Jane’s eyes trailed off. “I saw her in the elevator. And I knew. She had that look. So did the kid.” She looked at Weyler. “Make sure that son-of-a-bitch husband of hers suffers for what he did to his kid. Put him in a cell with five angry queers. Make him feel the same terror and pain his little girl felt.” Jane sensed the warmth of the alcohol taking effect and wanted to be alone. “I have to go. I’ve got things to do.”
“After you left, certain things transpired regarding a high-profile case.”
Jane jumped to attention. “You got a lead on the Stover case! I knew it!”
“Think you can make it to the office by 10:00 tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be there at 8:00!”
“Ten is fine.”
“Sure. Ten o’clock. I’ll go over the file tonight and organize my notes.”
Weyler stared at Jane with a careful eye. “Get some sleep.”
“I don’t need sleep—”
“Get some sleep.” Weyler turned and started toward his sedan. “Oh, Jane? I came here tonight against my better judgment. The case is highly sensitive. I need you to be functioning at peak performance tomorrow morning. Please don’t make me regret this.”
“You will not regret this, boss. You have my word.”
Jane waited until Weyler’s headlights turned off Milwaukee before she retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniels from her car.
After an improvised dinner of macaroni and cheese, Jane situated herself at the dining room table and spread out the pages of notes and files from the Stover case. Perhaps she’d discover something new—something she’d missed before. But after four hours, everything felt like a blur. Jane stood up, stretching her back and peered at the kitchen clock. 1 a.m. She was tired but her mind was racing too fast to allow sleep—not an uncommon problem for Jane Perry. There were two ways to quell the insomnia: a healthy glass of whiskey and the drone of a late night radio show she’d come to depend on called “Night Talk.” It was an eclectic mishmash of politics, philosophy, rhetoric on current events and anything else the female host could dredge up for the legions of insomniacs that depended on the program. After several sips of whiskey, Jane turned on the radio and returned to her seat at the dining room table.
“Good evening to all you junkies of the night . . .” Jane stared at the radio, perplexed. It wasn’t the same host. “I’m Tony Mooney and this is ‘Night Talk.’ ” His timbre was low, warm and intoxicating. Jane wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey, but she found herself drawn into Mooney’s enigmatic voice. “I’ll be hosting the show for the next six weeks or so, while your regular host is on maternity leave.” Jane took another sip of the whiskey and arched an eyebrow. Six weeks off, she thought. She couldn’t fathom a six-week break from her job. “Many of you know me as a researcher and lover of the paranormal side of life—the elusive, mystical side of our consciousness that hovers behind that fragile veil we call reality . . .” Jane regarded the radio with suspicion. Perhaps the whiskey was responsible but a sense of paranoia tightened around her. “Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy? Maybe you are. Or maybe . . . maybe you’re a genius. There’s a thin line, my friends, between genius and insanity.” Jane rubbed her head and knocked back the glass of whiskey. A pervasive blanket of sweet numbness washed over her. She poured another glass of the amber nectar and blearily dug her hand in her pants’ pocket. Feeling the edge of the small piece of paper, she withdrew it and held it under the piercing glare of the overhead light. She read the words to herself: “Navy blue . . . Glock . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me.” She stared at the paper, her eyes moving in and out of focus. Mooney’s voice hovered in the background, a melodic, concomitant soundtrack for the drugged sensibility engulfing Jane. She felt herself falling into the words when the sharp sound of a child screaming quickly spun her around. With eyes wide open, she stared into the kitchen where the crisp scream still lingered.
Morning came far too early. Jane awoke under the burning glare of the overhead dining table light. The fifth of whiskey was almost drained and the nearby ashtray filled with the burned out remnants of a cigarette pack. Outside, the sound of a car alarm suddenly went off, jolting Jane out of her slumber. She steadied herself between the eye-piercing overhead light and the streaming morning sun that filtered through her two large front windows. After a few seconds, she squinted toward the kitchen clock to check the time.
9:00 a.m.
“Shit!” Jane exclaimed as she gathered together the mass of paperwork and crammed it into the files. Between gulps of strong black coffee, she raced through the house getting ready. Her head pounded from the hangover as she heard Weyler’s warning: “Don’t make me regret this.” She was damned if that was going to happen.
Her bandaged hand looked a bit soiled from ink stains and smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She figured she’d do her best to hide the hand from Weyler. After all, he wasn’t interested in her injury. Together, they were about to break open one of the most frustrating cases of Jane’s career.
Jane squealed into the DH parking garage with five minutes to spare. She grabbed her leather satchel, papers and files bursting from its seams, and caught the elevator. Jane hit the third floor button with the heel of her boot. As she puffed nervously on her ash-heavy cigarette, she shook her head from side to side in an attempt to throw off the heavy, throbbing aftermath of booze. Jane squashed her cigarette on the elevator wall as the doors opened onto the third floor. As she headed toward Weyler’s office she nearly ran right into evidence technician Ron Dickson.
“Detective Perry!” Ron exclaimed. “Excuse me!”
“It’s okay, Ron,” Jane said, trying to maneuver her way around him.
“I know you’re in a hurry, but I wanted to remind you about the fundraising campaign for D.A.R.E. Can I put you down for your usual donation?”
“Yeah, sure. But not now. I gotta be somewhere,” Jane said as she made her way to Weyler’s office. She hit his office with one minute to spare. Weyler looked up from his desk, assessing Jane’s appearance.
“Good morning, Detective Perry.”
“Morning,” Jane said as she slid into a chair and unloaded paperwork.
“Close the door, would you?”
Jane pushed the door shut with her hand. The sound of the sudden slam caused her to grimace in pain.
“How are you this morning?” Weyler said haltingly.
“Fine, sir,” Jane said, keeping her eyes on her files and avoiding Weyler’s glare.
Weyler leaned over and turned on the radio to an easy listening station. Jane’s attention was immediately drawn to the music. Weyler gradually cranked up the volume on a particularly high-pitched Bee Gees tune. To Jane, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. She grabbed her head in pain. Weyler quickly turned off the radio.
“You’re hungover!” Weyler said angrily.
“No! I fell asleep on the dining room table. My neck’s stiff. I’ll be fine.”
Weyler rose from his chair and leaned across his desk toward Jane. “I told you this was important! I told you this was a highly sensitive meeting. And you still got drunk!” Weyler’s voice had a nervous edge that Jane had never heard. “You’re going to make me look like a damn fool, Detective Perry. I’m putting my ass on the line for you! I expected a little more cooperation!”
Jane was taken aback by Weyler’s sudden anger. He seemed overly concerned, in her opinion. “Sir,” she said carefully, “it’s just you and me sitting here, throwing possible scenarios back and forth.”
Weyler stared at Jane, his anger still evident. Jane nervously pulled out more files. “Put your files away, Detective Perry.”
“I need notes, sir. I don’t have it all memorized.”
“Put your files away. You will not need them.” Weyler said with emphasis.
“Sir?” Jane said confused and flustered. “What’s going on?”
Weyler composed himself and sat down, adjusting his freshly pressed dark suit. “I came to your house last night to make an assessment as to your ability to function. It was vital that you appear in the office this morning sober, not smelling of whiskey and not looking like you’ve spent the night slumped over furniture. Your appearance and capacity to think clearly is of utmost importance in this sensitive issue.”
“If I’m supposed to address the media today, you should have told me!”
“It’s not the media! And it’s got nothing to do with the Stover case.”
Jane sat back, totally perplexed and feeling uneasy. “What the hell is it?”
“How much of the news have you caught the last couple days?”
“None. I’ve been occupied.”
“You are completely unaware of the leading news story on every local network?”
“I’ve been busy—” Jane said, annoyed.
“Well, allow me to fill you in on what everyone in Denver is talking about. Two nights ago, on the evening of May 23, a little girl named Emily Lawrence, age nine and a half, barricaded herself in her bedroom closet while her parents were brutally stabbed to death downstairs in their living room. The living room was torn apart, as though the killer or killers were looking for something. The only incriminating evidence found at the house was a mound of cocaine weighing in at nearly five ounces. This occurred in the Washington Park neighborhood where instances such as murder and high stakes drug trafficking are about as common as a comet hitting a large city.”
Jane quickly digested what she heard and shrugged her shoulders. “Alright. Fine. Two people dead. Drug deal gone bad. I’m sure you have everyone and their brother out there doing their job.”
“Oh, yes. Chris . . . you remember Chris?” Weyler said sarcastically. “He’s lead detective on the case. He’s also fielding the media’s questions. I have about three quarters of our staff out there. Emily is in protective custody. Between her guardian adlitum and her appointed psychologist, she’s not short on company. And your good buddy, Martha Durrett? The Department of Social Services has given Martha the job of tending to the child’s welfare and safety.”
“I’m sure they’ll bond like oil and water,” Jane said with a smirk.
“Actually, that’s exactly how Emily Lawrence is bonding with all of her caregivers, Martha included. In short, the child is not talking. Except, of course, for the occasional question of ‘Where’s my mommy and daddy?’ ”
“You didn’t tell the kid they’re dead?”
“I leave that up to the experts. The child psychologist felt it wasn’t appropriate for the girl to know right now. Martha agreed.”
“Oh, sure.” Jane crossed her arms defiantly and shook her head in disgust. “Being evasive is always good with kids. Lying is, too. Martha should tell Emily that her folks are camping. Then in, I don’t know, three years, figure out a way to work it into the conversation that they’re dead. That should ease the kid’s pain.”
Weyler pinched the skin between his nose. “Detective Perry, must you?”
“Kids aren’t stupid, sir. I may not have any of my own, but I was one. And I can tell you that they know things. Lying to them just screws them up.”
“Martha will inform Emily when she feels the child can handle it. Let’s get back on point.” Weyler leaned back in his chair, his hands folded against each other. “We are ninety-nine percent certain that Emily saw something.”
“You said she was barricaded in her closet upstairs. What did she see?”
“Evidence points to a couple possibilities. First and foremost, Emily’s palm and fingerprints were found in the streaks of blood along the wooden banister. The killer or killers wore gloves and dragged their bloody hands up the banister on their way, presumably, to Emily’s bedroom at the top of the stairs. We know that one of them entered her room and stood approximately in eyesight of the closet door that was slightly ajar when patrol officers found her the following morning. Blood droplets were found on the bedroom carpeting that probably came from the tip of a knife. It is only by the grace of God that the individual who was in that room was somehow distracted from finding the child. Either way, there’s a good chance she saw him from in there.”
Jane’s head began to beat from the hangover. Trying to intelligently debate with Weyler was proving difficult. “Okay, maybe I’m missing something here. How can she be hidden in her closet and also be touching a bloody banister?”