her house had been reconnected, Smith pointed the beam of her Maglite at the back door. “If you look close you can see a couple of scratches from where they picked the lock and the high-security dead bolt.”
Since the intruders had already turned off the alarm system, breaking out a window would have been a simpler way to gain access. The neatly picked locks showed a level of finesse that made him think these guys were professionals. In her written account, Jayne had described a whispery voice with a slight accent.
As he strolled through Jayne’s house with Smith nodding to the forensic team, he noticed an eclectic sense of decorating that seemed to mimic the pattern of off-and-on renovations. He believed you could tell a lot about a person from their living space. If that was true, Jayne had multiple personalities.
Her renovated kitchen was ultramodern, sleek and uncluttered. Directional lighting shimmered on polished granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances and a parquet floor. This room told him that a modern, classy woman lived here...not necessarily someone who cooked but someone who appreciated gourmet food.
Walking through the archway into the dining room and living room was like entering a different house. The chairs and tables lacked any sort of cohesive style. The walls were bland beige and empty, without artwork or photographs. The only notable feature was a dusted and polished baby grand piano. From these rooms, he might conclude that Jayne didn’t do much entertaining at home and was passionate about her piano playing. The sheet music on the stand was for Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.”
He caught a quick glimpse of the library opposite the staircase at the front door. The big, heavy, rosewood desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves showed an old-fashioned sensibility and a reverence for tradition. Not like the kitchen at all.
Climbing the carved oak staircase, he noticed the loud creak on the third step that had alerted Jayne to the intruders. The stairs and banister had been cleaned and refinished but otherwise remained unchanged from when the house was built in the 1920s. The same held true for the carved crown molding on the upstairs landing. Again, he had the feeling that she appreciated the work of a long-ago craftsman and was perhaps old-fashioned.
Her bedroom, which had been redesigned in shades of peach and gray, looked like the sanctuary of a fairy-tale princess...a tasteful princess but super feminine with a dainty little crystal chandelier. Set aside on a chair were three stuffed animals, all cats with white fur. The kitties were worn but sparkling clean. Though he didn’t see any fresh flowers, the room smelled of roses and cinnamon.
He doubted that anybody had sex in this room. There was zero hint of testosterone apart from the forensic guy who was crawling around on the carpet, peering and poking into the fibers.
Dylan noticed the wineglass on the bedside table. In her account, Jayne mentioned spilling the wine but never said that she’d picked up the glass.
“Excuse me,” he said.
The CSI popped up. “Who are you?”
Smith said, “He’s with me. Are you about done in here? We need to get some clothes for the owner.”
“I’m wrapping it up.” Like Smith, he held a Maglite with a beam that flashed wildly when he gestured. “How come we’re making such a big deal about this break-in? Nobody got killed.”
“A weird situation,” Smith said, “what with cutting the power and disabling the alarm system and all. Have you found anything?”
“A bunch of prints, but they all belong to the lady who lives here and her employees—a maid and a cook.”
“How did you get them read so fast?” Dylan asked.
“Computer identifications, plus I’ve got one of those handheld fingerprint-readers.” As he stood, he picked his satchel up off the floor. “Everything I need to break open a crime is right in here.”
“When you arrived,” Dylan said, “was this wineglass on the floor?”
“No, sir, it was standing right where it is.”
“Have you checked it for prints?”
“I’ll be doing that right now.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m done with the closet and the dresser, if you need to pack.”
Dylan found Jayne’s hard yellow suitcase with spinner wheels in the back of the closet right where she said it would be. The organization of her clothing and shoes was impeccable, and he would have thought she was obsessive-compulsive but those characteristics didn’t fit with the casual messiness downstairs. He packed the three outfits that she had described precisely. One was for before the operation, then a pair of baby-blue scrubs and then another outfit for post-op.
When he opened the top drawer of her dresser, there was an outburst of colorful silk and satin. Jayne had mad, wild taste in panties and bras. He held up a black lace thong and a leopard bra. For a long moment, he stood and stared.
She baffled him. A brainy neurosurgeon who wore stripper underwear and played ragtime on her baby grand. Who was this woman? He needed to find out more about her.
The CSI made a harrumphing noise. “I’ve got two prints on this glass—a thumb and a forefinger. And they don’t look like all the others.”
“Run them,” Smith ordered. “I’ll step over here and help Dylan pick out the right undies.”
When she rapped his knuckles, he gratefully dropped the thong and said, “I’d appreciate your help.”
She lectured on why most women wouldn’t want to wear a thong in the operating room and how a sports bra was most comfortable for a long day’s work. Her anatomical details were too much information for Dylan.
The CSI had turned away and kept his focus on his handheld fingerprint-matching device while Dylan followed Smith across the landing to the incredible bathroom. With the marble and a fluffy white throw rug, this space was as feminine as the bedroom, but there was a difference. The bedroom was suitable for a princess. The bathroom was meant for a sensual queen.
Smith made quick work of packing the essentials on Jayne’s list. They were almost ready to leave when the CSI stepped into the doorway. “I’ve got a match for these prints.”
“And a name?” Dylan asked.
“You’re not going to like it.”
* * *
JAYNE APPROVED OF the downtown Denver hotel where Dylan had arranged for a suite, but she wasn’t pleased that he’d called in one of his partners to drive the car to the hotel and accompany them onto the elevator and into the room.
While Dylan stood beside her with one hand clamped around her upper arm, ready to yank her out of there at the first hint of danger, his partner, Mason Steele, drew his gun. Looking like a secret agent from an espionage movie, Mason searched the attractively furnished outer room with the sofa, chairs, table, television and kitchenette. He nodded to Dylan before entering the adjoining bedroom.
Though impressed by their professionalism, Jayne didn’t appreciate the show. She had a real life. No time for games. “Tell me again why all this is necessary.”
“Standard procedure,” he said. “When we take you to a new place, we search. It only seems overprotective because
