Protector - Laurel Dewey [14]
“Are you feeling alright, Detective Perry?”
Jane could have said a million smart-ass answers, but between feeling the need to censor her vocabulary with him and still stinging from Weyler’s suspension, she decided to settle on the truth. “No, Ron. I’m not feeling alright.”
“Is it your hand? If it is, my wife makes an herbal salve that works wonders.”
“The hand’s fine. I just have a lot on my mind.”
Ron hesitated. “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward but when I heard about what happened to you and Detective Crawley and that poor family, I asked our faith circle to include you in their prayers. My wife and I also prayed for you.”
Jane leaned on the steel counter and turned to Ron. “What did you ask for?”
“We prayed that you would be protected, and for God to give you direction.”
Jane’s eyes trailed off to the side. “You think God heard your prayers?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I know in my heart He will give you the answers you need very soon.” Ron placed the palm of his hand over Jane’s bandaged hand. “He works in mysterious ways, Detective Perry.” Jane stood still, taken aback by Ron’s bold gesture. His clear, blue eyes seemed to look right through her. It might have been the end result of her five-day drinking binge but she felt as though Ron knew things about her that she buried long ago. The elevator doors opened and two detectives from assault emerged, chatting loudly and carrying bags of evidence. “Excuse me,” Ron said, gently withdrawing his hand and attending to the detectives.
Jane grabbed her leather satchel and moved aside. Her head spun with various forms of strategy that would convince Weyler to put her back on the board without having to endure hours of psych counseling. This kind of deep thinking required tobacco, however. She headed back into the stairwell and lit up a cigarette. Leaning on the railing, she lost herself in thought. Jane heard the big steel door open from the lobby entrance and the patronizing voice of Martha Durrett. It was hard for Jane to concentrate on her thoughts while Martha was chattering. The 47-year-old worked for the Department of Social Services and was a constant thorn in Jane’s side. Part of it was Martha’s voice, a strident and annoying one. It was hard enough to stomach her voice when one was feeling normal but it was especially brutal with a hangover. Martha had a habit of clipping her words with the precision of a sharp knife as she moved through the world as though she owned it.
“Come along, dear,” Jane heard Martha say in that ever-condescending tone. “It’s just two quick flights up. Come, come!” Jane shook her head in disgust at Martha’s schoolteacher manner. She didn’t know who she was talking to but she felt sorry for them. The stream of smoke from her cigarette drifted up from the basement. Like a human smoke alarm, it didn’t take Martha long to blare. “Is someone there?” Martha leaned over the railing. Silence. “I say, is someone down there?” Martha sounded more agitated. Silence. “Wait right here,” Martha said to her hushed companion. Jane heard the sound of Martha’s sensible rubber soled shoes scuffing across the floor and tramping down the stairs until she lit on the landing above where Jane stood. “Ah-hah!” Martha dug her fists into her wide hips and drew herself up to her full five-foot frame. She looked down at Jane with a scowl and a chiding “Tch, tch, tch” with her tongue. “Detective Perry. You know smoking is forbidden inside all Denver County and City buildings! Put that awful thing out before you set off the sprinklers!”
Jane leaned back against the wall, took a long, exaggerated drag off her cigarette and let the smoke slowly curl from her lips in a continuous ribbon. “You know, Martha, standing there like you are in that light, I can’t decide whether you look more