Protector (51 page)
Authors: Laurel Dewey
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Denver (Colo.), #Mystery & Detective, #Psychic ability, #Women detectives, #Crime, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Children of murder victims, #Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Espionage
She factored a million possibilities and twisted scenarios. Weyler had 24/7 access to the Lawrence crime scene and was, in fact, directing the entire investigation. He was the only one Jane knew of who could have been alone in that house and able to lift whatever he wanted for whatever purpose. Jane flashed back on the phone call she received from him when he told her about the suspect that Chris was questioning.
“The perp was arrested for public drunkenness and pissing on the sidewalk,” Jane remembered Weyler telling her. “When PD searched him during booking, they found an item on his person that sent up a red flag . . . A silver cigarette case with the inscription ‘Wedding Blessings. David & Patricia Lawrence.’ ”
Jane recalled her observation when Chris grilled the homeless bum. His tattered clothing could barely hold a pencil, let alone a heavy, silver cigarette case. remembered that Weyler opened a file folder and searched the pages. “The PD report shows that the container was found ‘near his person.’ ” Weyler read from the report.
Jane looked down at the Lawrence crime scene photo and that glimmering silver box in the corner. If that was not a duplicate cigarette case, then she was faced with the enormous possibility that someone planted the silver cigarette case next to the bum. “Near his person,” she said to herself. It was the sort of vague terminology cops put into reports that often signaled suspicious police behavior. “Near his person” was a “wink-wink” term that could translate to: “We planted the evidence, but we couldn’t plant it on the suspect so we tossed it ‘near his person.’ ”
Jane took a nervous drag on her cigarette. She eliminated Chris from her list of suspects right off the bat since he was playing on his boat in Dillon that night. “Weyler?” she said to herself, considering the possibility of his involvement in a cover-up. All he could say is that he was home that night watching his favorite PBS programs. But why would Weyler get involved? What’s his motive? The more Jane tossed the idea back and forth, the more it didn’t add up. Weyler had too much to lose; he’d earned prestige and respect within the Department for his integrity and professionalism. It didn’t seem rational for him to risk it all on something like this.
The more Jane thought about it, it almost seemed that the bum was set up. After all, in some eyes, he was disposable—an incoherent, society dropout who could easily be used by PD Brass to take a huge fall. Who cares if he took the hit for a crime he didn’t commit if it meant protecting those who were really involved? However, thanks to Jane and her aggressive stance, their easy target was allowed to walk, thereby possibly screwing up Weyler’s intended plan. “What’s missing?” Jane said to herself, frustrated. She looked at that odd scratch in the photo near the desk’s back panel. “What’s the missing piece?” she said. If she were able to call the evidence room and talk to Ron Dickson, the evidence technician, she could possibly convince him to look on the original copy of the Property Report Form and see if a cigarette case was listed. Of course, with Ron being the Good Christian, Jane wondered if he would release that information to her over the phone—especially since word had to be out that she was incommunicado. But perhaps she could convince him to check downstairs . . .
Downstairs. That was the Denver PD term for the evidence room, located in the basement of Headquarters. She heard Weyler’s voice again in her head. It resonated from their emotional conversation the night before when he called to tell her about Dale’s death. He said something about “possible internal problems downstairs.” Exactly what in the hell was going on downstairs? And furthermore, was Jane possibly sitting on the answer and not even aware of it? She glanced back to the photos when she heard the scuff-scuff of Emily’s feet along the floor in the living room. Quickly, Jane gathered the photos together and stashed them into her leather satchel. No sooner were they hidden from view than Emily appeared at the hallway entrance.
Jane turned. “Morning!” she said, feeling a twist of tension in her gut.
Chapter 22
After a breakfast of burnt English Muffins and overcooked eggs, Emily sat on the living room floor reading the weekly newspaper. Jane wanted to duck into the bedroom and continue her analysis of the photos and the case folder, but she couldn’t risk Emily’s prying eyes. With nothing else to do, Jane decided to wash the Subaru.
She was hosing down the wagon when Sheriff George pulled his patrol car along the curb. He rolled down his car window and leaned out. “Hello, Mrs. Calver!”
“Hello, Sheriff,” Jane replied, not knowing what to expect.
“How’s your beautiful daughter feelin’ this mornin’?”
“Much better!” Jane replied. The sheriff said nothing, preferring to just stare at her. She was beginning to feel as if she had a scarlet “A” on her shirt that stood for “Abuser” and she was sick of it. “Please pass the information on to Kathy!”
The sheriff, missing Jane’s sarcasm, smiled. “I’ll do that, Mrs. Calver! You have yourself a good day. Tell Patty ‘hello’ for me!”
“I will,” Jane said, waving at the sheriff as he drove toward the highway. Then quietly, under her breath, she mumbled, “Once I untie her from the bedpost and cover up her bruises with long sleeves and makeup, you son-of-a-bitch!”
Emily sauntered down the front path toward the Subaru as the sound of laughter erupted from across the street in the park. Jane turned to see Heather and a few of her friends setting up their boom box. After selecting a country tune, they practiced their line dancing steps with Heather clearly in charge.
“Can I go over to the park and see Heather?” Emily asked.
“Why do you like that girl?”
“It’s just something to do. I’ll be across the street. You can see me from here.”
“Go ahead,” Jane agreed, dragging the bucket of soap and water toward the car.
Jane watched as Emily approached Heather and tried to make conversation. She no sooner turned back to the car than Emily came back across the street with a discouraged, hangdog look. Jane plopped the soapy sponge in the bucket. “Fuck ’em.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
Jane lit a cigarette. “Not only is she an A-1 class 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 ass, 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 Saturday night country dancing before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye!”
Emily was astonished. “Really?”
“Shit, 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 hell—”
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 competition?”
“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 damn 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 embarrassed. “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 Café 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—”
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