Protector - Laurel Dewey [204]
Heather seized up, cringing at what was coming next. “Wha—What?” she stuttered.
A satisfied grin crept across Jane’s face. “If I told you, I’d ruin the surprise.”
Heather bought Jane’s story. Jane matter-of-factly adjusted the kid’s collar and glanced down at the moist grass where Heather stood. Jane found another reason to smile. “So, you’re gonna remember what I’ve told you?”
“Yes,” Heather replied, still frightened.
“Okay. You’re gonna walk back to your mom’s car, you’re gonna get in and you’re gonna keep your mouth shut about everything I just said to you. Because if you don’t, this entire town is gonna find out that you just wet your pants. Do I make myself clear?” Heather’s mouth dropped open. Jane leaned closer to the kid’s face. “Do I make myself clear?” Heather nodded, absolutely terrified. “Go on! Get outta here!”
She watched Heather make a mad dash across the grass toward the car, jump into the vehicle and urge her mother to get in and drive fast. Jane lit another cigarette as Kathy tore up Main Street. Just then, Jane spotted Weyler walk out the front door carrying a briefcase. As usual, he was dressed in his tailored navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and crimson red tie. She made a beeline toward the house and met him on the front steps. “Can I go in and see her now?”
“Not yet. The nurse hasn’t finished with her,” Weyler replied, sitting down on the porch steps, his long legs awkwardly extended.
Jane anxiously sat next to him. Weyler clicked open his briefcase and pulled out a sealed plastic bag that held a one page, single spaced, typed letter. The notepaper had obviously been crumpled into a ball and then recently flattened. “After I got your call today,” Weyler said, “I stopped at the Lawrence house per your instructions. I pushed on that damn desk for fifteen minutes to find the secret button. Finally, I got that back compartment open and I found this.” He handed Jane the plastic bag. “You were right.”
Jane looked at the paper. “The letter.” Reluctantly, she read it to herself.
David,
After we talked the other night at my office, I gave your offer of help a lot of thought. I hope it wasn’t the booze talking on your end, because I really need you to back me up in case the shit hits the fan. I got myself painted into a corner and I now I have no choice but to testify and tell the court what I know about the T. mob and all the Denver big shots that front for them. They’re going to be putting Yvonne and Amy and I into protective custody until it blows over. But, like I told you, I got a bad feeling about things. I’m pretty much screwed either way you cut it. When I told you the names of the players the other night, I couldn’t remember the last name of that homicide cop I mentioned. You know? The one from the Denver Police Department? Well, I remembered it. It’s Chris Crawley. He works homicide at the Denver PD. I’ve never met the guy, but from what I’ve been told, he’s a loose cannon. He works both sides of the fence. From what the boys told me, late last year he cut in on some off-hours ‘security’ jobs downtown in the immigrant section where the T. mob has a foothold. He was strong-arming the Asians, lying to them, telling them they had to have protection if they wanted to succeed. He got some sweet deals out of it, money, a boat in trade, etc. Anyway, the way I heard it, the T. mob said they were going to blow his cover to the higher-ups in the police department if he didn’t agree to what they said. So Crawley agreed to work with them. But it wasn’t like they had to twist his arm to do it. I heard he pretty much got off on the idea. He protects them. He hides evidence for them. Sometimes, he even steals evidence so it goes permanently missing. He’ll