by Laurel Dewey
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Rose offered with the slightest hint of compassion. “He said three grand in three days or he talks. And he means it.”
Rose started to walk away, but Jane stood in front of her. “I don’t have $3,000. Every penny I have went into building my business and working this case. We’re talking thousands of dollars. I had to think up a lot of creative angles to make things happen. And I mean creative.” Jane realized she was sounding too desperate. She dialed her tone back a notch in intensity. “Look, a lot of the pieces of this case fell apart tonight. But I’ll figure out how to make them come back together. And when I deliver those assholes to the people who want them and see some cash, Jerry will get his money. But it won’t be in three days!”
“You know Jerry as well as I do. It’s his way or...his way. Maybe you can sell some stuff...”
Jane stared into the distance. “Yeah, well, the thing is, Rose, the only thing I’ve got that I’m willing to sell is my ability.”
Rose shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jane.” Jane reluctantly stepped aside, allowing Rose to walk away. She turned to face the bar and caught her shadowed reflection in a large whiskey bottle. It was moments like this when the desire to numb her senses hit hard. Her head started to pound in a syncopated beat. She wasn’t sure if the pain in her head was due to the beating Carlos had given her, the stress of the case, the anxiety over a $3,000 bill she couldn’t pay, or the prospect of being revealed by a two-bit bar owner. Her vision began to blur as a distorted face warped into the whiskey bottle, awash in a purple glow. Jane’s heart raced and she quickly clamped her eyes closed.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Jane spun around, startled to see the paramedic. “Leave me alone, would you?”
“How many fingers do you see?” the paramedic asked, holding up his thumb, first finger, and middle finger.
“Two,” Jane said, collecting herself. “Your thumb’s not a finger!”
“Well done!” a male voice chimed in. Jane turned to find the cocky PD official standing next to her. “Looks like you got your ass kicked,” he said to Jane.
Jane regarded the paramedic. “Give me the ointment and leave us alone.”
The paramedic obliged and walked away.
“You sure you don’t need stitches...Jane?”
“Excuse me?” Jane asked, surprised this guy knew her name.
“I recognized you under the wig. Nice try.”
Jane touched the blond wig to make sure it was still securely on her head.
“This is awkward for you, isn’t it?” he said, a self-satisfied smile pasted across his face.
“Why?” Jane said, trying her best to remain stoic.
“Come on, Jane. I’ve heard enough about you through the grapevine at DH to know this whole scene is hard on your ego. By the way,” he said, extending his right hand, “my name’s Kenny Stephens.”
Jane let Kenny’s hand dangle. “What do you want, Kenny Stephens?” she replied with a mean edge to her voice.
Kenny broke into a wide grin that exposed his whiter-thanwhite teeth. “Well, for starters, Jane, I’d like to know where you scored that big envelope of cash.”
“Yeah, I bet you would be interested,” Jane replied, turning away.
“Seeing as one of the perps got away with the envelope, minus the three hundies that fell out,” Kenny said, revealing three crisp one hundred dollar bills, “I’d think you’d be alarmed. Or maybe, those who fed you the cash would be alarmed?”
“Nobody fed me the cash.”
“Really? Shit, we’re talking, what? Thousands?”
“Fifteen thousand, Kenny,” Jane replied matter-of-factly, wishing Kenny would let her leave.
“Fifteen grand of your own money? I’d be slitting my wrists if that happened to me!”
“Easy come, easy go,” Jane said, attempting to get past him.
“You act like it was Monopoly money.” Kenny eyed Jane with heightened precision. His brow furrowed. “Oh, wait, don’t tell me.” He abruptly turned. “Hey, Bobby!” Kenny yelled over to one of the crime scene investigators, “you got that pen on you?”
Jane’s gut clamped down. She knew what was coming but maintained her poker face.
Bobby tossed the pen across the bar to Kenny, who slapped one of the hundred dollar bills onto the bar. He drew a mark across the bill and turned to Jane. “You gave those guys counterfeit?”
Jane was aware of the tenuous predicament she was in, but kept up the front. “Guess so.”
“I don’t get it. Are you trafficking on the side with a counterfeit operation?”
“No, Kenny, I’m not making extra cash by making extra cash. Where I got the money is none of your goddamn business!” She wasn’t about to tell Kenny that she’d secretly stashed a box of “cash” from the counterfeit operation she successfully bagged for the Denver bank. Jane knew it was legally wrong, but she figured that Denver PD used confiscated counterfeit cash in undercover operations in order to trace its subsequent destinations, so why couldn’t she? The phony money had turned out to be her saving grace when she started her undercover drug investigation.
“I’m curious, Jane,” Kenny continued with a perverted sense of professional muscle, “what’s a lady like yourself doing hanging in a Colfax bar with a bunch of lowlifes during the holiday season? Have you sunk that low since you made that decision to turn down the sergeant’s job at DH?” Kenny moved closer to Jane, whispering. “I’d think with your little alcohol problem, you’d want to stay away from dives like this.”
His words cut through Jane’s heart. She didn’t know anything about him, but he knew of her achingly private battle. That was a deep, unforgivable violation. A raw vulnerability enveloped Jane, but she was damned if she was going to show it. “Where in the hell did DH find you? Was it online at assholecops.com?”
“Funny,” Kenny responded dryly.
Jane snatched her coat. “Excuse me,” Jane said, moving away from him.
“If you’re worried that Carlos, your date, is talking, he’s not. But that’s okay. We know he’s just a lackey.”
Jane turned to Kenny. “He’s not my date.”
“Did I say ‘date?’ I meant stooge. Right? Only a fucking idiot wouldn’t check to see if you’re wired before setting you up with some of the top guys.” Jane stopped. “Wasn’t that what Camerón was grabbing for right before he turned and aimed his gun at Carlos? By the way, nice little Matrix move you did in deflecting the gunshot. Classic!”
Jane couldn’t understand how Kenny knew how everything had gone down. She was tired of his arrogant manner and decided it was time to play hardball. “I’m not giving DH my wire.”
“We don’t need your little wire. We’ve got tons of audio of these guys. We just needed two things to wrap it up: fingerprints and a good, clear video of them in action. You wouldn’t think that a dump like this would install video cameras, would you? And once we get the prints off the two guns they dropped and you kicked out of sight, it’s a slam dunk! Give us a few a more hours, and DH will go on the books with this collar!”
“This is my collar, you son of a bitch!” Jane said with venom. She stood within inches of Kenny’s face. “I’ve been inside, working alone for three months.”
“And DH has been working it for eight months. But you knew that, right? Did you actually believe you were gonna show us up? I don’t think so. Guess you wasted three months for nothing. God, that must totally suck for you.”
Jane stared at Kenny, feeling her entire world crumble beneath her feet.
“Oh, and by the way, Jane. DH didn’t find me on the Internet. I applied for the job ... after you turned it down. So when you see the name Sergeant Kenny Stephens under my mug when the media shows me announcing the collar, you can appreciate the irony.” Kenny capped his statement with an arrogant smirk. “Ain’t life a bitch?”
Jane felt a feverish rush. Even though Kenny was built like a weight lifter, she knew she had
the power at that moment to pummel his head into mush. But since she was looking at losing everything she had worked for, certain bankruptcy, and the possibility of being revealed by name to a drug mob...well, she figured that an additional charge of murder wouldn’t help. She turned and walked to the exit.
“I’ll give Weyler your best, Jane!” Kenny yelled out to Jane.
Jane kept walking toward the exit without a word, except for thrusting her middle finger backward in the air before slamming the bar door shut and walking into the bleak December chill.
CHAPTER 3
The late December night air stung Jane’s cheeks as she walked to her ’66 ice blue Mustang. She’d parked the car within fifty feet of The Red Tail Hawk’s front door with the idea that she could quickly rip out of the establishment if necessary. One thing about Jane, she was always thinking ahead and factoring in what may or may not happen in any given situation. It was this highly calculated approach to life that defined her investigative method and had paid off in the past with numerous high-profile collars. That’s why the chaotic battle inside the bar completely caught her off guard. She had worked and reworked every possible angle before ever embarking on the set-up with Carlos—everything from planning the ice tea for whiskey substitution with Rose to maneuvering the meeting at the joint’s only semiprivate pool table, one situated on a raised platform with three walls surrounding it. Jane had strongly debated whether to take her Glock into the bar as a safety backup, but she had concluded that to hide a wire and a gun would be pushing her luck.
Jane ducked into her Mustang and slammed the door just as a flurry of snow whirled against the front window. The crimson glow from the bar’s neon sign reflected an eerie blood wash effect against the car’s interior. Drawing a squashed pack of Marlboros out of her jacket pocket, she pulled out a cigarette and lit up. For Jane, the first hit off a fresh cigarette was always like a flood of anesthesia that softened the edges. She pulled the smoke in, allowing the burn to penetrate her lungs. Looking off to the side, Jane noticed a lone prostitute on the corner. It was typical fare for this part of Denver. She noted how the hooker’s blond wig was askew and exposing a tendril of dark hair. Jane thought how trashy it looked and then caught a glance of herself in her rearview mirror. Her short-cropped blond wig had been pulling double-duty hours over the last three months and was starting to show the wear. Jane yanked the wig off her head, exposing her pinned up brown hair. Removing the barrettes, Jane shook out the tangles and took another drag on her cigarette. She returned her attention to the prostitute. A cheap, white, cropped faux fur jacket fit snugly around her narrow frame. The hooker tugged self-consciously at her tight-fitting, pink miniskirt. That single action caused Jane to regard the girl with greater interest.
On closer examination, she looked no older than sixteen. Probably a runaway, Jane thought. She was trying to give off a tough vibe, but Jane could see the fear and vulnerability bleeding through her eyes. Jane knew that look all too well. She’d seen the same face staring back at her in the mirror when she was a teenager. Under the smeared black eyeliner, cheap rouge, and fireengine red lipstick, there was an odd innocence to the girl. She still retained enough baby fat to send up a red flag to anyone with a perceptive eye. The more Jane watched her, the more she reeked of inexperience. It was the way the kid bit her lower lip as she glanced from side to side. It was the apprehension in her step. Give her another year on the street and all that would be walled up inside a crusty exterior.
A tall, lean guy crossed Colfax Avenue and approached the kid. Jane noted how the girl’s entire body seized up as she caught sight of him. That single movement convinced Jane that this girl had never turned a trick in her life. The kid exchanged a few words with the guy, but then things turned ugly. The guy slammed the girl’s body against the wall, just a few feet from an alley that skimmed the bar. He had one strong hand on the girl’s right shoulder and the other was working its way up her short pink skirt. Jane peered more closely at the guy and got out of her car.
“Hey!” Jane yelled with a punctuated clip.
The john turned his head toward Jane but still kept a tight grip on the girl’s shoulder. “Mind your own business, bitch!” He turned his attention back to the girl. “A deal’s a deal!” he said in an intimidating tone.
Jane moved closer. The girl’s eyes darted to Jane. They were brimming with tears. As Jane moved within a few feet of the kid, it became clear she was all of fourteen.
“You like ’em young?” Jane said to the guy as the snow spit against her face.
The guy turned back to Jane, pissed. “Unless you want to do a three-way, get the fuck outta here!” With that, he jerked the girl by her wrist toward the darkened alley. “Come on!”
“So, Rick,” Jane yelled out, “how old is Chelsea now?” The guy stopped dead in his tracks. “She’d be, what?” Jane continued. “Thirteen. No, fourteen. As old as this kid right here. Fourteen. You know how I remember Chelsea’s age, Rick? I nabbed your sick ass twelve years ago when I worked assault at DH.” Rick turned around, squinting at Jane through the falling snow. “I also personally wrote up the restraining order that barred you from having any contact with your then two-year-old daughter.”
Rick glared at Jane. “Perry?”
“Yep. Take your hand off the girl, Rick!”
“I never touched Chelsea in that way,” Rick said his hand still firming gripping the kid.
“Ten years in prison and your old lady moving out of state with Chelsea never gave you a chance. Are you gonna let this girl go?”
“I gave her a twenty for a blow job and she ran off with the money before services were rendered! What are we gonna do about that?”
“She’s gonna put the twenty toward a bus ticket back home so she can finish ninth grade and start high school with a clean slate. And if that doesn’t sit well with you, Rick, I’ve got a Glock under this jacket,” Jane said, lying through her teeth, “and I’ll use it to blow off your dick so you won’t have to worry about blow jobs in the future. What’s it gonna be?” Jane unbuttoned her jacket as if she were reaching for her pistol.
Rick quickly let go of the girl. “Fuck, Perry! You’re crazy!”
“And you’ll be dickless if you don’t get the hell outta here!”
Rick backed up several steps, then spun on his heels and took off down Colfax.
Jane turned to the girl. “So, tell me. Is the reason you ran away from home worse than living out here and dealing with scum like him?”
The girl shook her head, still trembling from what had just transpired. “No.... No, ma’am.” There was a soft, southern drawl to the girl’s frightened voice.
Jane’s perceptive ear tuned in. “Tennessee or Alabama?”
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise. “Tennessee. Just outside Nashville.”
“Denver to Nashville. That’s gonna be about $150 plus whatever food you need.” Jane dug into her jacket pocket and withdrew her wallet. She pulled out every last bill. “All I have left is $160. Here,” she said, handing the cash to the kid. “We’ll have Rick’s twenty pick up dinner, okay?” The girl took the money in stunned silence. “There’s a runaway shelter one block down on this side of the street. It’s next to the gas station. You can’t miss it. Ask for Hilary and tell her you need a ride to the bus station. If you leave tonight, you can be home around this time tomorrow. But do me and your family a favor. Wash off the face paint and ask the shelter to give you a pair of jeans and a sweater. You don’t want to get off the bus dressed like this and give your mother a stroke! And call your folks before you leave so they know you’re coming home. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl stuttered.
“And by the way, if I ever catch you working the street again, I’ll kick your ass into next week. Understood?”
The girl smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered through a well of tears. She started down Colfax and then turned back to Jane. “Hey, how’d you know I was fourteen?”
Jane sh
rugged her shoulders in an offhand manner. “I just did.”
The girl turned and continued toward the shelter. Jane felt a sharp stab of pain around her jaw where Carlos had punched her. For the first time that night, she realized how much the beating truly hurt. She took a final drag on her dying cigarette, crushed it into the wet pavement, and headed back to her car. Once inside, she angled the rearview mirror toward the light of the bar’s neon sign and examined her battle scars from the bar brawl. Her right cheek was starting to swell. Likewise, her cut lip was beginning to show signs of bruising. For a second, Jane flashed back to a bloody night nearly twenty-two years before, when she was fourteen years old and her cop father, Dale, nearly kicked her to death in a drunken rage. It was an incident that had haunted and defined Jane for many years, and one which fueled so much primal anger. It was also a memory that, up until nearly six months ago, had triggered her need for a fifth of Jack Daniels in one sitting.
Jane was just about to fall back into the violent flashback when she thought she saw a face looking at her in the reflection of the rearview mirror. She shifted the mirror to the old sedan parked directly behind her Mustang. However, between the shadows that cut through the curtains of falling snow, Jane couldn’t see a figure in the car. The only thing she could identify was a crystal hanging from the sedan’s rearview mirror.
Paranoia kicked in as Jane sat back in the seat. She slipped her left elbow toward the driver’s door lock and pressed it down. Reaching under her seat, she pulled out her Glock, placed it in her lap, and stared straight ahead. Jane’s mind raced with various scenarios of who she may have seen—a mob lackey hired to stay outside and wait for her exit, a Denver detective planning to trail her moves, or...nobody. It was the psychological price Jane paid for getting involved in dicey clandestine work, and it was taking its toll on her psyche. She snuck another look in the rearview mirror and was shocked to see that the sedan was gone. Jane looked around. She couldn’t believe she had missed the stealthy exit of the mysterious car. She tuned in to the moment, surrounded by the fast falling snow, and listened to her gut. When all else failed, Jane Perry could always rely on her sixth sense. And right now, her gut was surprisingly free of turmoil.
