Protector - Laurel Dewey [26]
“Fine, sir,” Jane said, keeping her eyes on her files and avoiding Weyler’s glare.
Weyler leaned over and turned on the radio to an easy listening station. Jane’s attention was immediately drawn to the music. Weyler gradually cranked up the volume on a particularly high-pitched Bee Gees tune. To Jane, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. She grabbed her head in pain. Weyler quickly turned off the radio.
“You’re hungover!” Weyler said angrily.
“No! I fell asleep on the dining room table. My neck’s stiff. I’ll be fine.”
Weyler rose from his chair and leaned across his desk toward Jane. “I told you this was important! I told you this was a highly sensitive meeting. And you still got drunk!” Weyler’s voice had a nervous edge that Jane had never heard. “You’re going to make me look like a damn fool, Detective Perry. I’m putting my ass on the line for you! I expected a little more cooperation!”
Jane was taken aback by Weyler’s sudden anger. He seemed overly concerned, in her opinion. “Sir,” she said carefully, “it’s just you and me sitting here, throwing possible scenarios back and forth.”
Weyler stared at Jane, his anger still evident. Jane nervously pulled out more files. “Put your files away, Detective Perry.”
“I need notes, sir. I don’t have it all memorized.”
“Put your files away. You will not need them.” Weyler said with emphasis.
“Sir?” Jane said confused and flustered. “What’s going on?”
Weyler composed himself and sat down, adjusting his freshly pressed dark suit. “I came to your house last night to make an assessment as to your ability to function. It was vital that you appear in the office this morning sober, not smelling of whiskey and not looking like you’ve spent the night slumped over furniture. Your appearance and capacity to think clearly is of utmost importance in this sensitive issue.”
“If I’m supposed to address the media today, you should have told me!”
“It’s not the media! And it’s got nothing to do with the Stover case.”
Jane sat back, totally perplexed and feeling uneasy. “What the hell is it?”
“How much of the news have you caught the last couple days?”
“None. I’ve been occupied.”
“You are completely unaware of the leading news story on every local network?”
“I’ve been busy—” Jane said, annoyed.
“Well, allow me to fill you in on what everyone in Denver is talking about. Two nights ago, on the evening of May 23, a little girl named Emily Lawrence, age nine and a half, barricaded herself in her bedroom closet while her parents were brutally stabbed to death downstairs in their living room. The living room was torn apart, as though the killer or killers were looking for something. The only incriminating evidence found at the house was a mound of cocaine weighing in at nearly five ounces. This occurred in the Washington Park neighborhood where instances such as murder and high stakes drug trafficking are about as common as a comet hitting a large city.”
Jane quickly digested what she heard and shrugged her shoulders. “Alright. Fine. Two people dead. Drug deal gone bad. I’m sure you have everyone and their brother out there doing their job.”
“Oh, yes. Chris . . . you remember Chris?” Weyler said sarcastically. “He’s lead detective on the case. He’s also fielding the media’s questions. I have about three quarters of our staff out there. Emily is in protective custody. Between her guardian adlitum and her appointed psychologist, she’s not short on company. And your good buddy, Martha Durrett? The Department of Social Services has given Martha the job of tending to the child’s welfare and safety.”
“I’m sure they’ll bond like oil and water,” Jane said with a smirk.
“Actually, that’s exactly how Emily Lawrence is bonding with all of her caregivers, Martha included. In short, the child is not talking. Except, of course, for the occasional question of ‘Where’s my mommy and daddy?’ ”
“You didn’t tell the kid they’re dead?”
“I leave that up to the experts. The child psychologist felt it wasn’t appropriate for the girl to know right now. Martha agreed.”
“Oh, sure.” Jane crossed