Protector - Laurel Dewey [193]
“Meth?” Jane said out loud.
Could it be? Could meth be one of the fateful connections between Chris and Stover? True, it was difficult to be a high-functioning meth addict and a cop without other cops catching on. Chris’ often erratic behavior could easily be chalked up to severe stress and a driving desire to catch the crook and close the case. But it was also true that meth addicts have zero stress tolerance. Then again, Chris had a lot of things going for him, including his keen intelligence and profound understanding of the criminal psyche. Who better understands the way a criminal thinks than another criminal?
Jane recalled a comment she made to Weyler. “There’s a thin line between the mind of a cop and the mind of a criminal. Do you have any idea how often they are one in the same? And how they hide it so well?” At the time, she was referring to her father. But now, those words were meant for Chris. Just like Dale Perry, Chris walked a tightrope between light and dark, dipping his toe more frequently into the black sludge and emerging a little more sullied each time. Jane understood the seductive call of the darkness—the sultry whispers and tempting promises of power and prestige that it held.
When you cut a deal with demons, you do whatever it takes to execute your contract. You steal evidence, like that silver cigarette case. Jane surmised that was accomplished when Chris was briefly alone at the scene after being sent out to get food for Jane and Emily’s stay at the Lawrence house.
You frame homeless bums who you probably know from hanging with the degenerates of society. That would explain why the bum kept looking at Chris and saying that he looked familiar.
You concoct stories of stalkers leaving messages on your voice mail tape at Headquarters that threaten to take out the kid. That was just another back pocket insurance policy so Chris could say “I told you so” when the kid turned up dead.
You attempt to break into the lead detective’s house to find out if she left any notes behind that might clue you in to where the Department sent her. Jane briefly took solace in that she never gave Chris a key to her house.
You lie about your whereabouts. The more Jane charted the timing of events, the more she realized that Chris was never anywhere near Lake Dillon with his boat; that was just a ploy to throw off DH. “And what about that damn boat?” Jane thought.
Ultimately, for Jane, the final questions came down to “Who benefits?” and “Why risk your career on a murderous rampage?” Did Chris benefit from their deaths? Or did someone else benefit who Chris feared? Was Chris acting on his own volition or was there more to it? The final connection murky in Jane’s mind. But the loose puzzle pieces were joining together to form a psychotic portrait of a man who was hell-bent on destroying everything that was good and decent. A burning rage gripped Jane. She grabbed a small vase filled with plastic flowers and flung it against the wall, shattering the glass across the kitchen table. “Goddamn you!” she shouted, her voice cracking in pain.
One way or the other, Jane knew she had to alert Weyler and carefully manipulate the situation so that no one was tipped off. Jane walked into the living room. She stopped near Emily’s closed bedroom door. Jane started for the door when she suddenly heard her name. She turned in the direction of the voice. It was muffled and anxious. In an instant, Jane raced down the hallway to her bedroom, as the voice grew louder. She stormed into her bedroom just as the male voice clipped off quickly. Jane eyed the blinking red light on her beeper that