Free Protector by Laurel Dewey Page A

you arrest her?”
     
    “Who?”
     
    “Who? The Mexican woman.”
     
    “Oh. No, I did not. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”
     
    Jane’s eyes trailed off. “I saw her in the elevator. And I knew. She had that look. So did the kid.” She looked at Weyler. “Make sure that son-of-a-bitch husband of hers suffers for what he did to his kid. Put him in a cell with five angry queers. Make him feel the same terror and pain his little girl felt.” Jane sensed the warmth of the alcohol taking effect and wanted to be alone. “I have to go. I’ve got things to do.”
     
    “After you left, certain things transpired regarding a high-profile case.”
     
    Jane jumped to attention. “You got a lead on the Stover case! I knew it!”
     
    “Think you can make it to the office by 10:00 tomorrow morning?”
     
    “I’ll be there at 8:00!”
     
    “Ten is fine.”
     
    “Sure. Ten o’clock. I’ll go over the file tonight and organize my notes.”
     
    Weyler stared at Jane with a careful eye. “Get some sleep.”
     
    “I don’t need sleep—”
     
    “Get some sleep.” Weyler turned and started toward his sedan. “Oh, Jane? I came here tonight against my better judgment. The case is highly sensitive. I need you to be functioning at peak performance tomorrow morning. Please don’t make me regret this.”
     
    “You will not regret this, boss. You have my word.”
     
    Jane waited until Weyler’s headlights turned off Milwaukee before she retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniels from her car.
     
    After an improvised dinner of macaroni and cheese, Jane situated herself at the dining room table and spread out the pages of notes and files from the Stover case. Perhaps she’d discover something new—something she’d missed before. But after four hours, everything felt like a blur. Jane stood up, stretching her back and peered at the kitchen clock. 1 a.m. She was tired but her mind was racing too fast to allow sleep—not an uncommon problem for Jane Perry. There were two ways to quell the insomnia: a healthy glass of whiskey and the drone of a late night radio show she’d come to depend on called “Night Talk.” It was an eclectic mishmash of politics, philosophy, rhetoric on current events and anything else the female host could dredge up for the legions of insomniacs that depended on the program. After several sips of whiskey, Jane turned on the radio and returned to her seat at the dining room table.
     
    “Good evening to all you junkies of the night . . .” Jane stared at the radio, perplexed. It wasn’t the same host. “I’m Tony Mooney and this is ‘Night Talk.’ ” His timbre was low, warm and intoxicating. Jane wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey, but she found herself drawn into Mooney’s enigmatic voice. “I’ll be hosting the show for the next six weeks or so, while your regular host is on maternity leave.” Jane took another sip of the whiskey and arched an eyebrow. Six weeks off, she thought. She couldn’t fathom a six-week break from her job. “Many of you know me as a researcher and lover of the paranormal side of life—the elusive, mystical side of our consciousness that hovers behind that fragile veil we call reality . . .” Jane regarded the radio with suspicion. Perhaps the whiskey was responsible but a sense of paranoia tightened around her. “Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy? Maybe you are. Or maybe . . . maybe you’re a genius. There’s a thin line, my friends, between genius and insanity.” Jane rubbed her head and knocked back the glass of whiskey. A pervasive blanket of sweet numbness washed over her. She poured another glass of the amber nectar and blearily dug her hand in her pants’ pocket. Feeling the edge of the small piece of paper, she withdrew it and held it under the piercing glare of the overhead light. She read the words to herself: “Navy blue . . . Glock . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me.” She stared at the paper, her eyes