Protector (57 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
“Don’t know. Daddy just wanted to be his friend. But Mommy said he was hurting us.”
“How was he hurting you?”
Emily’s eyes drifted into the distance, as fragments of conversation filtered through her mind. “That’s what my daddy said to Mommy that night.” The memory gradually unfolded. “I was standing at the top of the stairs. They couldn’t see me. ‘You’re hurting us,’ Mommy said . . . She kept shoving the letter in his face.”
Jane abruptly came to attention. “What letter?” Emily was faraway. “The letter in her hand. It made her real angry and scared—”
“What was in the letter?”
“I don’t know . . . she put it away . . .”
“Where?” Jane asked emphatically.
“She hid it in that secret compartment at the back of the desk in the hallway.”
Jane nearly fell off her chair. She thought back to the crime scene photo and that “white scratch” coming from the back of the desk. “You have no idea what was in that letter?” Jane said urgently.
“No,” Emily replied coming back into herself. “She just told Daddy that we should never have come back from our camping trip.”
“The camping trip,” Jane said, feeling a puzzle piece falling into place. “You were gone for nine days?” Emily nodded. Jane did the math and figured out an approximate scenario. Counting back nine days from May 22—the date that Emily and her mother returned from Moab—was May 14, the day after the late night SUV explosion that killed the Stover family. Jane reasoned that Patricia was terrified by the event, felt a need to protect Emily from the tragedy and made a quick decision to pull her out of school and flee to Moab, Utah. There she and Emily would be far away from the fallout and nowhere near a newspaper or TV. Jane surmised it was Patricia’s MO to always hide the truth from Emily. Tucked away in the middle of the Utah desert, Patricia made sure that Emily heard and saw nothing about the graphic murder. Jane surmised that Patricia returned to their home on May 22, hoping that nine days was enough time for things to shake out. But instead, it all hit the fan when David disclosed the secret letter to his wife. Whatever was in that letter was pure dynamite and enough to put the fear of God into Patricia. Jane turned to Emily. “What happened next?”
“Mommy said we were going to leave and move to my aunt and uncle’s house in Cheyenne. Then they saw me at the top of the stairs and stopped fighting. Mommy told me to go back to my room and that she was gonna talk to me later. I told Mommy I loved her and I told Daddy, too. And he said, ‘I love you, sweat pea.’ I went back into my room. A few minutes after that, I thought I heard A.J.’s daddy yelling downstairs.”
Jane knew that Emily did not hear A.J.’s daddy—Bill Stover—because he was killed ten days prior to that night. “Describe the voice you heard.”
“It sounded like A.J.’s daddy.” Emily mimicked the sound as best she could. “ ‘How you doin’, Emily?’ ” she said in a semi-gruff, punctuated cadence.
“That’s the exact sound you heard?” Jane said. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Jane knew that was nowhere near the sound of Weyler’s smooth and more articulate voice. “Do you remember anything specific he said that night?”
“Just something about an accident,” Emily’s memory kicked in again. “It’s ten o’ clock . . . I can’t hear what they’re saying . . . Then he goes into the kitchen and everything’s quiet until he comes back out . . . Then my daddy’s voice . . . he’s the first to yell . . . then my mommy yells out . . . I don’t want to hear it so I grab my pillows off my bed and go to the closet . . . The clock says 10:04 when I go back to get the last pillow . . .”
Jane constructed a series of possible events. The Lawrences fought over a mysterious letter that terrified Patricia. In anger and fear, Patricia stashed the letter in the desk’s secret compartment. Emily interrupted the fight, she was told to go back to bed and all remains quiet until, perhaps under the ruse of there being an accident down the street, either Patricia or David Lawrence let an unknown male into their house at 10:00 at night. It’s someone they don’t know but someone who is savvy enough to convince them that his plea is legitimate. He then walks alone into their kitchen, supposedly to use the phone. Jane visualized the scene. Knowing that the perp took precautions and covered his feet, hands and face, Jane deduced that he must have quickly done so behind the kitchen door. It all occurred in less than four minutes, which, for Jane, certainly indicated someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Charm yourself into the house, analyze the situation and then get down to the business of killing. Disable the strongest victim with your knife, then start on the second victim. In this case, Jane was now almost positive it was one perp and two knives. That fact spoke volumes as well. To her, it demonstrated that the killer was cunning and knew exactly how to throw off investigators. It also told her that whoever did this had to have the strength to wield two separate knives without cross contamination.
Jane started to put the pieces together. “Two nights ago at the carnival, you were doing okay until you saw the guy with that pig mask over his face.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, still humiliated by the experience.
“I want you to go back to that moment—”
“I don’t want to!”
“Emily, it’s just you and me sitting here. You’re safe. The guy with the pig mask, it obviously triggered something inside you. Something important maybe.”
“It wasn’t the mask, at first. He was wearing all black.
That’s what started it. And he had gloves on. Black gloves.” Emily focused on the man at the carnival. “And there was something shiny in his hand. His right hand. I couldn’t see what it was, but my heart started beating really hard. I had to hold my breath.”
“Why hold your breath?”
Emily tried to fight it, but she felt herself drifting back in time. “I have to be quiet,” she whispered as her breathing became more shallow.
“Why?” Jane asked, hating every second of it.
Emily closed her eyes. “So he doesn’t hear me,” she whispered.
“Where are you?”
There was a long pause before she spoke. “Hiding . . . in my closet. I turned off my Starlight Starbright . . . I have to be quiet . . .”
“How can you see him if you’re in your closet?”
“Because . . . he opened the door and looked in . . .”
“Why doesn’t he see you?”
“I’m hiding under all the pillows . . .”
“He’s dressed in black?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s in his hand?”
“I don’t know.” Emily was fully engaged in the memory, hypnotized by Jane’s voice. “I have to be so quiet . . .”
Jane nervously took several puffs on her cigarette, waiting for Emily to make the next move. Suddenly, the child took in a gulp of air, as if she were startled. “What is it?”
“His head’s covered with a black sock . . .” Emily drew her hand to her head, unaware that she was now mimicking the individual instead of witnessing the event. “He’s pulling at the sock. . . .” Emily began to yank at an imaginary sock around her head. “He doesn’t like the sock . . . He’s scratching his face through the sock . . .” Emily scratched helplessly at the imaginary sock on her head and face. “He wants to take it off . . .” Emily grabs the edge of the imaginary sock around her neck and begins to struggle with it. “Get it off!” The child neared hysteria when she got a strong grip on the illusory sock and yanked it off her head. As her head jerked backward, she opened her eyes, slamming back into reality. “Make it stop!” she screamed, standing up on the couch completely disoriented and heading backward over the edge.
Jane lunged toward Emily, pulling her back on to the couch. Emily shook violently as she held onto Jane. When Emily calmed down, Jane gently spoke up. “Did you see his face?”
“No,” Emily said, burying her head in Jane’s chest. “You think it’s A.J.’s daddy?”
“No, it’s not A.J.’s daddy.”
Emily lifted her head and looked at Jane. “How do you know for sure?”
Jane purposely looked straight ahead. “I’m a detective. My gut tells me things. And I know that wasn’t Amy’s dad.”
Emily pulled back from Jane. “How’d you know A.J.’s first name?”
Jane felt the floor fall out from underneath her feet. She kept staring straight ahead, poker-faced, but bumbling inside like a lost child. “Lots of kids are named Amy. Like I said, I’ve got that detective gut.”
Emily stared at Jane in stone cold silence. “What’s your detective gut say the ‘J’ stands for?”
Jane craned her neck as if she were searching for the answer. “Juliet,” she said, confidently turning to Emily.
“No. It stands for ‘Joan.’ ”
Jane shrugged her shoulder, desperately trying to act nonchalant under Emily’s prying eyes. “Well, one out of two, eh? So, how did you and A.J. meet?”
“I met her last year at my private school. We were in the same class.”
The pieces were fitting together very quickly. Did David see incriminating activity or someone important at Bill’s office? Possibly. Did Bill confide sensitive information to David? Probably. Drug addicts like Bill can’t keep their damn mouths shut. And from what Jane could decipher from the limited contact she had with Stover, he was like all meth addicts: talkative and out of control. “Did you ever hear your dad tell your mom anything that he and A.J.’s dad talked about? You know, any names you can remember?”
“How come you’re asking me these questions?” Jane realized her desperation was too obvious. Reluctantly, she pulled back. “I just thought that—”
“You said your gut told you that the voice I heard downstairs that night wasn’t A.J.’s daddy. So, if he wasn’t there that night, why do you care what kind of things he and my daddy talked about?”
Jane knew it was pointless to prod further. “Sorry. My detective mind never stops.”
Emily sat back against the couch, fiddling with the buttons on her pajama top. “I wonder what A.J.’s doing right now.”
Jane turned away, feeling the tug of the moment pull hard on her. “Oh, I imagine she’s thinking about you and wanting you to be happy and not worry about her.”
“Is that what your detective gut says?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Jane stood up, took a drag on her dying cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray. She walked across the living room and stared out the front picture window at Peachville’s city trucks unloading red, white and blue street decorations. She didn’t realize she was nervously rubbing the old scar across her right temple.
“What are you thinking about?” Emily said carefully.
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” Jane replied, locked in deep thought.
Emily analyzed Jane’s posture and nervous behavior. “Why are you so scared?”
Jane turned to Emily. “Huh?”
“You only rub your scar when you’re scared. What is it you have to do?”
Jane pulled her hand away from the scar. “I have to make an important phone call.”
Jane checked her Glock before slipping it into her fanny pack. She started to walk out of her bedroom when she returned to her leather satchel and drew an extra clip from the side pocket. Placing the clip into the inside pocket of the fanny pack, she zipped it up and headed down the hallway. “Ready?”
Emily was seated on the couch. “You know, we never talked about the sleepover with Heather and her friends.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Come on.”
“No,” Emily stated, not moving an inch. “The sleepover means a lot to me.”
Jane sat on the couch, doing her best to act diplomatic. “Look, you and I are up against the wall right now. I think we should keep the house off-limits to other people.”
“It’s one night. We can lock all the doors and you can sit up in your bedroom with your gun. I just want to feel normal again . . . even if it’s just for a little bit.”
Jane studied Emily’s face. Her gut told her “no,” but the kid’s candid petition was hard to argue with. “Okay,” Jane replied reluctantly.
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