See Jane Die Part 11

"This is my partner. Mac McPherson."

"Good to meet you," he said and held out a hand.

Jane took it. "You, too."

"We need to speak with Ian." Stacy bent and scratched Ranger behind the ears. "Is he home?"

"Ian?" Jane repeated, confused. She shifted her gaze between the two. Stacy looked apologetic; the man

intent. "What about?"

"Police business, Jane. Sorry."

"He's in the kitchen. Come on in."

Ian looked up when they entered the kitchen. "Stacy," he said warmly. "Long time no see."

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, crossed to her and kissed her cheeks. "You haven't been around

much. We've missed you."

Jane noticed how her sister's cheeks pinkened, noticed how pleased she seemed with Ian's attention. Why hadn't she hugged her sister? Why hadn't she greeted her with a smile or even a few words of welcome? Why couldn't she be happy to see her?

Maybe Dave was right. Maybe both of them had become mirrors for the other. One of them needed to break the cycle.

"That's right," Jane echoed. "We've missed you."

The words landed flatly between them, sounding false even to Jane's ears.

Stacy looked at her. Jane flushed. Ian stepped in, laying an arm over Jane's shoulders. "I hope you'll stay for dinner." He smiled at Stacy's companion. "Both of you."

"Ian," Jane said, realizing that he thought Stacy's visit a social one, her companion a boyfriend. "This is Stacy's partner."

The man stepped forward. "Mac McPherson. We're here in an official capacity, Dr. Westbrook."

Ian's eyebrows shot up. He shook the man's hand. "This is a bizarre twist on the evening."

Stacy offered a rea.s.suring smile. "I suppose it is, though 'official capacity' sounds way too serious. Sorry about the timing."

Ian motioned to the table. "Have a seat. Can I get either of you a gla.s.s of wine? Some tea or-"

"Nothing," Stacy said. "Thanks, anyway."

The detectives and Ian sat; Jane stood. Stacy began. "Ian, do you know a woman named Elle

Vanmeer?"

He looked surprised. "Elle? Sure. She's a patient of mine. Why?"

Stacy ignored his question. "How long have you known her?"

"Let me think." He tapped his index finger on the tabletop, as if using it to count. "She first became a

patient of mine when I was with the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery. So, four or five years, I think. I could check my files."

"She's had you perform a number of procedures on her, hasn't she?"

"Yes," he conceded, though he looked uncomfortable.

"Which ones?"

"As I'm sure you understand, that information is privileged."

"She's dead, Ian," Stacy said bluntly. "Murdered."

"My G.o.d." Jane brought a hand to her mouth. She looked at Ian; he appeared shaken.

"How? When?"

"Last night sometime. Her body was discovered this morning."

Mac spoke. "We're hoping you can help us find her killer, Dr. Westbrook."

"Me?" He glanced up at Jane, then back at the detectives.

"I imagine you knew her well. Her fears and longings. Her most intimate secrets."

"I was her plastic surgeon," Ian said stiffly, "not her shrink."

Stacy stepped in, sending her partner an irritated glance. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Ian, but it seems

natural that your patients would confide in you. After all, aren't the reasons most of them seek your services emotional? Their husband is looking at younger women. Their boyfriend prefers big b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Their lover dumps them. They turn to you for help."

"True," he conceded. "Cosmetic surgery is elective. Something propels the patient to seek to change their appearance. And yes, most often the decision is based on an emotional need. But as for why she was murdered or helping you catch her kill-"

Mac cut him off. "And what was Elle Vanmeer's emotional reason for altering her appearance?"

Ian frowned. "Elle was obsessed with her physical appearance and with aging."

"Why?"

The detective all but barked the word at her husband and Jane interceded, her back up. "She didn't need

some great tragedy to feel that way. Day in and out I talk to women who are obsessed with the same things. Beautiful women who are, quite frankly, desperate."

"Why's that?" Mac questioned. "It seems a little off to me."

"It is off and not just a little." She folded her arms across her chest. "A reflection of our society's screwed-up value system. If you have any doubt that's true, open a magazine or turn on the television.

Take a look at the women. They're all young, thin and beautiful."

"So?"

"So, that tells women they have to look that way to not only succeed in our culture, but to be loved."

"So they turn to plastic surgery."

Something in his tone rankled. "I bet if your self-image was tied to your physical appearance, judged

against an unrealistic ideal put forth by the media, you'd do whatever you could to maintain that ideal. I bet you'd be frightened, even desperate, if you saw it slipping away. Am I right, Detective? Would you?"

"We're just doing our jobs," Stacy said softly. "That's all."

Ian curled his fingers around Jane's. "As you know, Stacy, my wife feels pa.s.sionately about this subject.

What she described is an accurate portrayal of Elle's feelings. The feeling of many of my patients, for that matter. Elle generally groused about whatever man she was seeing, but mostly complained about aging. About not looking as good as she used to. I know that won't help you much, but that was Elle."

"When did you last see her?"

"Elle? A month ago, I guess. She came in to discuss thora-coplasty." "And that is?"

"Not what she thought it was. Basically, having a rib shortened to correct a rib-hump deformity."

"What did she think it was?"

"The removal of ribs to alter her shape. Make her waist smaller."

"You're s.h.i.tting me." That came from Mac.

"Rumors have circulated for years that a number of celebrities have had it done. Cher. Jane Fonda.

Pamela Anderson. Among others."

"So you didn't agree to perform the procedure?"

"Of course not. As I explained, thoracoplasty is not a cosmetic procedure. The ribs protect major

organs. I suggested she think about waist liposuction, which is in fact what celebrities like Cher have used

to achieve their new, reduced waistlines."

"Elle was only forty-two," Stacy said. "That seems young to have had so many procedures. Did she need them?"

"The answer to that is totally subjective. Obviously, she felt she needed the enhancements."

"Did you feel she did?" she pressed.

"That wasn't my call. If I had turned her away, she would have gone elsewhere."

Mac snorted.

"Look," Ian said, leaning forward, "there are currently two schools of thought concerning when to seek

cosmetic surgery. One is to begin lifting and tucking before the signs of aging appear. The other school is the traditional one-"

"Wait until aging is obvious."