Free Redemption by Laurel Dewey Page B

slid it back into her pocket to keep her sobriety chips company.
    Four more attempts to reach her FBI contacts were unsuccessful. The feeling of being out of the loop allowed Jane’s thoughts to turn paranoid. Was Jerry calling Channel 7 News and spilling her story to the investigative journalist at the station? She mused how fragile one’s moment in the spotlight could be. Six months ago, the media had called her an “adroit heroine” after solving
a chain of brutal slayings while working for Denver Homicide. She was fending off phone calls from Larry King Live , 60 Minutes , 20/20 , Dateline , and Diane Sawyer, all begging to nab the exclusive interview with the hottest commodity in town. She wouldn’t have agreed to any interview if it hadn’t been for Sergeant Weyler and his suggestion that granting one solid tête-à-tête would concurrently satisfy the masses and help out Denver PD. While Weyler personally favored the more intellectual offerings on PBS, it was he who encouraged Jane to grant Larry King the exclusive. “He’s smart,” Jane remembered Weyler telling her. “He doesn’t go for the jugular. He won’t piss you off like Diane Sawyer will. You’d deck Diane Sawyer inside of five minutes.” Jane smiled at the recollection. And that’s how she’d ended up on Larry King’s program five months ago. And now? Now she was twenty-four hours away from falling off that precarious ladder and having her name and reputation dragged through the muck. “Radical transformation, indeed!” Jane mused.
    After three more hours of shuffling papers on her desk and not a single phone call, Jane scooped a disorganized mass of files into her arms and headed home. Halfway there, her cell phone beeped, alerting Jane that she had a voice mail message. Jane grabbed the phone and eagerly retrieved the lone message.
    “Hey, Janie, it’s me!” The voice was Jane’s younger brother, Mike. The perpetual adolescent cadence to his voice suggested that he was fifteen years old rather than thirty-one. “I just turned on the TV and saw all the hotshots making their big announcement. I looked for you, but the only guy I recognized was that Weyler dude. You’re probably out celebrating. Hey, I’m confuzzled. Didn’t you say you were working this alone?”
    Jane sped home. Tearing into her house, she quickly grabbed the remote and angrily turned on the TV. Scanning quickly, she landed on a Denver news station.
    “...Weather should be warmer than usual over the next few days, Kent.”

    “Thanks, Brock. Recapping the headlines this afternoon in Denver. An hour ago, Denver Police announced a successful close to an eight-month cocaine drug sting....”
    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