Protector - Laurel Dewey [152]
For the next few days, Jane felt as though a fire was lit underneath her feet. The more she considered her situation, the angrier she became. In her mind, for the past three and a half weeks, she’d become a sitting duck, held hostage to the whims of the Denver PD and, soon, to the microscope of a small-town sheriff. Never in her life had she rolled over so easily and allowed herself to be played like a puppet. As far as Jane was concerned, those days were over. “Fuck ’em,” became her mantra. She didn’t feel that she could trust Weyler, although her concern regarding his ethics and integrity were murky. Her mind kept going back to his statement about discovering “internal problems downstairs.” While Weyler had assured her that those problems had nothing to do with her case, her gut told her differently. And she always listened to her gut.
She had to figure out a way to call Ron Dickson. Then she had to convince him to check the Property Report Form for that elusive silver cigarette case that somehow jumped from the crime scene photo and into the hands of the homeless man. It went against the rules of the game but Jane knew she had to start making her own rules.
At least, that’s what she told herself as she stood in front of the pay phone outside The Pit Stop. Jane knew that the evidence room was usually quiet in the late afternoon. Fortunately, she remembered the direct line to Ron’s phone. She also remembered that Ron took breaks around 11 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. She figured she could catch him coming back from his break around 4:00 and cut a deal while he was still giddy from the candy bar and bottle of pop. While Emily stood outside the Subaru, practicing her line dancing steps in the parking lot, Jane dialed the number. It rang twice before someone picked up.
“Evidence, Johnson.” Johnson? Jane was taken aback. Johnson was a lackey who worked the back room. “Hello?” Johnson said. “Is someone there?”
Jane’s first reaction was to hang up the phone but she’d gotten this far and she needed to keep going. She lowered her voice in a weak attempt to alter her voice. “I need to talk to Ron Dickson.”
“Ron’s not here. Can I help you?” Johnson asked.
“No. I need to talk to Ron. When is he back from his break?”
“Who is this?”
“When is Ron back from his break?” Jane said, undeterred.
“Ron’s on suspension.”
“Suspension?” At that point, Jane heard Chris’ voice in the background. She knew it went against policy, but she had to find out what was going on. “Put Detective Crawley on the phone!”
Jane felt her heart race as Johnson handed the phone to Chris.
“Who’s this?” Chris asked in his usual gruff tone.
“It’s me.”
Chris quickly spoke to Johnson. “Hey, I need privacy for a bit. Thanks . . .” Chris waited several seconds, then pressed his lips into the receiver. “Jane, where the fuck are you?” he asked in a thick whisper. “I need to talk to you in private. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you back from the pay phone down the street. That way, no one here can trace the call.”
“Chris, I can’t! I’m not supposed to be talking to anybody!”
“Then why are you calling Ron Dickson? Anything you can tell Ron, you can certainly tell me! I’m still your partner, for God’s sake!”
Jane felt the walls closing in on her. She quickly regretted concocting this wild scheme. “Goddamnit, Chris. Why is Ron suspended?”
“It seems that your sweet little Christian pal has a pesky cocaine habit!”
“What?” Jane was floored.
“And guess where he was scoring his coke?”
“From evidence?” Jane said, skeptically.
“You got it!”
“Has everyone down there lost their mind? Ron is not a coke addict. He wears a D.A.R.E. button on his collar—”
“When did you become so fucking ignorant?” Chris said. “I don’t give a shit if he drives around in a mother-fuckin’ van with big D.A.R.E. letters plastered across the side! He’s been pinching the evidence to the accumulated tune of over five ounces! God only knows what else he’s been pocketing. All that time you were talking to him and buying into his Christian do-gooder bullshit, he was a cokehead and you couldn’t