Protector - Laurel Dewey [24]
“How are you?” Weyler said pointedly.
“How am I supposed to be?”
Weyler briefly surveyed the inside of the car, like a hound dog on the trail. “Have you been drinking, Detective Perry?”
Jane was a bit put off. “I’ve had a beer,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
“A beer?”
“Am I a suspect in a crime? Because I sure feel like one right now.”
“Just a simple question—”
“Well, sir, I don’t know why it matters. After all, I am on suspension.”
Weyler regarded Jane very carefully. “Yes, you are.”
There was an awkward pause between the two of them. Jane got out of her car. “Shouldn’t you be home with your wife watching Prime Suspect on PBS?” Jane said, undaunted, as she lit a cigarette. “What are you doing here?”
Weyler stood straight as an arrow, pulling himself up to his full 6’4” height. “I am here, Detective Perry, to make an assessment.”
“On what? My character? My integrity? My sanity?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t know those answers by now, then I guess you don’t really know me.” Jane headed toward her front door.
“I know you better than you think I do.”
Jane stopped, her back to Weyler. She half believed him as a shudder raced down her spine. Jane turned back to Weyler. “What do you want?”
“I had a visit from Martha Durrett today. She was complaining about certain obscenities.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me. Martha Durrett is as obscene as they come.”
Weyler chose to ignore Jane’s evasive reply. “You made quite an impression on someone today. Quite an impression.”
Jane took a long drag on her cigarette. “Did you arrest her?”
“Who?”
“Who? The Mexican woman.”
“Oh. No, I did not. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”
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