Protector. Part 9

Jane reluctantly held out her hand to Weyler, who quickly pulled her to her feet. "What in the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Jane said, irritated.

"I'm worried about you." Weyler steadied Jane's shoulder with his hand. Jane let out a loud cackle. "I'm standing here looking at somebody who is drowning and hasn't got the sense to cry out for help!"

"Oh, Christ-"

Weyler grabbed Jane's shoulders. "Is this the way you want it to end?" Weyler's voice was stern and abrupt.

"My career or my life?" Jane yelled in a slurred tongue.

"Both!"

"Well, let's see. My career is pretty much f.u.c.ked. As for my life, well, I died a long time ago. It's just that n.o.body noticed." She felt herself slipping into herself. "At least I think I died . . ." Jane's voice trailed off. "I have to keep checking, you see?" Jane looked Weyler in the eye. "Sometimes, boss, we have to keep hurting ourselves just to make sure we're still alive."

"You're very much alive, Jane and you still have a lot to offer."

Jane pulled away from Weyler's grasp and stumbled backward. "Look at me! I'm a f.u.c.king drunk! I'm nothing! And I don't care! You know what would make me happy? To wake up truly dead! I want the pieces that are left of me to finally die!" Jane slumped down on her front step. "I'm gonna regret this conversation in the morning, but it's the G.o.d's truth. Everything I touch ends up destroyed. All the blood . . . and the bodies. We're supposed to act like we don't care. Like they're all just collateral damage. But we're kidding ourselves." Jane looked off to the side. "Then again, there's always going to be that one son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h who really doesn't feel anything. You know, boss, there's a thin line between the mind of a cop and the mind of a criminal. Do you have any idea how often they are one in the same? And how they can hide it so well?"

Weyler stared at Jane. "So? . . . How is your father?"

Jane turned to Weyler in shock. "What?"

Weyler moved closer to Jane. "I have no idea what happened to you. But I have met your father on brief occasions. Just because the rest of the crew puts him up on a pedestal doesn't mean that I do. I didn't get to the position I'm in because I kissed someone's a.s.s. I got here because I know things about people. Just like you do. I can look into someone's eyes and paint a portrait of who they really are. When I looked into your father's eyes, it was a very dark portrait. I cannot imagine what you went through growing up. But then I look into your eyes and I don't see the shadow of your father anywhere. You're not your father, Jane. Deep down, I think you're afraid that you are." Weyler leaned down toward Jane. "You think you're weak, but you're one of the strongest people I know. The fact that you survived all that h.e.l.l and can still function is a testament to who you are. I've told you that I think you're one of the most intelligent people I've ever known and I mean it. You've got a kind of sixth sense that defies explanation. When you combine that with your inner strength, you're a very powerful person. Unfortunately, the booze prevents you from seeing that." Weyler stood straight up. "I'll tell you one thing, Jane. As long as I'm in charge, I will not let you destroy yourself. You're far too valuable to me."

Jane sat stunned. There was a long stretch of silence between them. For a brief moment, she felt as if should could trust him. "Boss . . ." Jane struggled with revealing herself, "I've . . . ah . . . had some weird s.h.i.t happening lately . . ."

"What is it?" Weyler asked compa.s.sionately.

Jane traced the gra.s.s with her eyes, realizing that to divulge the splintered images and odd notations with drawings of wolf faces would be career suicide. She shook her head. "Nothing . . ." There was a moment of silence.

"Can you pull yourself together by 9 a.m.?"

"Why?" Jane quietly asked.

"I want to take you to the Lawrence crime scene. I'd like to get your impressions."

"It's Chris' case and I thought I was suspended."

"Technically, yes."

Jane looked up at Weyler. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I'm in charge. And I say that I'm going to pick you up at 9 a.m." Jane nodded. "Oh, I almost forgot," Weyler said, turning to his car, "Emily Lawrence asked about you. She wanted to know if your injured hand felt better." Weyler got into his car and drove down Milwaukee.

Nine o'clock came quickly. Jane only woke twice during the night. Both times, it was the result of her recurring nightmare of the Stover murder.

The nightmare always followed the same pattern. She and Chris are sitting in the unmarked sedan across the street from the Stover's house. Stover and his family have just left the location in their SUV to get ice cream, flanked by two police cars. All is still and very dark around them. Jane, sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, is trying to get the lid off her thermos of coffee. She is wondering how she is going to tell Chris that she wants to end their relationship.

Chris is edgy and irritated as he calls one of the flank vehicles on his cell phone. "Yeah, it's me. I can't believe Stover was so stupid! He drives off with his family for ice cream so he can get thirty minutes in the outside world! Thirty f.u.c.king minutes! It looks all clear from here but hurry up!"

In the dream, Jane thinks to herself how arrogant and self-important Chris sounds on the phone. Like he's ordering people around that he has no authority over. Chris enthusiastically engages Jane in conversation about himself. He drones on about how he's getting a plasma TV along with mega-sized speakers. He offers to help her get the lid off the thermos and they concentrate on that for several minutes.

The dream accelerates in time and Jane sees three sets of headlights in her pa.s.senger mirror coming down the street from behind their parked location. Stover's SUV is sandwiched between the two police vehicles. Jane turns toward the oncoming cars. This is where it all slows down in her dream. The Stovers' SUV creeps up the street and stops briefly in front of Jane and Chris' sedan. Amy Stover is seated in the backseat, behind her father who is driving. Amy presses her face against the car window and makes eye contact with Jane. She waves toward Jane and smiles warmly as Stover pulls the SUV into the driveway.

There is complete silence until the explosion cracks into the night air and the car goes up in flames. Jane charges out of the sedan toward the SUV. Chris chases after her. Jane stands several feet from the burning car and comes face-to-face with Amy. Her palms are pressed against the window as she screams in terror. Chris tries to hold Jane back but she breaks free of his grip and tries to open the door. The handle is red-hot. She bangs on the window with her fist. The whole time, Amy Stover is wailing words that cannot be heard above the roar of the fire.

Jane punches the window with her fist, ignoring the fact that the skin on her knuckles and the side of her hand is peeling off due to the intense heat. Another series of explosions ricochet through the car, sending Chris and Jane backward onto the lawn. Jane looks up and sees Amy looking down at her. It takes a full minute for the life to completely drain from her eyes.

And that's when Jane always wakes up.

Weyler rang the doorbell at the stroke of nine. There he stood on Jane's front porch, dressed in another one of his dashing, conservative suits from Nordstrom. His trademark narrow tie was pinned discreetly with a gold-plated clip he got as a perk from Denver PBS after contributing ten dollars during one of their many pledge drives. "Good morning, Detective," Weyler said.

"Morning, Sergeant," Jane said, walking outside, leather satchel in hand and locking her front door.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Weyler carefully eyed Jane.

Jane, feeling his intrusive stare, focused on the door lock. "Right as rain, boss." She spied the box of guns and toolbox from her father's workshop on the front porch. "Could you put those in your trunk and take them to DH? Apparently the guys down there want to buy them from my father."

Weyler collected both boxes and put them in his immaculate trunk. His black Ford Taurus was spotless. The wax job was so slick, Jane could see her reflection in the door twenty-five feet away. Weyler slid into the driver's seat and turned to Jane. "You like Dinah Washington?"

"Sure," she responded.

Weyler slipped a CD of Dinah Washington's Greatest Hits into his car player. Her silk voice softly filled the car with "What A Difference A Day Makes."

"I got this CD as part of a package deal from PBS during their last pledge drive. Five cla.s.sic jazz CDs for a two hundred and fifty dollar donation to the station."

"Gee, that's fifty bucks a CD, boss. You sure know how to shop."

Weyler smiled at Jane's retort as he drove down Milwaukee and wound around the one-way streets until heading straight on University. "The Lawrence house is about four miles from your place." Jane remained quiet, staring out the window. "Oh, I have something for you." Weyler removed a small envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Jane. "Ron d.i.c.kson from the evidence lab asked me to give that to you."

Jane examined the outside of the envelope. It looked like Ron's wife's curly-cue handwriting where it said "Detective Jane Perry."

Stamped across the sealed flap was the word "D.A.R.E." in bold red letters. Inside, Jane found a folded note. It was a short, cheery note from Ron's wife, Sarah, reminding Jane of her regular contribution to the D.A.R.E. program. A self-addressed envelope was tucked around the note. Jane marveled to herself at the fact that Ron's wife was so diligent in helping her husband take care of his charity obligations. What a sweet, sheltered life they had, she thought. Jane dug through her leather satchel for her checkbook.

"I didn't tell Chris about bringing you to the house today," Weyler offered.

"Why not?"

"As lead on the case, he's a bit possessive of it. I'll let him know about our visit after the fact. I think he'd like to solve it by next week but that's not going to happen."

"What about the Stover murder?" Jane brought a cigarette out from her satchel. "You're not turning that over to cold case, are you?"

"I'd appreciate if you wouldn't smoke in the car."

Jane stuffed the cigarette back into the pack. "Don't toss it to cold case, boss."

"Let's focus on the Lawrence murder right now."

Jane jotted out a check for fifty dollars to D.A.R.E., put the check in the envelope and handed it to Weyler. "Did anybody follow up on the protection money trail?"

"How's that?"

"With Bill Stover. Did anyone flush out all of the other businesses that give protection money to the Texas mob?"

"I'd have to check on that. Why?"

Jane wanted to make the idea sound like her own but was having a difficult time formulating it. "I just wonder if there's a lead buried somewhere in that. It's a needle in a haystack, but it's worth considering."

"I'll check into it." Jane looked outside as Weyler turned down Exposition. "You know, Emily Lawrence hasn't stopped talking about you. You made a tight connection with that child."

"I just talked to her. No big deal."

Weyler observed Jane's obvious withdrawal. "I'm sure it'll pain you to know that Emily's interest in you is driving Martha Durrett crazy." Weyler stole a glance at Jane.

"Humph!" Jane enjoyed the image in her mind. "So, how's the kid doing?"

"Alright, I guess, considering. Apparently, she's still extremely disconnected from the event, mentally and emotionally. No tears, Martha reports, even after you informed her of her parents' death."

"That doesn't surprise me. When you can't feel...you can't feel."

"I don't think I told you that the DA asked us to put Emily under hypnosis to see if her subconscious mind could tell us anything about that night."

"Great," Jane said sarcastically. "She hasn't been traumatized enough-"

"She wouldn't cooperate. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get her to go under."

"Smart girl."

"From what I hear, Emily has disa.s.sociated from the murders and what she witnessed. She's acting distant and disinterested in the whole thing. Martha says it's normal behavior, even though it makes the child come off as rather cold and detached."

Jane listened to Weyler but wondered why he was reporting the details of Emily's emotional response to the murder to her. It wasn't Jane's case. She didn't want to come off sounding interested in Emily so she put on a casual tone. "What's going to happen to the kid?"

"In what way?"

"Family. Does she have family nearby to take her in?"

"She has an aunt and uncle up in Cheyenne."

"Cheyenne?" Jane said under her voice as Weyler turned onto Franklin. "The kid's going from Washington Park to Cheyenne, Wyoming? That's gotta suck."

"You almost sound worried about the child."

"Worried? Please. Just making conversation, boss. Look at this neighborhood." Jane motioned outside of the car. "It's great. It's comfortable. Cheyenne, Wyoming is like going to Mars. It's not that I care! It's just an observation."

Weyler pulled up in front of the Lawrence crime scene and parked the car. "Me thinks thou doth protest too much, Detective." Weyler motioned around the house. "I want to take you around the perimeter first."

The Lawrence house stood in the middle of the tree-lined block, facing Smith Lake. It was the kind of neighborhood that reeked of solid, middle-cla.s.s comfort. The Washington Park area of Denver was an enigma to Jane. If you snapped a photograph of the streets in summertime and asked someone to guess the location, she figured that Colorado would be low on their list. It was a secret pocket in the Mile High City that felt more like a West coast retreat. Of course, now with the bright yellow police tape surrounding the Lawrence house, the neighborhood vibe had taken a downward turn. Vicious double murders just didn't happen in Washington Park.

Jane looked across the street to an unmarked police car. "What's up?"

"We put a 24-hour watch on the house," Weyler said, picking up a large envelope marked "Crime Scene Photos" from the backseat of his car.

"Chris' idea?"

"No, just an insurance policy."

"You think the killers are coming back to grab a souvenir?"

"It's more to appease the neighbors. These people are like one big family. They have block parties and babysit for each other's kids. This tragedy has turned the whole place upside down. Come around this way. I'll show you the backyard first."

The two-story Lawrence house stood fifty feet from the sidewalk. The entry walk was lined with neatly trimmed juniper bushes and colorful flowers. The house was built mostly of brick except for the upstairs addition that was trimmed in dark wood. It was deceiving in size. From the road, it looked like a little saltbox, no more than 1,500 square feet. But as Weyler and Jane walked up the spotless driveway on the right side of the house, it was evident that the house stretched farther back than it appeared.

Weyler unlatched the side wooden gate and waved Jane into the backyard. A deep green carpet of manicured gra.s.s filled the s.p.a.ce, along with a large Sycamore that grew against the back of the house and tickled the rain gutter with its strong branches.

"There's a back door here," Weyler said, pointing to an entrance to the right rear of the house. "But we don't believe the suspect or suspects entered that way because it was locked from the inside. All the action took place in the living room, as far as we can determine. Over there," Weyler said, directing Jane's attention to the rear, "is the back gate that leads into the alley. The alley was clean. No fresh tire tracks or prints. We feel the perps entered through the front door."

Jane looked up at the second floor. "That's a small second story."

"It's just got one room and a separate bathroom that belong to Emily."

Jane stood back and noticed what looked like scuff marks and footprints on the sloping roof that jetted away from the window. "Are those footprints up there?"

"Yes. They belong to Emily."

"She ran out on the roof that night?"

"No, neighbors say she liked crawling outside her window and watching the stars at night. The child has quite a fixation on planets and such."

"Her parents let her walk out on that roof? She's nine years old! That's dangerous. There's nothing to catch her fall except that d.a.m.n Sycamore."

"Apparently, it wasn't an issue for them."

"Well, that's just stupid." Jane mumbled to herself as she focused on the top story. Whenever she visited a crime scene where a homicide took place, she could always feel the vibration of the death. The Lawrence house was no exception. It was as though a thick cloud descended upon the dwelling that only Jane could sense. She had an uncanny ability to dissect a crime scene. Jane used hard-and-fast procedures like everyone else, but then she took it a step further, letting her psyche connect with the murderous energy still swirling at the scene. Somehow, she was able to tune into a hidden energy field that permeated the walls, ceiling, floors and every last piece of minutia of that s.p.a.ce. Years ago, when she first experienced the sensation, she chalked it up to just another bad booze reaction. But the feeling continued and what was both amazing and disturbing was that her heightened perception always proved to lead her to the answer. Weyler-the only soul Jane shared this odd phenomenon with-called it a gift. But to Jane, it was just another curse.

Jane and Weyler walked up the three steps that lead to the rear door and entered the small kitchen. The narrow room was lined with floor to ceiling cabinets. A wooden farm table sat in the center of the room with four heavy chairs encircling it. There was the stainless steel refrigerator with the obligatory notepad attached to it with a magnet. The words "Pick up Brie" were scrawled across the pad. An a.s.sortment of family photographs filled the right side of the unit. As Jane stood back and observed the room, she felt she was looking at a page from the Pottery Barn catalog.

"They were out of Brie," Jane said, pointing to the note.

"Is that a clue, Detective?"

"No. They were people who ate Brie, not Velveeta. Just an observation." Jane glanced over to the photos on the refrigerator. Most of them were of Emily. There was Emily in her ballerina Halloween costume, Emily with Santa, Emily in the park and Emily holding a doll. There was only one photo of Emily with her parents. It looked like it was snapped at the park across the street from the house. Jane took the photo off the refrigerator and turned it over. The imprinted development date was May 2, three and a half weeks old. Emily was sandwiched between her parents wearing a half-smile. Jane couldn't help noticing that Patricia had a strained look on her face and David looked preoccupied. Jane mused it was an odd family photo choice to display on a refrigerator. But then again, she figured, most people were not as observant as she was.

"This door leads into the living room," Weyler said, pointing to an adjacent door. "But if you go down that corridor and turn right, you'll come upon the entry hall and stairway. There was no trace of an intruder in this area." Weyler lead Jane down the short corridor and stopped at the staircase. Jane looked over and noticed an old desk standing several inches away from the side of the stairs, in a direct line with the front door. She stopped momentarily and scanned the desk with her eyes as Weyler started up the stairs. "Stay there for a second," he said.

Weyler ascended the staircase that was conspicuously missing patches of carpeting. He stopped on the darkened landing in front of Emily's bedroom door and awkwardly lowered his 6'4" frame. "If I hunch myself down so I'm about Emily's height, it's conceivable that she could have stood here in this shadowy area and witnessed the murder. The bodies were found approximately twelve feet behind you where that carpet section has been cut out." Jane turned around to face the cozy living room, filled with several overstuffed chairs, a comfortable dark green sofa, cherry wood coffee table, central fireplace and a handsome liquor cabinet. The plush carpeting where the bodies fell had been cut away and taken to evidence, exposing a twenty-five foot square section of dark wooden flooring. "Back up ten feet," Weyler instructed. Jane complied. "Now, look up here. Can you see me?"