See Jane Die Part 64

looked back at her. "What I said earlier, I meant it. I love you, Jane. I'd never do anything to hurt you."

FORTY-NINE.

Sat.u.r.day, November 8, 2003

1:45 a.m.

The phone dragged Jane from a deep sleep. She found the receiver, brought it to her ear. "H'lo."

"Jane? It's Ted."

"Ted?" She sat up, struggling to hear over the noise on the line. 'Where are you?"

"I found her," he shouted. "A bar in Fair Par...th...ole."

"The what? Hole?" she repeated, uncertain if she had heard correctly.

"I'm go...to follow...er."

"No!" She pressed the phone tighter to her ear. "That's not a good idea. Stacy's here, I'll get her-"

"No nee...in control. Gotta go...she's-" She heard voices, then a sharp clacking sound.

"Ted! What-"

"-call you when I know more."

"No, please-"

The line went dead. Heart thundering, Jane held the receiver to her ear for a moment before hanging up. She lay back against her pillow. Should she wake Stacy? She glanced toward the bedside clock. Ted said he had it under control. That he would be careful. She wasn't even certain which bar he had called from.

He would be fine. Tomorrow he would fill her in and Stacy could take over.

Jane closed her eyes, acknowledging the chance of her falling back to sleep was slim and that the hours until daylight would be long, filled with worries.

And with the loneliness of her empty bed. She missed Ian. She longed for the child that would never be.

She wondered if her life would ever be easy-or good-again.

FIFTY Sat.u.r.day November 8, 2003 9:10 a.m.

Stacy pulled into Mac's driveway, threw her Bronco into Park and flipped open her console-mounted cell phone. She punched in Mac's number; he answered, voice thick with sleep.

"Shake it off, McPherson. I'm in your driveway."

He hung up without responding and she got out of her vehicle. She hitched her handbag higher on her

shoulder, computer print-outs tucked safely inside.

She reached his front door at the exact moment he swung it open. He wore a pair a boxer shorts and

nothing else. His naked chest and the expanse of belly revealed by the boxers were nothing short of spectacular.

His bloodshot eyes were another matter. "Big night last night?" she asked.

"I was feeling sorry for myself. Hooked up with a couple of my old buddies from Vice. Drank too much.

Stayed out too late. Feel like c.r.a.p today."

She arched an eyebrow. "Is that the world's smallest violin I hear? Playing just for-"

"Play this." He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, slamming the door behind her as she landed

against that magnificent chest.

His mouth came down on hers. He took it with authority, backing her up to the door, pressing her against it.

She allowed herself a moment of pure pleasure, then ducked out of his arms. "Sorry, McPherson. We've

got bad guys to catch."

"But it's Sat.u.r.day morning. Early Sat.u.r.day morning."

"Criminals don't take the weekend off, do they? Neither can we." She slapped him on the rump. "Move it." Instead, with a laugh, he hauled her against his chest once more. She pressed her palms against it in a halfhearted attempt to push him away.

"Mac-"

"Hmm?" He slid his hands to her f.a.n.n.y, cupped her and drew her closer. He was fully aroused. Ready.

She imagined making love there, against the door. Him thrusting into her. Her thrusting back. Crying out in release.

"It's about my sister," she managed. "It's import-"

"I'm not thinking about your sister right now. Only you, Stacy Killian. Only you."

The words, their husky promise, filled her head. She grew drunk on them; they crowded out other, more urgent thoughts.

And as they did, he let her go.

"Bad guys to catch," he said with a smirk.

She blinked, disoriented. "What?"

"Bad guys. Important." He headed for his bedroom.

"I'm starting to think I don't like you," she called after him. "In fact, I'm pretty sure of it."

He laughed. "Yeah, right. We'll talk about it later."

While Mac showered and dressed, Stacy made coffee. She was delighted to see he had bought a loaf of

bread, and she popped a couple of slices into the toaster.

He arrived just as she had slathered peanut b.u.t.ter on both pieces.

"You're an angel," he said, taking the toast and mug she held out.

"And you're a devil. I can't believe I'm being so nice after that stunt you just pulled."

"I'll make it up to you."

"If you're lucky." She licked peanut b.u.t.ter off her thumb. "The lab called this morning. We got a print

match. You were right, Jack-man's been using an alias."

"Real name?"

"Jack Theodore Mann."

"Priors?"

"Oh, yeah." She stood on tiptoes, kissed him, then dropped back onto her heels. "I'll fill you in on the road. Figured I'd pay Mr. Jackman a little visit this morning. Figured you might want to tag along?"

"You figured right. But you drive. I've got a screamer of a headache."

They left his house and climbed into her Bronco. She fastened her belt and started up the vehicle. "Here."

She dug the printouts from her purse, handed them to him, then pulled away from the curb.

"Mr. Mann's been a busy boy," Mac said. "Possession. Dishonorable discharge from the navy. a.s.sault and battery. A couple years in the state pen. Bet none of that made it onto his resume."

"No joke. But none of it makes him a murderer."

"What does it make him?" Stacy countered, glancing at her partner. "That's what I'm wondering."

Ted lived on Elm, above a disreputable-looking tattoo parlor named Tiny Tim's. Stacy wondered if the

name referred to the character in d.i.c.kens's A Christmas Carol or the musician from the seventies who

had played a ukulele and sung about tiptoeing through the tulips.

She was leaning toward the musician simply because the walls were painted in free-form, psychedelic-looking flowers.