afternoon's visit from Internal Affairs would keep you tied up longer."

"Outsmarted them." She narrowed her eyes. "The anonymous tip to IA did come from you."

"Yes, indeed. And the evidence-room log confirmed its accuracy. Clever, yes?"

She thought of the cell phone, the call she had sent a moment before she started up Jane's stairs. Not as

clever as he thought. If the call went through.

"And when you transferred in, you asked to be partnered with me."

"Right again. Said I admired your work. Thought we'd make a good team. Captain jumped on the

opportunity. Because of your history as Ball-buster Killian." He grinned. "None of those losers knew how to get to you. Lesser men, all."

He was so proud of himself, it made her sick. "You're not as smart as you think, McPherson."

"And you're not as surprised as I expected. What tipped you?"

"Crime-scene photo of the dead prost.i.tute. Or should I call her the bag lady from the alley?"

When he looked blank, she went on. "I traded her my crucifix for the phone. I must have neglected to tell you. So sorry."

"And it was pictured in the crime-scene photo. Son of a b.i.t.c.h."

She firmed her grip on the Glock, careful to keep her gaze trained on Mac, her focus on getting the job done. If she dared a look at Jane, she feared she would lose it.

"You're the only one who had a connection to all the players." He swore again and she smiled grimly. "You know," she said, "at the time I traded, I felt funny about doing it. Like G.o.d wouldn't be with me if I wasn't wearing it. Looks like the opposite was true. He was looking out for me all along."

Mac sneered at that. Her suggestion of a higher power, that nothing but a glitch had skewered his plans. But she would expect no less from an amoral, murdering a.s.shole. She told him so.

He flushed. "You needed a prop, Stacy. A trick. Some detective you are. All along, I gave you clues. Didn't I tell you, don't get emotionally involved? That when emotionally involved, you make mistakes? What did you do? Fall right into the sack with the bad guy. Didn't I tell you again and again that Jane was wrong about the boater? That she wanted to believe it, so she did? Jesus, Stacy, get a clue!"