Protector (42 page)
Authors: Laurel Dewey
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Denver (Colo.), #Mystery & Detective, #Psychic ability, #Women detectives, #Crime, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Children of murder victims, #Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Espionage
The more Jane pondered the possibilities, the more she concluded that it had to involve more than one individual. The Stover house was on 24-hour guard. Except for the time when Stover stupidly took his family for ice cream and was accompanied by two patrol cars along the way, there was a fortress of protection around his house. The precise timing it took for the individual to come out of the shadows and plant the crude, C-4 bomb in the driveway—right in sight of Jane and Chris in their parked car—and then disappear into the night was nothing short of amazing.
“Fucking ice cream,” she mumbled under her breath. It was so typical of a druggie when he started “tweaking.” They always craved sugar and would do whatever it took to get their dose of the sweet stuff. “Screw the rules,” Jane could almost hear Stover saying to the cops as they tried to dissuade him from leaving the house. But Stover had been house-bound and in a forced state of detox for more than two weeks. It was insane to expect him to maintain any sense of mental stability. Jane knew that meth detox could take anywhere from three to six months. After just two weeks off the drug, Stover was most likely hearing voices and hallucinating, two common side effects of withdrawal. He was busting at the seams and would have probably offered to cut off his daughter’s big toe for a chance to get out of the house and taste sugar. Jane surmised he was still licking that ice cream cone when he drove his SUV into his driveway and tripped the wires that led to the C-4 explosive.
Her dad’s “follow the protection money” advice was sounding more plausible. In Jane’s mind, whoever organized the Stover hit was either desperate or cunning. Maybe, she thought, a little bit of both. With Stover set to testify the next morning against the mob, it was a last-ditch effort that had to go down without failing. Someone in their inner circle had to be persuaded to act fast, either to prove himself or save himself from the mob’s wrath.
The sound of the nightly coal train rumbled loudly through town, tooting its horn several times. As the train rattled and roared along the tracks, Jane heard the quickly approaching footsteps of Emily running down the hallway toward her closed door. With one large sweeping motion, Jane threw all the documents and newspapers into a pile and shoved them into her leather satchel. Emily pounded on Jane’s door.
“Come in!” Jane said.
Emily flew into the room and jumped onto Jane’s bed. “What’s that noise?”
“That’s just the damn coal train I told you about. Remember?”
“The house was shaking so hard. I thought someone was trying to break in!” Emily curled her body closer to Jane.
“No one’s gonna break into the house, Emily. I’ve got my pistol right here. Any asshole stupid enough to break in is gonna get a chest full of lead.” The train chugged into the night and all was silent once again.
Emily pressed her body against Jane’s side. “I want to stay here with you.”
“You’ve got a great room up there with a picture window.”
Emily wrapped her arms around Jane’s waist and buried her head against Jane’s belly. “I want to stay with you.”
Jane knew it was no use. “Get under the covers,” she said to Emily. After settling in, Jane reached over and turned off the light. Outside the window, the half moon shone brilliantly in the clear sky. “Look at that,” Jane said in awe.
Emily pulled away from Jane just enough to look at the glimmering orb. “Wow,” she said, truly impressed. Emily sunk back, her head cuddled up against Jane’s chest. “What kind of a kid were you?” Emily asked in a quiet voice.
Jane took a drag on her cigarette. The lit orange tip of the cigarette briefly illuminated the darkness. “Just like any other kid. Nothing special.”
“Were you a good kid?”
“That would depend on who you talked to. If you asked my mom, she’d tell you I was good. If you asked my dad, he’d swear I was bad.”
“Were you really bad?”
“I guess I was bad when I had to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was always looking out for my little brother, Mike. I had to make sure that nobody picked on him. If they did, I’d fight them.”
“Did you always win the fights?”
Jane hesitated briefly. “It depended who I was fighting. Some fights were lost before they started.”
“Why would you fight someone if you knew you were going to lose?”
“Because I had to. I made a promise.” Jane took a long drag.
Emily felt herself floating peacefully toward slumber. “Like you promised me,” her voice trailed off in a sleepy timbre. She let out a deep breath and mumbled.
“What was that?” Jane asked.
“When I saw you the first time . . .” Emily whispered, half-asleep, “I couldn’t believe it . . . but it came true . . .”
“How do you like your eggs?” Jane asked Emily the following morning.
“Cooked,” Emily replied with a straight face.
“You’re a regular little comedienne,” Jane countered as she broke four eggs into a bowl and, after picking out pieces of shell, did her best to beat them with a fork. After heating the pan and plopping in far too much butter, Jane added the eggs and began stirring.
Emily found the “Howdy” coupon book that Kathy gave Jane. “How about this: ‘Buy one breakfast or lunch special at The Harvest Café and get another meal absolutely free!’” She looked up at the frying pan. “Hey! The eggs are burning!”
“They’re not burned!” Jane said, dragging the pan off the stove. She took a spatula and tried to wedge it underneath what was left of the eggs. Once she was able to lift a portion onto Emily’s plate, it was obvious that the bottom was charred.
Emily poked at the eggs with her fork and lifted the whole slab in one section. “You don’t call that burned?”
“Pretend they’re Cajun.”
Emily looked at the blackened eggs and then looked at Jane. “Caged in? Where were they caged in that made them come out like this?”
Within ten minutes, Jane and Emily were headed to The Harvest Café with “Howdy” coupon in hand. Inside the restaurant, they were greeted with the doleful voice of Garth Brooks singing, “The Dance.” The Harvest Café was obviously the happening spot. To prove that point, there wasn’t one empty table or counter seat available. The place had a cramped, greasy, diner-style setup with four booths against the wall and eight tables shoved tightly in the center of the lime green linoleum floor. There were eight additional red stools lined around the Formica counter. Behind that was the kitchen, which could be partially seen through the opening of the pickup area where waiting plates sat roasting underneath crimson hot lamps. The walls were papered in a floral and vine print that curled at the edges and looked as though years of smoke and grease had taken their toll. A handmade sign taped to the wall summed up The Harvest Café dining experience: “We proudly serve DiGiorno Pizza!”
A waitress dressed in what Jane thought looked more like a candy striper outfit approached the two newcomers. She was loaded down with six steaming breakfast plates that aroused an almost Pavlovian reaction in Emily.
“Just the two of ya?” the waitress asked Jane. Jane nodded.
Emily raised the coupon for the waitress to see. “And we have a coupon!”
“We’ve got a guy just about to leave at the counter. You could sit there with your daughter on your lap—”
“Excuse me?” said a man seated at a nearby table. The waitress moved to reveal Dan the maintenance man seated at a table for two all by himself. Dan picked up his plate of food. “How’s about if I just move on over to that empty counter spot and let these two folks have my table?” When he stood up, Jane figured he was a good six foot three inches. Dan was muscular but not in a way that looked like he worked out at a gym; it came more from sweat and blue-collar work. He wore a denim shirt and clean jeans with roughout cowboy boots. His face was wide and his jaw well defined. The only unkempt part was his light brown hair that looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
Jane was uncomfortable with Dan’s offer. “Please don’t move!” she said.
“Oh, come on!” Dan said in a warm southern drawl. “You got yourselves a coupon. That means you’re newcomers. We gotta make a good first impression!”
The waitress walked away as Jane and Emily situated themselves at the table. “Thank you,” Jane said, recognizing Dan’s face. With Dan’s back turned, Emily mouthed, “Is that the guy in the truck?” Jane nodded.
The waitress swung by and slid two greasy menus on the table. She took the coupon and slid it under her order pad. “Okay, folks! With the ‘Howdy’ newcomer coupon you get two eggs any way you want ’em, two slices of bacon or sausage, toast and a big ol’ servin’ of Uncle Al’s famous hash browns!” Jane started to light up a cigarette. “Honey, you can’t smoke in here!” the waitress said curtly.
“Right,” Jane said, putting away her cigarette. “I’ll have my eggs scrambled and the bacon,” Jane said, pushing the menu away. “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
“What about you, sweetie?” the waitress asked Emily.
“I’d like my eggs scrambled, but not too soft that they’re runny and that yellow stuff oozes out. Please cook them really well but not so well that they become caged in.”
“Caged in?” the waitress said confused.
“Black,” Emily said seriously. “And the sausage and a hot chocolate, please.”
The waitress swept up the menus and walked to the kitchen. Jane leaned across the table. “People don’t appreciate smart-ass nine-year-olds. Take it down a notch.”
“What did I say?” Emily said truly innocently.
“It’s Cajun. C-A-J-U-N. Not a cage. Cajuns are people and a description of a kind of food that is blackened.”
“They burn their food?”
“No, it’s blackened,” Jane said, feeling more uptight.
“Blackened is burned.”
“Cajun is different.”
“At the house, you said ‘Pretend they’re Cajun’ and the house eggs were burned.”
“God, we’re like Abbott and Costello!”
“Who’s on first,” Dan said with his back turned at the counter. Jane looked at Dan, unaware that he was listening to the conversation. Dan spun around in his seat. “You ever heard of Abbott and Costello?”
“No,” Emily said, drawn in by Dan’s warm smile and dancing blue eyes.
“Aw, I figured a smart girl like you would know them two.” Emily shook her head, blushing. “Hey, where are my manners?” Dan held his hand out to Jane. “My name’s Dan. Dan Lindsey.”
Jane shook his hand. “Anne,” she said, checking him out very carefully.
“And I’m Patty!” Emily said, standing up and holding out her hand. She was obviously enthralled with Dan.
“How do you do, Patty?”
“I’m doing just fine, Dan,” Emily replied with a dreamy look in her eye.
The waitress arrived with the food. “Two specials!” the waitress said as she set the plates onto the table and placed the receipt under the saltshaker.
“Patty, food’s here,” Jane said, happy to break the child’s fascination with Dan.
“I’ll let you folks get to eatin’,” Dan said, moving back to the counter as his cell phone rang.
Emily leaned forward to Jane and whispered, “He’s handsome.”
“Okey-doke! I’m leavin’ right now!” Dan hung up, paid his tab and took a final swig of coffee. “You two have yourselves a beautiful day!” he said, swiveling out of his seat. “I gotta go and make the world a safer place for Peachville’s residents.”
“Just call Dan!” Emily sung out, recalling his truck sign. “Twenty-four-hour man!”
Jane cringed. “She means 24-hour maintenance. We saw your truck.”
Dan let out a guffaw that lit up his face. “Well, I’m partial to 24-hour man! That’s what I am: on call, 24/7. Say, you all being new in town, if you ever have any electrical, plumbin’ or any such thing go wrong, you give ol’ Dan a call.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to Jane. “I mean it,” Dan said to Jane. “You got any problem in that ol’ Cooper house, you give me a jingle.”
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