Knowing (50 page)

Kit’s eyes widened, as if she were witnessing a pivotal moment in history. “The snake. My God! You’re on the verge of radical transformation. Your soul is ready to shed the skin of the past and move on to a more enlightened path.”

Jane did her best to hide a sarcastic smile and not utter an equally cynical retort. Instead, she handed the stone back to Kit. “I’m still not taking your case.”

Kit dropped the bag into her satchel, sans the snakestone. “You keep it. It’ll remind you of where your soul wants you to go.” She headed toward the door. “Oh, keep an eye out for proof that the animal you chose is legitimate. Very often, the universe delivers the animal to you in some form, as cosmic proof of its validity. Just another synchronistic event.” Kit exited the office and disappeared down the hall.

Jane rolled to the curb and parked the Mustang, sucking the last microgram of nicotine from the butt of her cigarette. Squashing it onto the street with the heel of her roughout cowboy boots, she flashed her shield to the cops standing at the periphery and ducked under the yellow crime tape that was draped between the two precision-trimmed boxwood shrubs that framed the bottom of the long, immaculate brick driveway.

Jane checked the front door. There was no sign of forced entry. Stepping back, she searched and easily found two security cameras. Property protected by S.O.S.—Security On Site the decal read. One camera was poised above the front door and the other located at the corner of the house directed toward the rear of the property. Entering the home, Jane gazed at the gleaming marble floor that gracefully skirted the entry. A French reproduction crescent-shaped walnut wood table stood to the left with a Waterford vase atop it filled with nine strikingly fragrant stems of Oriental “Stargazer” lilies. Jane leaned closer and took a deep whiff of the aromatic flowers. She figured they were damn near fresh due to the sturdy wax coating still remaining on the petals. The heady scent was alluring and certainly disguised the stink of death, urine and fear that awaited her up the magnificent marble stairway and in the master bedroom. Jane steadied herself, fastening her armor around her heart so she’d be able to view what she was about to witness without losing whatever was left in her stomach of the pad thai dinner from the previous evening.

“
Evil requires the sanction of the victim
,” she said to herself, recalling the line from
Atlas Shrugged
. It was a powerful statement and one that Jane was too often reminded of when she viewed the battered and often unrecognizable corpse at a violent crime scene. The way she interpreted Ayn Rand’s words, in order for a murderous act to take place, somewhere in the chain of events, there
had
to be compliance by the victim. That compliance didn’t have to be conscious. In fact, it was usually
unconscious
. But the adage that you attract to yourself what you put out rang true for Jane, no matter how politically incorrect that belief was. Whether it be naively allowing the wrong people into your life or putting yourself in situations that are rife with nefarious outcomes, the one who is labeled the “vic” on the sheet down at Headquarters, usually made some lapse in judgment that allowed evil to take them out of this world in a black body bag.

Sergeant Weyler met Jane just outside the bedroom suite door. Inside, she could see the flash of a camera documenting the crime scene. Several CSIs lifted prints. In the far corner of the room, a street cop sat next to a petite woman who looked to be in her early seventies. The moonfaced woman stared aimlessly at the carpet, seemingly detached from the grisly scene just twenty feet away.

“What do we know so far?” Jane asked Weyler.

“Not much. Except it sure as hell wasn’t a suicide.”

Jane was familiar with gallows humor, but Weyler wasn’t normally one to participate in it. When she walked further into the bedroom and saw the body, she realized his comment was meant more as a statement of the obvious.

There on the king-size bed was a woman, early sixties, nude, lying on her stomach and hog-tied. Her mouth and nose were taped shut with several pieces of duct tape. One eye was still slightly open and seemingly staring at Jane from across the room. The fear and understanding of death was still imprinted on the woman’s orb. Her body may have been cold but somewhere in that shell, Jane felt as if this victim was still transmitting the last impressions she took in before the specter of death choked her final breath. Jane could taste it in the air—the freshness of madness and chaos.

Weyler slid the letter onto his desk in a nonchalant manner. “Sorry. Can’t give you any time off now.”

Jane’s back went up. A second ago she was hesitant. Now she was pissed by Weyler’s offhand attitude. “I have more time on the books than anyone in the Department! I’m just asking for a week…”

“I’ve already committed you to a case. Well,
both
of us, actually.”

Jane felt the walls caving in. That all-too-familiar edge began to creep up.
God, a cigarette would taste damn good right now
. “I really need this time off…”

“Is someone dead or dying?” Weyler stared at Jane, waiting for her answer.

For a moment, Jane wondered if Weyler could read her mind.
Dying
. His words yanked the freshly formed scab off the news she’d received just an hour earlier. “I…” She was at a loss for words.

“Because someone
else
is,” Weyler stated, taking a seat in his plush, leather office chair and motioning for her to sit across from him.

Jane reluctantly sat down. “We work in homicide. Someone’s always dead or dying.”

Weyler drew the yellow pad toward him. “But
this
one is way outside the norm. Goes against the statistics.”

Jane hated the fact that Weyler knew how to play her so well. She loved cases that dwelled outside the box and made her think. She took the bait. “What stats?”

“A fifteen-year-old boy was kidnapped…after what appeared to be his attempted suicide.”

The thought briefly crossed her mind that some poor kid was having a worse day than she was. “He tried to kill himself…”

“By hanging. On a remote bridge.”

“And then someone kidnaps him? What are the odds of that?”

“Million to one.“

“Make it two million to one, given his age. Fifteen-year- old
boys
don’t get kidnapped. They’re full of testosterone and attitude…”

“His name is Jacob Van Gorden. He goes by
Jake.
’ Even though he’s fifteen, he’s small for his age,” Weyler offered, checking his notes.

“So what?
He’s fifteen
! He’s a
boy
! Fifteen-year-old boys run away, hop a train…”

“Hop a train?”

“You know what I’m saying. The suicide wasn’t real. Jacob…Jake obviously set it up and ditched town.”

“That’s what everyone thought. But here’s where it gets interesting. The family and police are being sent odd clues as to the boy’s disappearance.”

“Asking for ransom? Come on! The kid’s in on it. He’s pimping his family to get attention and some money.”

“No request for money, Jane…just odd deliveries of statements to the family.”

The day was quickly catching up with Jane. She pinched the skin between her eyes. “You said a remote bridge? Didn’t know Denver had any of those left.”

“It didn’t happen in Denver. This occurred up in Midas.”

Jane let out a tired puff of air. Midas, a town of less than 10,000, was located about 90 minutes northwest of Denver.

“That’s a tad out of our jurisdiction!” She was preparing to volley another lob for a week off when Weyler spoke.

“They’ve got their eye on a local guy…Jordan Copeland. Name ring a bell?” Jane shook her head. “Way before your time, I guess. It was a huge tabloid story back in the summer of 1968.” Weyler filled her in on one of the more infamous murder cases of the late 1960s. It had “sensational” written all over it. Copeland was eighteen and found guilty of killing his next-door neighbor, a mentally retarded, thirteen-year-old boy, Daniel Marshall, in the backyard of his home in Short Hills, New Jersey. For no particular reason, Copeland shot the kid in cold blood with his father’s rifle and then hid the boy’s dead body under his bed for several days before the smell gave him away. “He did thirty-four years hard time,” Weyler added. “Got out of prison seven years ago and settled in Midas about two years back.”

“If they think Copeland did it, then why are we getting involved?”

“They don’t have enough evidence to hold Copeland… even though his behavior is pretty damn strange. They took everything they needed from him before letting him go—handwriting sample, blood, hair, DNA. Bottom line…time’s ticking away. This all went down five days ago. The family didn’t jump on it because they thought it was a suicide.”

“With no body?”

“Figured he slipped out of the noose and fell into the river. But the day after the disappearance, the family started getting the strange notes.”

“How come no news coverage?”

“Family insists on keeping it low key. So does the town.”

“Wait a second. What happened to whoring yourself across primetime TV to get help? Maybe Copeland dumped the kid across state lines…”

“This is Midas, Jane. People don’t move to Midas, Colorado to get attention. They move there to blend in and live a quiet, unexposed existence. The family and the police chief want to respect those wishes. The last thing they crave is a goddamned media circus. Can you blame them?”

Jane certainly had been part of media circuses. Too many times, she’d reluctantly played a pivotal role in high-profile cases and had the spotlight directed her way. She hated it and rejected all offers to cash in on her celebrity—except once, almost two years ago, when she agreed to an appearance on
Larry King Live.
The owner of the local coffee joint still gave her a free refill for that. “If they
like
this Copeland asshole for it, why don’t they have some cops sit up on him to watch his moves 24/7, harass him, see if the weird notes stop arriving and then pummel him into a confession?”

“They’re short staffed. You have the police chief, his secretary and a few deputies.”

“Midas is one of the wealthiest small towns north of Denver. They can certainly afford to hire out extra help.“ Jane noted Weyler’s expression. “Oh, shit.
We’re
the extra help?”

I tend to read people fairly quickly. You have to be able to size others up in my line of work—to separate the real victims from the liars. But I’ve been sizing up people’s actions since I was small child. When you’re abused as a kid, you learn that you better assess people and their possible actions quickly because if you don’t, you’re going to be on the receiving end of one helluva punch. So I became what some therapists call hyper-vigilant. Sometimes, I had to judge a violent situation within seconds of its erupting. So I spend a lot of time stepping back and observing people. I’m always on guard; always waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. That’s probably why I smoke. I think the nicotine takes the edge off but allows me to still focus.