by Laurel Dewey
Jane considered the possibility that Stover may have mentioned Chris’ involvement with the mob in the letter. She realized it was a leap on her part but maybe . . . maybe it was the inked proof. Somehow, the personal relationship between David and Bill became apparent to the Texas mob who were obviously concerned enough about this affiliation to alert their number one gopher, Chris, to the situation. Did Chris make grand assumptions due to his paranoia and conclude that Bill was talking to David about Chris’ involvement? It was doubtful that Stover described Chris’ physical appearance in his doomed letter since Chris was obviously welcomed into the Lawrence home that fateful evening. Jane figured Chris probably put on his choirboy smile, uttered the words “ma’am” and “sir” in a cordial way to endear himself and then used the ruse of an accident down the street to get into their house.
Once inside, it only took several minutes for Chris to observe the house, discreetly place himself out of eyesight in the kitchen and quickly change into gloves, shoe covers and a mask—all of which, Jane presumed, he stashed in his jacket pocket. It was pure Chris, she surmised: cunning, smart and efficient. Jane could easily picture Chris’ subsequent quick attack homicidal maneuvers—all learned and perfected during his stint in the Marines and his subsequent law enforcement training. Jane knew that Chris would leave nothing to chance. She surmised it was for this reason he used two different knives during the murders and was careful to never cross contaminate the blades. His plan, Jane figured, was to make the homicides look as if two different people committed the crime. Jane remembered standing in the Lawrence living room with Sergeant Weyler during her first visit to the house. After Weyler went over everything—from the chaotic living room with its destroyed furniture and pristine pile of undisturbed cocaine to the meticulous way in which each victim met their death—Jane recollected how she called the whole scene “premeditated manipulation.” Looking back, Jane realized she was right on target. Who better to know what cops would look for than another highly trained cop? Brilliant evil, she thought.
Jane considered the five ounce pile of cocaine at the Lawrence crime scene. Her comment that it was planted amidst the turmoil was dead on. “Cocaine,” Jane said out loud. She suddenly realized that the amount of cocaine found at the scene was just under the amount of coke missing from the evidence room. Chris’ voice radiated in Jane’s head. It was the conversation they shared when she secretly called the lab and got an earful from Chris about Ron Dickson’s suspension.
“With the amount of coke Ron took,” Chris told Jane, “Brass figures he’s been dipping into the powder since May!”
That’s where Chris slipped up. Chris probably stole the coke from a K-Pak evidence bag in early May in preparation for the Lawrence murder and eventual cover-up. No doubt Chris used his altar boy sweetness to con Ron into leaving him alone in the property room long enough to steal the drugs and reseal the K-Pak bag. But when Chris was telling the story to Jane on the phone, how could he or anyone possibly know that the cocaine went missing around a certain date since there had been no audit of the evidence lab for over one year.
Jane wondered if Chris was planning to set up Ron from the beginning. As a detective, Chris was always projecting five steps in front of the case, factoring the variables and coming up with enough possible scenarios to fill several crime novels. He left nothing to chance; he played on people’s character weaknesses and took advantage of every plausible “in” that he could find. Jane flashed onto the scene at the hospital, after Emily fell off the roof. When Chris saw Ron walk into the emergency room with his injured hand and shaken demeanor, he jumped on the opportunity like a cougar on fresh kill. He had to. He was desperate.
Jane rapidly put two and two together regarding that fateful evening. He thought he had killed Jane under the blanket on the couch, not Martha Durrett. As far as Chris knew when he went off shift that evening, Jane was still guarding Emily. He was never aware of her fight with Emily and eventual departure from the scene. Suddenly, the cryptic “PAYBACK” note that was plunged into Martha’s eye made sense. On some level, Chris felt that Jane knew more about the murders than she was disclosing. That’s why Chris bugged the living room to eavesdrop on their conversation. He was convinced that Emily was sharing pertinent information with Jane and so, in his twisted mind, he had no choice but to kill her. No wonder Chris looked so surprised to see Jane when he reached the hospital. Once again, Chris’ words echoed in Jane’s head. He was speaking to her at the hospital, doing his version of consoling her after learning that Martha Durrett was killed.
“Shit happens,” Chris said to Jane. “At least the son-of-a-bitch couldn’t find the kid and had to take off. Don’t blame yourself for this huge mistake.” But in retrospect, Jane realized that Chris misspoke. At that point, Weyler had not debriefed anybody about the crime scene. More importantly, Jane was the only one who had spoken to Emily and knew that the intruder on the roof suddenly left when he couldn’t find the kid.
As Jane began to see everything with clearer eyes, she took into account Chris’ appearance over the past months. His wardrobe had become increasingly slovenly. His breath had taken on an acrid odor. His eyes looked dark and puffy, as if he had been on a five-day bender. Jane concluded that her own drunken demeanor prevented her from attaching any significance to Chris’ disintegrating appearance. And then there was his attitude: restless, anxious, overly talkative, intensely paranoid, an obsessive interest in rough sexual activity, all juxtaposed against a false sense of confidence and raw power. Jane sat back in shock; it was almost exactly like Bill Stover’s behavior during his last few months. She felt the floor drop away from her.
“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 qu
estions 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 sat on the bedside table. She grabbed it and nervously hit the play button.
“Jane Perry? This is Jeff. Lisa’s brother? Look, I did some digging like you asked. I followed the protection trail. That Weyler guy you mentioned is not involved. But it is clear that a Detective Christopher Crawley has been offering illegal police protection to the immigrant businesses downtown. He gets paid off in goods and services. Something about a boat and other stuff. From what I can sort out, Crawley edged in on businesses that were already paying protection to the Texas mob. They could have killed him and Crawley knows that, but the mob decided to keep him in their back pocket. He does things for them. Jobs . . . Intimidation . . . Whatever they ask. Maybe even murder. The business people downtown are terrified of him. I tried to track him down but he suddenly left town this morning. Mentioned something to one of the shop owners about having to pay back somebody—” With that, the sixty second tape cut off.
Payback. Jane’s adrenalin hit the roof. She grabbed her shoulder holster, snapped it across her body and shoved in her Glock pistol. Tearing open her fanny pack, she quickly pulled out two extra clips and secured them in her front pockets. She threw on her leather jacket to conceal the gun and started down the hallway when she stopped and quickly ran back into the bedroom. Flinging open the closet door, she grabbed her duffel bag and emptied the contents onto the floor. She rummaged through the assorted items until she located the square, thin, black leather container that held her police badge. Jane hid the badge in her back pocket and ran down the hallway toward Emily’s bedroom door.
She tried the door. Still locked. “Emily!” Jane shouted, pounding on the door. “Unlock this door! Let me in!”
An eerie silence fell around Jane. Something was very wrong. She backed up several feet and kicked the door with her cowboy boot, sending splinters of wood flying across the floor. With one final devastating kick, directly onto the doorknob, the door flew open.
Emily was gone. Her pajamas lay in a heap on the floor. Her jeans, boots and shirt were missing from the chair where she’d left them. Jane turned. A gust of wind blew in through the narrow front window. The window screen had been punched through and tossed onto the front lawn.
“Oh, God, don’t do this!” Jane shouted as she spun around and ran out the front door.
Chapter 28
Jane skidded to a halt outside the house on the front pathway, quickly observing the scene. From what she could tell, it looked as if two separate footprints—one belonging to Emily and one clearly belonging to an adult—left indentations in the dewy grass and tracked away from the house, heading down Main Street toward town. The sidewalk was quickly filling up with parade watchers. Orange cones and wooden barricades lined the periphery, preventing people from walking into the street. Half a block up toward the highway, Jane saw a crowd of parade participants busily getting into line in preparation for their procession down Main.
Jane looked up in a nearby tree and saw a city worker adjusting a patriotic flag. “Hey! Did you just see a little girl being grabbed out of that window over there?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, casually.
“Did you notice where the kid and the guy were headed?”
“Guy? There was no guy.”
“She was alone?”
“No. That woman . . . what’s her name? She works at the real estate office . . .”
“Kathy?”
“Yeah, Kathy. She walked up there and, I don’t know, I guess asked her if she wanted to watch the parade or something—”
“Oh, shit,” Jane muttered under her breath. “Did you notice where they went?”
“They walked under the barricade and across the street, headin’ down Main.” Jane scanned the growing crowd on the other side of the street. She ran to the Subaru and started to get in when the city worker called out to her. “Hey, you can’t drive anywhere until the parade is over! City regulations! The street’s blocked!”
“It’s an emergency!” Jane shouted back to him.
“Lady, you can’t drive anywhere! They can’t have gone far. You’re better off catching up with them on foot!”
Jane slammed the car door and brusquely fought her way through the throngs of revelers. She slunk underneath the orange wooden barricade and raced across the street, repeating the same maneuver on the other side until she reached the empty sidewalk. Jane ran down the sidewalk, scanning the crowd for any sign of Kathy, Heather or Emily. A block and a half up Main Street she spotted Heather leaning against a metal stair rail. As usual, the child had a petulant look on her face as she stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest. Jane made a mad dash for her.
“Heather!” Jane said, out of breath, “Where’s Emily?”
“I don’t know any Emily!” Heather said with a nasty tone. “I know a Patty—”
“Where is she, Heather?” Jane yelled, tiring of the kid’s attitude.
“You better stay away from me! If you hurt me, I’m telling the sheriff!”
Jane suddenly looked up at the building behind Heather. “For God’s sake!” Jane yelled as she tore up the front stairs of the sheriff’s office and ran into the building. She stopped momentarily when she stepped inside the antiquated office. A heavy wooden counter stood ten feet in front of her. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She heard two voices speaking in quiet, subdued tones in an adjacent room. Jane lunged toward the counter’s latched door and tried to open it, but it was locked. She jumped onto the counter and spun over to the other side. Once her feet hit the marble green flooring, she could see Sheriff George having a serious conversation with Kathy. “Hey!” Jane called out in a clipped shout as she moved toward them. They turned in unison with looks of apprehension on their faces. Jane walked toward Kathy. “You stupid bitch!”
“There! You see, Sheriff?” Kathy said, standing closer to Sheriff George’s side. “That’s the kind of hairpin anger I’m talking about!”
“Now, look,” the sheriff warned Jane, “you better just calm yourself down.”
“You have no idea what’s going on here!”
“I have a very good idea!”
“Where’s Emily?” Jane demanded.
“Emily? Right, Emily. She’s just fine and dandy,” the sheriff replied.
“Where is she?” Jane shouted.
“She’s safe. She’s in the back room with our deputy,” Sheriff George said sternly.
Jane started for the back room. “I have to talk to her!”
The sheriff moved his large physique in front of Jane, halting her progress. “You don’t need to be talking to her right now—”
Jane stared down the sheriff. “You don’t understand—”
“Oh, yes I do. I know you’re not who you say you are. I know you are not that child’s mother!”
Jane took a step back. “Oh, Christ,” Jane mumbled as she ran her fingers through her tangled brown hair. She didn’t want to
deliver the bombshell in front of Kathy but she realized she was backed into a corner. “Okay, look, before I go into this, I want it known that I have done everything above board and according to procedure.”
“Is that right?” Sheriff George retorted, a smug look on his face.
“Yes!” Jane said, taking offense at his tone.
“Is slapping that child across the face part of your ‘procedure? ’”
Jane was rattled by the sheriff’s question. She searched for the right response as Kathy stared at her. “I . . . ah—” Jane stumbled on her words.
“Do you deny assaulting that child?” the sheriff intoned.
“She was hysterical. She was hurting herself. She’d just heard devastating news—”
“So you decided to assault her to make the news more pleasant?”
“Stop saying ‘assault’! I did what I had to do!”
“Ah! You do admit striking the child?”
“Yes, I hit her! Look, what happened back at the house is between the kid and me! No one else needs to get involved!”
“You mean, like, Social Services?”
Jane regarded the sheriff with a confused stance. “Social Services? This is bullshit! Time is ticking away! I’ve got to talk to her!”
Jane started for the back room when the sheriff once again stood in front of her. “She is perfectly alright back there!”
Jane knew she had to spill the whole story. The familiar, off-key clamor of the Peachville High School marching band could be heard moving down Main Street. Jane turned to Kathy, “The parade’s starting. Go outside and watch it with Heather.”
“I’m staying right here,” Kathy defiantly replied.
Jane let out an exhausted sigh and faced Sheriff George. “Fine. You know I’m not her mother—”
“And I know your name is not Anne Calver. Your real name is Michelle Mason.”
