Protector. Part 35

"That's easy for you to say."

Jane lit a cigarette. "Not only is she an A-1 cla.s.s brat, she's one of the worst country line dancers I have ever seen!"

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

"Lift up your depressed little head and look! They're like robots! Look how stiff her back is. Sure, her feet are in rhythm with the beat and she knows the steps, but she's not breathing any personality into the moves. It's like somebody shoved a key up her a.s.s, wound her up and said, 'Dance!' "

"How would you know anything about country line dancing? You're a cop!"

"Yeah, well maybe I spent every Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day night country dancing before you were a twinkle in your daddy's eye!"

Emily was astonished. "Really?"

"s.h.i.t, yes!" Jane took another drag and glanced back across the street. "Idiots!"

"Are you any good?" Emily said, truly impressed by this news.

"Let's just say I stopped counting the awards a few years ago!"

"Awards?" Jane nodded. The wheels started turning in Emily's head. "So, you still remember how it's done?"

"Every single step," Jane said, returning her attention to the car.

"You know, I saw this old CD boom box up in the attic. And The Apple Cart has a bunch of country CDs at the checkout counter. And being that you're an award-winning country line dancer and the fact that we've got nothing better to do here . . . Well, I was just thinking . . ."

Emily looked longingly at Jane. Jane glanced her way and then across the street to Heather. "Oh, what the h.e.l.l-"

Within minutes, Jane and Emily were standing in line at The Apple Cart with a stack of brand-new country CDs in tow. After dusting off the boom box from the attic and putting in fresh batteries, Jane plopped in the first CD and cranked up the volume. Standing with her back to Emily to demonstrate the various steps, Jane took Emily through the paces in a kind of "Line Dancing 101" intensive. With cigarette bobbing between her lips, Jane proved to be as good a dancer as she said she was. Emily, while slightly stiff in her approach at first, was a fast learner and a natural when it came to memorizing complicated patterns of steps. After four hours of practice, Emily had then mechanics down pat, along with the infectious enthusiasm. The only thing missing to complete her look was a pair of two-toned brown leather cowboy boots, a cream-colored western style shirt with black piping and a stiff pair of dark denim jeans. Jane agreed and spent one hundred forty dollars of the Denver PD's allowance on the outfit. The thrill of owning a genuine pair of line dancing cowboy boots consumed Emily for days, as did her attention to perfecting the various dance steps that Jane taught her. During those few days, it was as though a dark cloud had been lifted from Emily's life. For the first time since her parent's murder, she was free from the gloom and trauma.

Several days before the Peach Pit Days Carnival, Dan unexpectedly showed up at the house. It was late afternoon and Emily was on the front lawn, head focused on her feet as she ran through another set of dance steps.

"Well, look at the new line dancin' queen!" Dan said, pulling his toolbox from the bed of the truck.

"Hi, Dan!" Emily said, a dreamy smile plastered across her face.

"You fixin' to give those other line dancers some compet.i.tion?"

"Nah. I'm just having fun." Emily looked at his truck. "Is that new?"

"Yup," Dan said patting his adhesive business logo that had just been secured to the side door.

Jane opened the front door and walked outside. "Dan got a new truck!" Emily exclaimed.

Jane had noticed his new acquisition from inside the house. "That must have set you back a bit," Jane said, quickly realizing she sounded like one of those annoying small town hens.

"Actually, it didn't set me back a penny. I do all the electrical maintenance for the Ford dealership over in Montrose. It's one of my many side jobs. Anyway, instead of payin' me, we worked out this agreement where they trade me a new dealer truck every summer. In the long run, I reckon I'm pullin' the better end of the trade."

"Hey, Dan!" Emily said with a grin. "You oughta work for a place that sells fishing equipment. Then you'd get all your stuff for free!"

"Say, I like that idea! And maybe I could convince them to throw in a boat!"

"Forget the boat!" Jane interjected. "I know someone who just got one and last I heard he was already investing in a new motor. It's like they say, 'boats are just big holes in the water into which you throw money.' "

"Okay, you convinced me. Hey, is that slidin' door in the kitchen still stickin'?"

"Yeah. It worked for awhile after you fixed it, but I d.a.m.n near couldn't open it the other morning."

Dan followed Jane into the kitchen and went to work. Jane observed that his mood was different when they were alone together. He looked down the hallway to make sure Emily was still outside. "You heard from your husband?"

Jane no longer found herself taking umbrage at Dan's desire to protect her. "No."

"You didn't call him or anything?"

"What's all this about?"

He seemed a bit embarra.s.sed. "Look, you know that I'm not a busybody and I only want the best for you. I promised I would never tell a soul about your situation and I haven't-"

"Cut to the chase, Dan," Jane said abruptly.

Dan placed his tools back into the box and snapped it shut. "Aw . . ." he said, ashamed to say any more but knowing he had to. "I was eatin' at The Harvest Cafe and I overheard Sheriff George talkin' to someone about how he came up on you and Emily on the side of the road last Wednesday night and how Emily was throwin' up 'cause of some fruit she ate at Kathy's shindig-"

"So? Is that the banner headline of this week's Peachville Gazette?"

"The conversation got goin' and the other fellow-he's this farmer that has a place down the road a mile from The Pit Stop-anyway, he was sayin' that he's seen you talkin' on the pay phone outside The Pit Stop late at night a couple times."

Jane stiffened. "Is that illegal in Peachville?"

"Of course not. It's just that folks around here take note of who's buyin' bread at 11:00 at night, who's walkin' their dog at three in the mornin' and who's-"

"Talking on the pay phone outside The Pit Stop after everyone is in bed," Jane said, finishing his sentence.

Dan nodded. "Look, there's a couple things goin' on here. The first one has to do with me. I was just worried that you were callin' your husband and fixin' to meet him or get back with him."

"I was not calling my husband and I have no intention of going back to him." Dan looked relieved. "You said there's a couple things?"

"Oh, it's just stupid, that's what it is. The Sheriff seems to be under some false impression that you're . . ." Dan couldn't get the words out.

"That I'm what, Dan?" Jane knew the answer but she wanted to hear it from Dan's lips.

"Somehow he thinks that you've harmed Patty. It's just all twisted! But that's a small town for you!" Jane figured she had Kathy to thank for the call to Sheriff George after their tense visit to her house and abrupt exit. "I can't be sure, but I think the sheriff is gonna do some checkin' on you-"

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Jane said under her breath and nervously lighting a cigarette.

"I think you oughta bite the bullet and come clean with him!"

"I can't!"

"I know your husband's a cop and that talkin' to the sheriff could put out some sort of alert that would tip him off to where you are. But, I think if you talk to Sheriff George and explain the situation, he could protect you and Patty from retribution-"

"No! I absolutely cannot involve the sheriff!" Jane buried her head in her hand. "G.o.d, what a mess! Exactly what is he planning on checking?"

"I would imagine arrests for abuse or warrants out on you."

"Well, he won't find any of those," Jane said, taking a drag on her cigarette.

"He'll find your name attached to the abuse report against your husband."

"There is no abuse report."

"You didn't tell the cops what he did to you and Patty?"

"I would have but it was more important that we just throw what we could in the car and get out of town," Jane said, stumbling over her words.

"Look, I know the cops are worthless, but you should have at least reported what he did to you to get it on record in case he finds you."

"Well, I didn't!" Jane said irritated, crossing into the kitchen as she considered her options. "The sheriff can't do much of anything without a driver's license or social security number," Jane mumbled more to herself. "He could run my license plate . . . Oh, s.h.i.t!" Jane said, realizing that the plate would either trace back to the original owner-a felon for meth trafficking-or to the Denver PD who acquired the vehicle in the drug seizure. Either way, she was screwed. "s.h.i.t!" Jane said, p.i.s.sed at Weyler and DH for choosing not to alert the local sheriff and making her job more complicated. "I gotta buy myself some time," Jane said decisively, squashing out her cigarette in the sink.

"What do you mean?"

"I've gotta figure out a way to take the heat off myself for just a little longer. I can't have the sheriff digging around or certain things could get very compromised." She turned to Dan. "Maybe you could talk to him. Vouch for me-"

"I can't just walk up to him cold turkey and start stickin' up for you. He might wonder what I was up to."

"Yeah, you're right." Jane paced back and forth. "Maybe you could make up some story about Patty. Tell him she's sick or has some kind of disease."

"What disease?"

"A blood disease. That's vague enough. Tell him that she's in remission but I'm real clingy around her because I'm afraid she's going to relapse. Tell him I told you the story in confidence but you figured he should know the truth just to stop the rumors."

"What if he doesn't buy it?"

"He'll buy it if you sell it good enough."

"I don't know, Jane."

"Dan, you stood right there and told me not too long ago that you would do anything you could to protect Patty and me. Now, I'm just asking you to tell a little white lie to buy me some time. Talk to the sheriff, Dan. I'll take care of the rest."

For the next few days, Jane felt as though a fire was lit underneath her feet. The more she considered her situation, the angrier she became. In her mind, for the past three and a half weeks, she'd become a sitting duck, held hostage to the whims of the Denver PD and, soon, to the microscope of a small-town sheriff. Never in her life had she rolled over so easily and allowed herself to be played like a puppet. As far as Jane was concerned, those days were over. "f.u.c.k 'em," became her mantra. She didn't feel that she could trust Weyler, although her concern regarding his ethics and integrity were murky. Her mind kept going back to his statement about discovering "internal problems downstairs." While Weyler had a.s.sured her that those problems had nothing to do with her case, her gut told her differently. And she always listened to her gut.

She had to figure out a way to call Ron d.i.c.kson. Then she had to convince him to check the Property Report Form for that elusive silver cigarette case that somehow jumped from the crime scene photo and into the hands of the homeless man. It went against the rules of the game but Jane knew she had to start making her own rules.

At least, that's what she told herself as she stood in front of the pay phone outside The Pit Stop. Jane knew that the evidence room was usually quiet in the late afternoon. Fortunately, she remembered the direct line to Ron's phone. She also remembered that Ron took breaks around 11 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. She figured she could catch him coming back from his break around 4:00 and cut a deal while he was still giddy from the candy bar and bottle of pop. While Emily stood outside the Subaru, practicing her line dancing steps in the parking lot, Jane dialed the number. It rang twice before someone picked up.

"Evidence, Johnson." Johnson? Jane was taken aback. Johnson was a lackey who worked the back room. "h.e.l.lo?" Johnson said. "Is someone there?"

Jane's first reaction was to hang up the phone but she'd gotten this far and she needed to keep going. She lowered her voice in a weak attempt to alter her voice. "I need to talk to Ron d.i.c.kson."

"Ron's not here. Can I help you?" Johnson asked.

"No. I need to talk to Ron. When is he back from his break?"

"Who is this?"

"When is Ron back from his break?" Jane said, undeterred.

"Ron's on suspension."

"Suspension?" At that point, Jane heard Chris' voice in the background. She knew it went against policy, but she had to find out what was going on. "Put Detective Crawley on the phone!"

Jane felt her heart race as Johnson handed the phone to Chris.

"Who's this?" Chris asked in his usual gruff tone.

"It's me."

Chris quickly spoke to Johnson. "Hey, I need privacy for a bit. Thanks . . ." Chris waited several seconds, then pressed his lips into the receiver. "Jane, where the f.u.c.k are you?" he asked in a thick whisper. "I need to talk to you in private. Give me your phone number and I'll call you back from the pay phone down the street. That way, no one here can trace the call."

"Chris, I can't! I'm not supposed to be talking to anybody!"

"Then why are you calling Ron d.i.c.kson? Anything you can tell Ron, you can certainly tell me! I'm still your partner, for G.o.d's sake!"

Jane felt the walls closing in on her. She quickly regretted concocting this wild scheme. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Chris. Why is Ron suspended?"

"It seems that your sweet little Christian pal has a pesky cocaine habit!"

"What?" Jane was floored.

"And guess where he was scoring his c.o.ke?"

"From evidence?" Jane said, skeptically.

"You got it!"

"Has everyone down there lost their mind? Ron is not a c.o.ke addict. He wears a D.A.R.E. b.u.t.ton on his collar-"

"When did you become so f.u.c.king ignorant?" Chris said. "I don't give a s.h.i.t if he drives around in a mother-f.u.c.kin' van with big D.A.R.E. letters plastered across the side! He's been pinching the evidence to the acc.u.mulated tune of over five ounces! G.o.d only knows what else he's been pocketing. All that time you were talking to him and buying into his Christian do-gooder bulls.h.i.t, he was a c.o.kehead and you couldn't even see it! I told you that night when we saw him in the hospital after your little ward fell off the roof of her house that something wasn't quite right with him! He was sweating and shaky. h.e.l.l, he was probably coming down and jonesin' for some powder!"

Jane thought back to that awful night nearly one month ago. Ron approached Chris and her in the hospital with his finger bandaged-the result of nearly cutting off his left finger while chopping beeswax for his wife's herbal salve. She recalled his pale complexion and shaken appearance. She also remembered Chris jumping to the illogical conclusion that somehow Ron's demeanor was connected to Emily's case. "It's not true!"

"Pull your head out of your a.s.s, Jane! I kept an eye on Ron ever since that night and I did my own little investigation. I know drug addicts. I know how they think. Ron stands in that cage every day knowing that literally pounds of c.o.ke are sitting right behind him in little plastic K-Pak bags. 'Who the h.e.l.l's gonna miss it?' he thinks. And he would have gotten away with it if I hadn't convinced Bra.s.s about my suspicions. They agreed to do a surprise audit of the property room and what do you know, Joe, but the blow was missing! I'm a f.u.c.kin' hero around here, Jane! A f.u.c.king hero! With the amount of c.o.ke Ron took, Bra.s.s figures he's been dipping into the powder since May!"

Jane factored the information. "May? How would they know that?"

"They just do, Jane."