by Laurel Dewey
The TV flashed video from the press conference. Ten Denver cops and detectives stood behind a long table stacked with kilos of cocaine. Standing to the far right was Sergeant Weyler, impeccably dressed in one of his tailored suits and crimson ties. The room was filled with a claque of photographers and rabid reporters.
“This is by far the biggest takedown of cocaine in Denver’s history.” The jacked-up, cocksure voice belonged to none other than Kenny Stephens. Sergeant Kenny Stephens. That’s exactly what it said under his pumped up frame. DH had done exactly what they intended to do: use Jane’s print and video evidence at the bar to seal their investigation. And there was Weyler—Jane’s mentor, confidant, and friend—standing in front of the cache. While many of the other cops gloated, Weyler’s expression remained pensive with a decipherable irritation under his seemingly calm surface. Looking more closely, that tension appeared to be most evident when Kenny opened his mouth. “As a bonus for the Denver PD,” Kenny continued, “nearly fifteen thousand dollars in counterfeit bills was found when we raided their location.” The TV cameras focused on the fake money. “So that makes this catch a double win for Denver!”
Jane stared helplessly at the screen as she sunk into the couch. She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Fucking assholes,” she muttered to herself. The more Jane mused on the fallout from this event, the madder she got. She sunk her left hand into her jean pocket and nervously started rubbing the metal off the sobriety chips. “Fucking assholes!” Jane screamed in a flinty rage as she threw the remote control with gusto against the living room wall. Unexpectedly, one of the channel buttons depressed when the remote hit the wall, causing the TV to switch to CNN.
“We want to run the video that was just released this hour to the media by the Walker family in Oakhurst, California,” the female news anchor reported. “Apparently, this video—which we’re going to loop—shows twelve-year-old missing child Charlotte Walker at her birthday party this past year. The family wanted the public to get a better idea of what Charlotte looks like....”
Jane was still stinging from the PD’s announcement and didn’t immediately look at the television screen. But the playful, somewhat flirtatious giggle caught her attention. Turning to the screen, Jane observed Charlotte Walker in her backyard, opening birthday presents and surrounded by her mother and friends. A smattering of teenage boys who looked to be a few years older could be seen sitting on chairs around the yard. Charlotte’s mother, a heavyset woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties, beamed and fawned over her exuberant daughter.
But what really caught Jane’s eye was that Charlotte Walker looked nothing like the photo released to the media. She wore a cropped denim jacket that was buttoned just enough to reveal a white tank top beneath it. Her low-rise, tight-fitting blue jeans exposed a two-inch gap of tummy and a well-formed backside. From Jane’s point of view, Charlotte gave off a much older vibe than twelve. There was the thick black eyeliner, rouge, and red lipstick. And there was the odd, long, rainbow-colored wig Charlotte wore loosely on her head that skimmed the middle of her back. It looked similar to the wigs that rabid sports fans don in football stadiums. Attention getters. That was the first thought that crossed Jane’s mind as she watched Charlotte in her birthday video.
A quick glimpse of a reflection in a window showed the camera operator to be a plump woman in her mid to late-thirties. Charlotte tore the wrapping off a large box and pulled out a red leather jacket.
“Hold it up so Aunt Donna can film it, Charlotte!” her mother said.
Charlotte dutifully flattened the red jacket against her chest and happily posed for the camera. There was no shyness with this girl. The camera zoomed closer, slightly going out of focus. As Aunt Donna adjusted the focus ring, the TV screen filled up with Charlotte’s face. Her hazel eyes stared at the camera in a provocative manner. “I love my new coat! It’s beautiful! Thank you!” she squealed at the camera.
“Try it on!” Aunt Donna instructed as she zoomed the camera back to reveal Charlotte from the waist up.
Charlotte unbuttoned her jean jacket and removed it, revealing a tight white tank top underneath. That’s when Jane’s heart started to pound. She stared at the TV screen in disbelief. As Charlotte slipped on the red leather birthday jacket, the vertical emblem emblazoned on her tank top was easy to identify. It was a slithering vertical snake.
Jane withdrew the snakestone from her pocket. She held the stone up to the TV screen; it was a perfect match to the image on Charlotte’s tank top. Jane’s incredulity quickly turned into a growing indignation. Her mind raced as she plunged the chips and the stone back into her pocket and headed down the hall to retrieve her Glock.
She furiously sorted through the files she’d brought home. Jane found what she was looking for: the photo of Kit and Ashlee and the accompanying address card. Jane knew exactly where Kit’s apartment complex was located.
It was approaching four thirty in the afternoon as the sun sunk beneath the Rocky Mountains. Jane gunned the Mustang toward Boulder, cigarette tightly clenched in her teeth. With each passing mile, her righteous ire became more acute. Nobody was going to screw with her. Nobody.
Just shy of five fifteen, Jane skidded to a halt in front of Kit’s apartment building. She stormed out of her Mustang, noting Kit’s road-weary Buick with the identifying crystal hanging from the rearview mirror. Securing her Glock inside the waistband of her jeans, Jane entered the apartment complex. Upon finding Kit’s apartment, she banged on the door. “Kit! Open up!” Jane yelled with edgy cop supremacy.
Kit opened her door. “Jane P.! This is a surprise. Why all the pounding?”
Jane forced her way into Kit’s apartment, which wasn’t easy, as the door had a soft obstruction behind it. A pervasive aroma of patchouli incense wafted through the air. Once inside, Jane was all business. She slammed the door and stormed into the tiny living room that held a couch, lounge chair, several floor lamps, and a television that was tuned to CNN. On the screen, Jane noted the same continual loop of Charlotte Walker’s birthday video. Jane eyed the narrow kitchen, then plowed down a short hallway, canvassing Kit’s bedroom and tiny bathroom. Satisfied that Kit was alone, Jane returned to the living room.
“What the fuck is going on, Kit?” Jane yelled with authority.
Kit stood calmly perplexed by Jane’s behavior, her unbraided salt-and-pepper hair covering the front of her violet caftan “In relation to what?” Kit replied innocently.
“What kind of a con are you pulling?” Jane said with pointed determination.
“Con?”
Jane dug the snakestone out of her pocket and held it up to Kit’s face. “This!”
“What about it?”
Jane eyed the television. The video loop was repeating the moment when Charlotte removed the jean jacket to reveal her tank top. Jane moved to the TV and slammed the snakestone against the screen, clearly showing a side-by-side, nearly perfect copy of the snake motif on Charlotte’s top. “Explain that!” Jane demanded.
Kit walked to the television, smiling. “Look at that! I told you the universe would provide confirmation of the radical transformation you’re about to experience!”
“Cut the New Age shit, lady! You don’t come into my office and play some fucking game with me and then—”
“I’m not playing a game!” Kit said, taking offense at Jane’s statement.
“The hell you aren’t!”
“Take it down a notch! The neighbors are going to think I’m being assaulted!”
“Do you have information on the Charlotte Walker kidnapping? Are you protecting somebody?”
“What? I told you my instinctive feelings about Lou Pet—”
Jane quickly pulled aside her jacket to reveal the Glock. “What do you know about Charlotte Walker?” Jane said pointedly.
“Nothing more than what I’ve heard and seen on television!” Kit eyed the Glock. “Is that meant to intimidate me?”
Jane stood firm. “Where’s your little bag?”
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“What bag?”
“The purple bag this thing came out of!” Jane said, waving the snakestone.
“It’s in my satchel where I left it,” Kit calmly replied.
“Get it!”
Kit let out an exasperated breath and turned to retrieve her satchel. She pulled out the purple drawstring bag and handed it to Jane.
Jane backed up a step. “Open the bag and drop the contents on the floor.”
Kit looked at Jane incredulously. “Why?”
“Because every single stone in that bag has a snake on it! That’s what makes your con so effective! Dump the bag, Kit!”
Kit let out a sarcastic snort and did as she was told. The stones fell onto the carpet, mostly landing face up. There were stones with carvings of ravens, hummingbirds, eagles, crows, and more. But not a single snake. Jane scanned the stones, her mind working overtime on her next move.
“Anything else you’d like me to do while you’ve got your gun out?” Kit asked, each word dripping with disdain.
Jane turned her attention from the stones to Kit’s face. Studying it carefully, she saw a steely willfulness and no fear. What Jane didn’t see was the slightest aura of duplicity that graced the visage of so many con artists she’d dealt with in the past. She draped her jacket over the Glock. “Explain it,” Jane demanded.
“The snake? I can’t. You pulled the damned stone—I didn’t!”
“So, it’s just a coincidence that the same goddamned image appears on the shirt of a missing child you are so interested in finding?”
“What did I tell you about coincidences in your office? Are you paying attention? This is beautiful! This is confirmation!”
“Stop talking in riddles! I’m not Alice and this ain’t Wonderland!”
Kit casually turned and sunk her body into the lounge chair opposite the TV. “Maybe it is. Maybe this is all a grand illusion. You know, the Buddhists believe—”
“Don’t change the subject, Kit!”
“Was I changing the subject?”
Jane looked around the room and saw two large suitcases and one extra large duffel bag near the front door—the “soft protrusion” that prevented Jane from easily gaining entrance when she arrived. “You’re skipping town?”
“You make it sound like I’m running away. I’m going toward something!”
“You’re gonna go track down Lou in California?”
“Someone has to do it!”
“You driving that shit-pot car parked outside? What is it? Nine, ten years old?”
“Nearly fifteen, actually.”
“You wouldn’t make it to Grand Junction before something started to clatter under the hood!” Jane observed to Kit. “You’re seriously planning on dragging your sick ass in a relic of a car over a thousand miles so you can prove your point?”
“So I can save a child, not prove a point.”
“What are you gonna do when you get there? Look up Lou in the phonebook and say, ‘Hey, Lou. Kit Clark, here. Did you take that sweet little Charlotte, and if you did, could you please bring her back?” Jane’s voice was thick with a snide, syrupy rebuke.
Kit eyed Jane like a schoolmarm would an unruly student. “I’m not sure what exactly I’ll do when I get there. But whatever I do, I will find Lou.”
Jane thrust her hands onto her hips with great drama. “You’re nuts!”
Kit smiled. “You look like Wonder Woman when you stand like that.”
Jane regarded Kit with as much cop bravado as she could muster. “I’m only gonna ask you once: did you have advance knowledge of Charlotte’s birthday video?”
“Of course not!” Another thought crossed Kit’s mind. “Oh! Did you hear that Charlotte’s mother believes her daughter was wearing that exact red leather jacket shown in the video when she disappeared on Christmas? The girl from the barbeque shack—the one who says she saw Charlotte getting into a car with a man—wasn’t sure whether Charlotte was wearing the jacket. Let me tell you, I have been glued to the TV!”
Jane turned her back to Kit, attempting to sort out everything. “This is insane.”
“By the way,” Kit’s voice took on a sound of compassion, “I caught the local news and the big story about the cocaine bust.” Jane soured at Kit’s statement. “That should have been your collar, right?” Jane turned, looking at Kit with a nasty glare. “Well, wasn’t it?” Kit asked, unmoved.
“Yes,” was all Jane could utter.
“So I assume that case is no longer number one on your priority list?”
Jane knew where this was going. “That’s a fair assumption.”
“There’s nothing else pressing that requires you to don that blond wig and get the shit kicked out of you?” Kit’s eyes danced with sweetness and respect for Jane.
Jane recognized Kit’s gentle jab and the crafty humor behind it. She tucked the snakestone in her pocket. “I want it understood up front that I’m not completely convinced Lou Peters kidnapped Charlotte.”
“Understood. Prove me wrong and you get some time away from Denver. Prove me right, and you can save a little girl’s life. I’d call that a win-win situation.”
Jane marveled at how Kit made the whole agreement sound so ridiculously simple. “Can I have three grand by tomorrow morning?”
“You can have five thousand, and you can have it right now,” Kit said offhandedly, removing the envelope of cash from her satchel and handing it to Jane.
Jane opened the envelope and ran her thumb over the stack of hundred dollar bills. “We do this my way, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Of course. You’re the expert. That’s why I hired you for the job.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine o’ clock on the nose tomorrow morning.”
“Make it six. We can’t waste a second.”
Jane grimaced inside at the thought of a six o’clock pick up, but she nodded in agreement.
Kit stood up, extending her hand to Jane. “Thank you for accepting my offer. Your decision will alter the course of many lives.”
Jane shook Kit’s hand with an anxious heart. That last statement would keep Jane up the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 7
Jane had a long list of things to do before her appointed six A.M. pickup. First on that list was the trip to The Red Tail to deliver the three grand to Jerry. Jane noticed how disappointed Jerry looked when she plunked the wad of cash on the bar. He would have happily foregone reimbursement just to get his two minutes of fame trashing Jane’s reputation on the Denver news.
Jane’s next stop was equally important to her. In the past, ten days or more away from home didn’t require much preparation. But ever since Jane had replaced her alcohol addiction with a gourmet coffee addiction, it was important to have appropriate provisions on hand. By the time she left The Gourmet Grind, she’d purchased fifteen assorted four-ounce bags.
Back home, Jane cleaned out the trunk of the Mustang to accommodate luggage. Checking the weather for Oakhurst on her laptop computer, Jane noted that rain was in the forecast for the next two weeks. Out of curiosity, she researched the weather data for December 25—the day the girl at the barbeque restaurant saw Charlotte Walker get into the mysterious car. Oakhurst had sunny skies that morning, but clouds formed midday, turning into hard rain. That certainly erased any footprints left by the kidnapper as well as any scent at the scene of the crime.
This was all based on the assumption that Charlotte was indeed kidnapped. Jane wasn’t ruling out anything. It was December 25. Perhaps the kid took her Christmas cash and left town to party forty-five miles southwest in the “big city” of Fresno?
Or maybe Charlotte was a runaway and she skipped town to ditch her parents. The birthday video was full of giggles and grins, but that was just “surface crap” to Jane. Jane never accepted at face value the images or behaviors that anyone presented to the public. She knew all too well from her own violent childhood that appearances can and do deceive. Even when Jane and her brother, Mike, showe
d up at school with bruises or swollen lips, there was the carefully rehearsed explanation that had nothing to do with the truth. Maybe, Jane thought, Charlotte Walker was getting the shit punched out of her and ran away. That’d make it easy. No bad guy and no dealing with Lou Peters.
Perhaps Charlotte’s mother was fighting a custody battle. Where was Charlotte’s father? Only her mother was quoted in the Denver Post story and there was no sign of her dad on the birthday video. The skipped town possibility, runaway theory, and custody battle idea would all be explored by everyone on the case, since the kidnapping was fast becoming a major news story with possible out-of-state transport of the alleged victim.
Jane clicked on the television to have some noise in the background while she packed. It quickly became evident that Charlotte Walker’s case had become the number one story in America. Fox News led their report with a banner headline in stark block letters that read, THE SEARCH FOR CHARLOTTE WALKER. Rival cable news network MSNBC plastered, MISSING INNOCENCE ON CHRISTMAS DAY with a treacly graphic of a yellow rose leaning against the word “innocence.” Typical. Charlotte’s disappearance had become the same kind of hardcore small-screen tragedy that fires up every newscaster’s loins. It was the brash, unrehearsed, flying-without-a-safety-net reporting that fueled news stations from all across the country. It was women and men with microphones pounding the pavement, climbing over ten-foot hedges and endearing themselves to unsuspecting friends and family of the victim so their network could catch the exclusive interview with someone—anyone—who could shed light on the missing kid’s disappearance.
And then there were the pundits. They came out in droves. They had no other job but to offer their “expert commentary” on every blip of new information. None of them had any more knowledge than anyone else, but because of their credentials—psychology, medicine, law, FBI, behavioral science, body language—they became instant media stars. And they were all riding the edge of a family’s worst nightmare. Jane knew the drill: Nothing sells a breaking news story like a missing girl from a small, wholesome town. Nothing except the trial of the SOB who murdered that girl.
