Protector Page 3

  As was their pattern, the mob successfully worked their way into various Denver businesses—especially targeting those owned and operated by Asians who were used to paying protection money back in their home country. The mob would approach the business owner and alert him to the fact that drug trafficking was going on nearby and that the gang bangers and druggies would quickly destroy his ability to do business. If the owner agreed to pay the mob a set percentage of his gross, the mob would make sure there’d be no drug trafficking at his storefront. Very few businesses refused the offer. And if they did refuse, the mob made sure that the drug dealers—the same drug dealers who were selling the mob’s goods—would harass, vandalize, rob and assault the business owner until they came back to the mob, begging for protection.

  With their sudden and extreme financial windfall, the Texas mafia needed to find the perfect fronts for laundering their money. That’s where Bill Stover came into the picture. The 42-year-old business wizard owned a chain of successful Denver convenience stores. He was featured on the cover of local business magazines and newspapers as “Entrepreneur of the Year,” a major contributor to local charities and the annual host of Denver’s Drug Awareness Police Benefit. Stover had always been the quintessential muscular, chiseled-chinned, man’s man. But his physique and temperament were quickly whittling away thanks to his secret addiction to meth. His 210 pound build shrunk to a spindly 175 pounds. A persistent rash covered his body, a result of the vicious toxins let loose through the skin of many meth addicts.

  His life may have ended in the front seat of his Range Rover ten days before, but it technically came to an abrupt stop with his first hit of meth in the fall of the previous year. The mob’s lackeys who had been supplying him with the occasional “gift” of Columbian cocaine turned him onto crank. He was hooked from the first high. But like all meth addicts, Stover got sloppy and made a lot of mistakes. The stats tell you that serious addiction to meth can occur after a couple months of use. But Stover experienced a powerhouse, line drive addiction after only a few weeks. Already a talkative guy, meth encouraged that tendency. His constant restlessness, anxiousness and frequent insomnia only fueled his garrulous streak. Between the acute paranoia and false sense of confidence—two more effects of meth addiction—Stover was on a roller coaster that quickly careened into a train wreck. After he was busted in an undercover Denver narcotics sting, his life imploded. He knew that his reputation would be destroyed if word got out that this upstanding, anti-drug, “Entrepreneur of the Year” was a closet meth freak who fraternized with the Texas mob. Stover was the perfect insider who understood how the mob operated; he knew names of the powerful in Denver who danced with the mob and he knew the fronts for drugs and corruption.

  So the Denver cops gave him a choice: tell us everything you know about the mob and their inside connections and we’ll keep your good reputation intact; clam up and we’ll make sure you are the daily headline of every Colorado newspaper. Stover knew it was a choice between the lesser of two evils. Unfortunately, he didn’t fully comprehend that by siding with the cops, he was signing his own death certificate. He and his family were killed less than 12 hours before he was scheduled to tell everything he knew to the District Attorney.

  It could have been so simple. Stover was told to stay with his family in his house; around-the-clock patrol cars were assigned to watch and protect his residence. But after five days of being housebound, he was “tweaking,” a term meth addicts use for coming down off the drug. Tweaking, which can last for weeks after stopping the drug, causes irrational behavior and periods of violent rage. In this state of mind, Stover announced to the detectives that he was taking his family out to get ice cream on that May evening. They tried to dissuade him from leaving but it was clear that this was a man who always got his way. It was a classic example of Stover’s false sense of bravado reigning over his intense paranoia.

  Two undercover cars followed him when he left, leaving Chris and Jane in their car across from the house on Gilpin—a wide, upscale street that skirts Cherry Creek and features two-story brick estates. The Stovers’ long driveway, edged with manicured cedars and a single thick, dark green hedge was the perfect entrance to this grand house. It was also the perfect place to hide a small bomb amidst the greenery. Denver PD had searched every inch of that property, but somehow a crude, homemade bomb with one-third pound of C-4 plastic explosives and a remote detonator cord was covertly placed onto the driveway and arranged so that the front wheels of Stover’s Range Rover tripped the wires. Whoever did it snuck onto the property in the darkness between the time Stover and his family left for ice cream and the time he returned less than 30 minutes later. And the whole thing happened on Chris and Jane’s watch.

  Neither of them saw much on that dark, cloudy night. Most of their time was spent sitting in the car, drinking coffee and talking about their future together. After two years of being partners, getting loaded after hours and sharing some of their darkest moments from their past, Chris and Jane found themselves sharing a bed. It wasn’t love for either of them. It was more of a way to not be lonely. But lately, Jane was tiring of the relationship. Chris had always been a control freak, but his behavior was becoming unbearable. His desire for sex had gone from reasonable to insatiable. The fact that he was developing a penchant for rougher and rougher sex disturbed Jane. She could easily meet and sometimes top Chris’ aggressive nature in bed. But the physical and emotional pain began to gnaw at her psyche. When their violent dance couldn’t be numbed by any amount of booze, Jane decided to break off their intimate relationship. She also planned to put in for a new partner at DH. That night in the car waiting for the Stovers to return home, Chris was discussing the possibility of moving in with Jane. If all hell hadn’t broken loose, Jane would have told him it was over.

  And so, there they sat in Weyler’s office. Chris with his cocky, know-it-all attitude and Jane with her stubborn, get-the-last-word-in demeanor. Weyler looked at the two of them, not knowing quite what to think.

  “Am I right about the mob, boss?” Chris asked Weyler again.

  “Chris, I refuse to walk on that land mine right now,” Weyler responded in a surefooted, diplomatic manner. “What they may or may not be capable of is unknown. We lost our opportunity for any inside info when Stover died. Right now, I’m more interested in both of your psychological profiles.” The comment jarred Jane, given her precarious start to the day. Weyler opened a folder. “I see here, Chris, that you completed your psych counsel and they feel that you have come to terms with the incident and are not experiencing any post-traumatic stress episodes. Is that correct?”

  “No episodes at all, sir,” Chris said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It was an unfortunate incident but it’s in the past and I’m moving forward. My only concern right now is how this may or may not affect my record with the Department.”

  “That has yet to be determined.” Weyler scanned the form. “It says here that you expressed a certain amount of anger regarding the incident.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chris said as his eyes scanned the floor. “I felt that we didn’t consider all the angles of what could go down and I’m angry at myself for that. That was one of the first things they taught us in the Marines: figure out everything that can go wrong and have an end run in place.” Chris focused his gaze to his left, away from Jane. “As harsh as it sounds, sir, Stover knew the rules but chose to color outside the lines. Going to get ice cream was just stupid on his part! A window of opportunity opened up and some bastard took advantage of it. The more I’ve thought about it—and believe me, I’ve thought about it—the more I feel that if anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s Stover.”

  “Yeah, blame the dead,” Jane said under her breath. Chris shot her a look.

  The silence in the room was deafening. Weyler considered Chris’ remarks, closed his folder and pushed it aside. A piercing beep cut into the quiet. Chris jerked forward, snapped his beeper off his waistband and checked the message.r />
  “Sorry, sir,” Chris said in a strong voice. “I told Marshall to beep me if he needed any assistance at that double murder from last night.” Chris slightly hesitated as a vibrating anxiousness buzzed off his body. “Are we okay here?”

  “For now, yes. Call Marshall and find out what he needs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chris said as he quickly popped up and maneuvered his wiry body between the chairs.

  “Oh, Chris,” Weyler said, “are you working outside duty tonight?”

  “There’s a possibility of a security gig at a downtown club. Why?”

  “The press is going to be all over last night’s double homicide. I’d like you to be the media point person.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Chris responded, bloated with new-found confidence.

  “Keep it low-key about the kid. Until she’s willing to talk to us, it’s anybody’s guess where this thing’s going to go.”

  “Consider it done,” Chris affirmed as he left the office.

  Weyler leaned back in his chair, carefully eyeing Jane. She had a good idea of what was coming and could feel her gut tightening. From the outside, however, she sat stone-faced, arms crossed over her chest and looked Weyler straight in the eye. “Well, Detective Perry, I do not seem to have a psych counsel assessment for you. Now, I know I asked you . . . let me rephrase that, I know that I told you to make an appointment with psych. And yet, you failed to do as I requested—”

  “I don’t need to see a fu—” Jane caught herself. “I don’t need to see a psychologist. I’m not weak. Trust me, I’ve experienced a lot worse. What I need is to figure out what happened ten days ago. So, if you’ll excuse me, that’s exactly what I plan to do.” Jane dropped her paperwork into her satchel and stood up.

  “Sit down, Detective Perry,” Weyler said with a strict tenor. Jane stood firm. “Sit down . . . Jane,” Weyler said, this time with more equanimity. Jane reluctantly obliged. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I understand from the boys downstairs that your father won’t be able to return to his home.”

  Jane was caught off guard by Weyler’s remark. Between the nightmares and booze binge, she’d conveniently forgotten about her ailing father. “Yeah, that’s right. How did you . . . What? Is there a direct line from that hospital to Headquarters?”

  “You can blame his old detective buddies for that direct line.”

  “Well, he’s not recovering from the heart attack and stroke as they had hoped.” Jane tried to act like she cared. “And the whole failing liver thing, that’s not helping matters. So, he’s pretty much . . . screwed. I’m meeting Mike tonight at his house to figure out what to do with all the furniture and the other shit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Weyler said.

  “Hey, it is what it is,” Jane said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Look, I—”

  “Is he able to get around?” Weyler questioned, pressing further.

  Jane was growing uncomfortable with Weyler’s interest in her father.

  She rested her right elbow on the arm of the chair and pressed her fingers against her right temple, next to a scar—just one of her many battle wounds—that was partially hidden under her hairline. “To be honest with you, I don’t know. I went to see him once and he was asleep so I left.” Jane let out a deep breath.

  Weyler scrutinized Jane’s demeanor. “Are you alright, Jane?”

  She knew she wasn’t but she figured she could fake it. “I’m fine, boss.” The words echoed with a disingenuous tenor.

  Weyler leaned forward, seriously concerned. “What’s going on?”

  Jane regarded Weyler with a forthright look but it fell like a glass curtain across her face. “Nothing’s going on that’ll prevent me from moving forward with solving the Stover case.”

  Weyler’s penetrating stare was relentless. “Part of my job is to watch over you people, make sure you represent DH with intelligence and mental coherence. You have the intelligence part down in spades. It’s the mental coherence part that concerns me.”

  Jane fell back into the chair, her eyes now meeting Weyler’s glance with conviction. If she could get out of his office and start focusing on the case, she was sure everything would resolve itself. “Look, I’m under some stress, okay?” she said, her voice shaking. “First day back and all. It’s to be expected, right?” Jane was trying to convince herself more than Weyler. “But once I get back in the swing of it—”

  “You get the job done better than anyone. But it seems that lately, you are displaying actions that create some questions by other officers.”

  Jane couldn’t hold back any longer. “When that car blew up on my watch, I did everything possible to get Stover’s kid out. If trying to break a fucking window to rescue a little girl is considered insane or whatever those pricks want to say, then so be it! I’m your best detective! You just admitted it! So don’t talk to me about sanity! Fucking sanity is overrated!” Jane leaned back in her chair, teetering on the two back legs. There was dead silence. That’s when she could hear the sound of her shallow breathing fill the room. She wasn’t about to back down or take her eyes off of Weyler, no matter how much she wanted to look away.

  “Are you finished?” Weyler said calmly.

  “Yes . . . sir,” was all Jane could manage.

  “Then I must inform you that, until further notice, you are on suspension.”

  Jane’s mouth went dry. Weyler’s declaration was like a hard center punch. “I’ve never been suspended in my life! There’s gotta be a way to work this out!”

  “I might be willing to reconsider if you agree to that psych counsel.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “It’s not blackmail, Jane. It’s just me making sure you follow the rules.”

  “Let me get this straight. I play DH’s game, go for this psych counsel and tell them whatever they need to hear . . . just like Chris did? And then I can come back and figure out all those baffling murder mysteries?”

  “Putting your pointed sarcasm aside and taking the sessions seriously, yes, that’s what needs to happen for you to see the inside of this department in the near future.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jane muttered, her eyes canvassing the ceiling. “Well, I’ll go to that psych counsel when pigs fly out of my ass.” Jane started for the door.

  “You know, Jane. One day that stubborn, insolent streak is going to get the better of you.”

  “What makes you think it hasn’t already?”

  Chapter 4

  “Jane!” Chris said, barreling over to her from his desk. She was out the door and headed for the elevator. “Jane, wait!” He caught up to her as she was slapping the “down” button at the elevator. “What in the fuck’s going on? Why haven’t you answered my twenty plus phone messages? I came by twice and your old neighbor lady said you were inside but you weren’t answering the door.”

  Jane stared ahead, ready to explode. “Leave me alone, Chris.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Talk about what?” Jane said, turning and glaring at Chris.

  “The fuckin’ price of rice in China! What do you think?” Chris furtively looked around, making sure their conversation was still private. “We gotta talk about us,” he said, softening his stance.

  Jane looked at him in silence, shook her head and turned back to the elevator. “Jesus! You really do think you’re God’s gift but you’re just a fuckin’ boot licker!”

  “Excuse me?” The softness quickly dissolved.

  Jane slammed the heel of her palm against the elevator button. “You tell them exactly what they want to hear in your psych counsel and you kiss their asses—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I’m not a maverick like you! I just come in here day after day and do my job and put the occasional son-of-a-bitch behind bars whenever I can!”

  “Save that shit for the media, Chris!” Jane gave up on the elevator and turned toward the stairwell. Chris followed, determined to get in the last word. Jane headed into the stairwell, diggi
ng into her satchel for cigarettes. Popping one out of the pack, she lit up as she made her way down the stairs. The sound of their footsteps and voices resounded throughout the cement structure.

  “Are you crazy?” Chris yelled out.

  “The jury’s still out on that one!” Jane replied, keeping a good ten steps in front of Chris as she puffed on her cigarette. “Get off my back, Chris! I mean it!”

  “Jesus Christ, don’t you ever turn it off?” Jane neared the heavy security door that led into the Denver PD lobby. Chris bounded down the stairs and blocked Jane’s ability to open the door. They stood face-to-face, inches from each other. Perspiration poured from Chris’ forehead, causing a minor rash to become redder around his hairline. His fair skin and ruddy complexion always made it look as if he’d run a marathon after only minor exertion. Between his wired persona and his aggressive, take no prisoners demeanor, it was all Chris could do to keep his natural rash outbreaks to a minimum. “I said wait!” Chris demanded, out of breath, as he slapped the palm of his hand across the door.

  Jane took a long drag off her cigarette. “Is it that you like to hear the sound of your own voice or is it that you just don’t hear?”

  “Jane, we fucked up the case. Okay?” Chris said, confidentially.

  Jane was taken aback by Chris’ statement. He was never usually one to admit wrongdoing. Jane studied his eyes. “You mean it?” she asked with a softer tone.

  “Of course I mean it.”

  “Why didn’t you say that to Weyler?”

  “I told him I blamed myself!”

  “You said you blamed Stover!”

  “Jane, Weyler just made me point person in a double murder I can really put to bed. But you and I have to work together on it. This case, Jane, is gonna put me . . . us back on top.”

  Jane regarded Chris with an incredulous glare. “You go from ‘We fucked it up, Jane’ to ‘Let’s figure out how to put Chris back on top?’ What is up with you?”