Protector (19 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
“Lifelike, eh? Try opening what looks like a cubbyhole, and it’s not.”
“What the hell good is a desk you can’t use?”
“But you can use it. You just have to know what buttons to push.”
“Buttons?”
“They’re hidden. I’m not exactly sure where they are on this one. My mom’s had a couple on the side and some underneath.” Jane moved her face closer to the surface of the desk, slowly running her index finger along the middle of the desk. “You just gotta look real closely and if you’re lucky . . .” With that, her finger wedged into an indentation in the desk and the front door popped out like a cashier’s drawer. “Abracadabra!”
“Anything interesting in there?”
Jane rummaged through the near empty drawer and came up with a handful of paper clips, pencils and erasers. She slid the flat of her hand beneath the underside of the desk. “Sometimes if you feel underneath the front of the desk, you might find a little depression . . . like there.” She pushed her finger into the depression and a quick click-click sound triggered the two smaller front side drawers to unlatch. Jane pulled them both out to find them completely empty. “Have you ever seen a cleaner desk than this one?”
“I don’t get it. It’s got all these secret compartments and hidden buttons, how do you find anything? How do you know where they all are?”
“Only the owner of the desk knows what button goes with what drawer. The rest of us just go about blindly.”
Weyler eyed the five wooden compartments that lined the top of the desk. “Are those real?”
“Yeah. My mom’s desk had seven of them. One for every day of the week. I used to leave her a little piece of paper in one of those slots every day with a message on it. You know, ‘Hi, Mom,’ ‘Have a good day,’ ‘Please get well,’” Jane’s voice trailed off.
Weyler broke the silence. “You oughta take your mom’s desk down to that Antiques Roadshow on PBS when it comes to Denver. Maybe it’s worth something.”
Jane stiffened. “It’s long gone. Dad sold it two days after she died. He got a whole forty bucks for it,” Jane declared sarcastically. She turned away from the desk and sauntered into the living room. After surveying the area, she let out a deep sigh. “What do you know about David Lawrence?”
Weyler pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, scanning the scribbles. “He was Assistant VP of Technical Development for Crimson Technology in Denver.”
“What’s Crimson Technology?”
“It’s an Internet networking firm. They’re troubleshooters. David was apparently the quintessential computer geek. But in the words of one employee our detectives talked to, he was a ‘geek who made it good.’ This same guy said David reminded him of someone who was awkward and an outsider, but a guy who carefully rose to the top of his company. Someone who could afford to send his daughter to a private school.”
Jane brushed up against the Lawrences’ glassed liquor cabinet. “You said, ‘carefully rose to the top.’ Why ‘carefully? ’”
“I’m going by the words used to describe David.” Weyler read from the pad. “‘Careful,’ ‘Methodical,’ ‘Deliberate,’ ‘Safe.’ One woman at the company threw in the word ‘boring.’ He arrived at the office at 8:30 a.m. and left promptly at 6:00. Kept a tidy desk, emptied his ‘in’ box every day, left nary a scrap of refuse on his office carpet.”
Jane stared at the liquor cabinet in a daze. She was taking in every word but, at the same time, developing an internal sense for David Lawrence.
“Bank accounts?”
“We checked. No unusually large deposits or withdrawals. He paid his credit cards in full and always at least ten days before they were due. No debt, except for his mortgage. His new Audi was paid off as was his wife’s brand-new Toyota 4-Runner.”
“Other women in his life?”
Weyler smiled. “We asked about that and we were laughed at.”
“Why can’t a rich computer geek have an affair?”
“They can. But David Lawrence did not.”
“What about the hard drive on his home computer? His personal e-mails?”
“Chris said there was nothing incriminating.”
“So, after all the prelim, nobody found anything odd?”
“The only somewhat odd comment one of his coworkers made was that for a couple months this spring, David was acting . . . how did he say it . . .” Weyler referred to his notes. “Like a guy who finally got picked for the school team.”
“What does that mean?”
“He walked around with a cocky strut. The fellow wondered if David had landed another promotion and was keeping it quiet. We asked about a promotion and there was none. Apparently, the cocksure attitude didn’t last more than six weeks. He suddenly became edgy and anxious with his coworkers. Talked on his phone in hushed tones. Seemed preoccupied at staff meetings. Showed up at work smelling obviously of whiskey.”
Jane took Weyler’s comment as a backhanded, personal affront. “He showed up at 8:30 and left at 6:00 and paid his bills ten days before they were due. Who gives a shit what he does on his off time? Alcohol isn’t illegal.”
“But cocaine is.”
Jane chuckled. “A by-the-book computer nerd turns into a cokehead overnight?”
“It’s not impossible.”
“No, it’s not. But the way everything is laying out around this strange scenario, it’s too convenient—too ‘Movie of the Week.’ Calculating outsider who hasn’t a blemish on his record, in the space of a month or two, decides to turn to cocaine to . . . what? To add excitement to his regimented life? And then, he screws up a huge score with his dealer inside his own house and he and his wife pay with their lives. Pure fiction! Boss, the missing chunks in this case are so big that trains could drive through them! No one point leads effortlessly to the other.” Jane approached Weyler, joining him on the landing near the front door. “Why does a careful, boring, financially secure computer geek who’s an outsider get slaughtered alongside his lovely wife? What is David’s dirty little secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone’s got at least one dirty little secret. And those who say they don’t, have some of the best secrets. The Lawrences might have looked clean to their neighbors at block parties, but most people judge you by your outward appearance. And even then, people don’t really pay attention. The neighbors know that Patricia and Emily are away on an off-season, nine-day camping trip during school but no one asks ‘Why?’ It’s not about seeing the little things as much as it’s about feeling the little things. It’s listening to the spaces in between the words. It’s understanding what a lie sounds like. It’s taking a step back and watching. Let’s face it, boss, everyone is far too busy to sit back and watch! The Lawrences may look clean on paper, but it’s what they whisper to each other in bed. It’s what they scream at each other when their kid is at a friend’s house. It’s what they don’t write on the Christmas card letter. It’s the dark, rotten family secret that everybody has but no one talks about. Because, if anybody really knew your little secret, you’d be an outcast. And nobody wants to risk that. I don’t know what their secret was, but I know it wasn’t cocaine.” Jane casually turned her gaze to the rest of the room. “Well, you asked for my assessment and my assessment is . . .” Jane found her gut tightening. She tried to cover it up but the visceral response was overwhelming. She walked away from Weyler, trying to get centered. The more she looked around the room, the deeper her gut moved into it. Holding back was pointless because it only seemed to deepen her attachment. It was as though she could almost hear the walls talking, vibrating, whispering, longing to blare out what they saw. Suddenly, a splash of blood flashed in front of Jane’s vision. In less than a second, Emily’s face appeared through the disappearing crimson haze. Then, unexpectedly, Emily’s face warped into Amy Stover. Her pleading eyes beckoned Jane as her deafening scream pierced the room. Jane grasped her forehead to shut out the disturbing hallucination. Icy sweat beaded across her face and neck. She needed a drink and looked at her watch. It was 11:00 a.m. If she left the house now, she could be downing a bottle of Jack Daniels in less than twenty minutes. “My assessment is that we don’t have all the pieces,” Jane said urgently. “And the kid probably doesn’t either.” Weyler remained silent, staring intently at Jane. She avoided eye contact as she moved to the front door. Pursing her lips, Jane turned to him with an indignant air. “What?”
“Are you done bullshiting me?”
Jane anger peaked. “Look, what the fuck do you want me to tell you? You got no prints except for the occupants . . . no incriminating evidence . . . no witnesses.”
“We do have a witness.”
“We don’t!” Jane felt cornered. She started to open the front door when Weyler moved quickly and slammed it shut with the flat of his hand.
“What are you so damned afraid of?” Weyler yelled.
“The truth!”
“The truth is all I care about! But sometimes it’s better to let certain things stay buried in people.”
She tried to open the door but Weyler kept his hand firmly against it. “You can’t tell me that you believe that in your heart.”
Jane looked Weyler in the eyes. “Yes, I do.”
He scrutinized Jane for a second. “That’s too bad. But that doesn’t change the fact that Emily trusts you and only you. You’re the only one she’ll talk to. Whether you want to accept it or not, the two of you made an odd little connection. What draws the two of you together is what she knows deep down and what you can get out of her. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
Jane’s eyes widened, an anger edged with fear. “No!” Jane bolted toward the center of the living room.
“Whatever she knows or saw is asleep inside of her. Only you can wake it up.”
“Absolutely not!”
“I want you and the child alone in this house for twenty-four hours. Maybe longer. It goes against all policy but I’ll take care of the details.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m not expecting you to probe her with questions. Just be with her and pay attention to what she says or what she can remember.”
“You will never convince Social Services, not to mention her guardian adlitum and the court psychologist to agree to that deal! They’ll take it in front of a judge!”
“I know my way around the system. I have a lot of friends who owe me big favors. I’ll take care of it. I have a strong feeling that when Emily returns here, she might get a glimpse of what she saw that night.”
“This is Chris’ case! Have him talk to her!”
“She won’t talk to anyone but you.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You’re on shaky ground with the Department, Jane—”
“Wait, the Department says that I’m too fucked up to solve other crimes but I’m not too fucked up to hang out with a nine-year-old kid and somehow manipulate her to tell me what she possibly did or didn’t see? Is that what I’m hearing? Because if that’s what you’re telling me, I want you to think how that’s gonna play back at DH!”
“Like I said, I can be very convincing with the higher-ups when I have to be. Besides, they don’t know how often you attend ‘choir practice.’ I’ve done everything I can over the years to keep your self-medicating as quiet as possible.”
Jane looked at Weyler, stupefied. “You don’t get it, boss. You want me to lead that kid straight down to hell. Down in the sludge and the blood and the outright fear of it all. And you buy into all that psychobabble shit that if she helps us solve this mess, she’s gonna magically wipe away all those demons in her head and get healed. Well, that’s not the way it works! You can’t draw that hell out of somebody and expect them to ever be normal again. Because they will never know what normal feels like. I will not be responsible for fucking up the rest of that kid’s life.”
“I think you want to know.”
Jane exploded. “I know what she sees!” Her voice caught suddenly. “What she . . . saw.”
“Good! That’s why you’re the only one I can trust.”
“Boss, listen to me. What she saw should be forgotten!” Jane turned away from Weyler, her chin trembling. Inside her head, it felt like a million electrical lines had crossed and ignited simultaneously. She wanted out of that house and to feel the burn of a whiskey shot on her tongue.
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