Free Protector by Laurel Dewey

her, his mouth agape. She pulled another Corona bottle from the pack and picked out another window. Hurling it through the air, it burst through the glass with a defined clatter. Jane handed Mike one of the bottles. He took it but hesitated. “Go on,” Jane insisted.
     
    “But it’s his—”
     
    “Fuck him, Mike,” Jane said with a merciless tone. “Fuck him.”
     
    Mike broke into a mischievous grin and hurled the bottle toward the workshop, leaving a hole in a side window. He grabbed one bottle and then another, cheering like a kid after each explosion of glass. Mike was so into the moment that he didn’t see Jane pull out her pistol from her shoulder holster. When he finally turned to her, she was focused straight ahead, both hands extended, her finger brushing the trigger. He stood perfectly still, eager to find out what Jane would do. Mike watched as her eyes zoned in on a target and a peculiar look came over her face. She squeezed the trigger with precision and blew a hole the size of a baseball in the center window. Jane calmly lowered the gun, still staring straight ahead. After several seconds, she turned to Mike. “Ready to go?”
     
     
    It was after nine o’clock when Jane turned onto Milwaukee Street. She’d stopped at the liquor store to pick up a fifth of Jack Daniels and consumed a good six swigs by the time she neared her house. As she drove closer to her home, she saw a figure seated on her front steps. At first, she thought it was Chris, but the build was wrong. It wasn’t until she pulled in front of her house that she realized it was Sergeant Weyler.
     

Chapter 6
     
    Sergeant Weyler looked just as dapper in his suit and tie as he had over twelve hours earlier. Jane felt a rush of heat hit her head—partly from the three Coronas and whiskey she had just consumed and partly from the irritation at seeing her boss waiting for her on her own front steps. Weyler sauntered over to Jane’s car as she carefully slid the brown bag that held the Jack Daniels under the front seat. He leaned over on the passenger side of the Mustang, addressing her through the open window.
     
    “Good evening, Detective Perry.”
     
    “Hello,” Jane said, staring Weyler in the eye, trying to mask the slight buzz.
     
    “How are you?” Weyler said pointedly.
     
    “How am I supposed to be?”
     
    Weyler briefly surveyed the inside of the car, like a hound dog on the trail. “Have you been drinking, Detective Perry?”
     
    Jane was a bit put off. “I’ve had a beer,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
     
    “A beer?”
     
    “Am I a suspect in a crime? Because I sure feel like one right now.”
     
    “Just a simple question—”
     
    “Well, sir, I don’t know why it matters. After all, I am on suspension.”
     
    Weyler regarded Jane very carefully. “Yes, you are.”
     
    There was an awkward pause between the two of them. Jane got out of her car. “Shouldn’t you be home with your wife watching Prime Suspect on PBS?” Jane said, undaunted, as she lit a cigarette. “What are you doing here?”
     
    Weyler stood straight as an arrow, pulling himself up to his full 6’4” height. “I am here, Detective Perry, to make an assessment.”
     
    “On what? My character? My integrity? My sanity?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “If you don’t know those answers by now, then I guess you don’t really know me.” Jane headed toward her front door.
     
    “I know you better than you think I do.”
     
    Jane stopped, her back to Weyler. She half believed him as a shudder raced down her spine. Jane turned back to Weyler. “What do you want?”
     
    “I had a visit from Martha Durrett today. She was complaining about certain obscenities.”
     
    “You’ll get no arguments from me. Martha Durrett is as obscene as they come.”
     
    Weyler chose to ignore Jane’s evasive reply. “You made quite an impression on someone today. Quite an impression.”
     
    Jane took a long drag on her cigarette. “Did