Free Protector by Laurel Dewey Page B

moving in and out of focus. Mooney’s voice hovered in the background, a melodic, concomitant soundtrack for the drugged sensibility engulfing Jane. She felt herself falling into the words when the sharp sound of a child screaming quickly spun her around. With eyes wide open, she stared into the kitchen where the crisp scream still lingered.
     
     
    Morning came far too early. Jane awoke under the burning glare of the overhead dining table light. The fifth of whiskey was almost drained and the nearby ashtray filled with the burned out remnants of a cigarette pack. Outside, the sound of a car alarm suddenly went off, jolting Jane out of her slumber. She steadied herself between the eye-piercing overhead light and the streaming morning sun that filtered through her two large front windows. After a few seconds, she squinted toward the kitchen clock to check the time.
     
    9:00 a.m.
     
    “Shit!” Jane exclaimed as she gathered together the mass of paperwork and crammed it into the files. Between gulps of strong black coffee, she raced through the house getting ready. Her head pounded from the hangover as she heard Weyler’s warning: “Don’t make me regret this.” She was damned if that was going to happen.
     
    Her bandaged hand looked a bit soiled from ink stains and smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She figured she’d do her best to hide the hand from Weyler. After all, he wasn’t interested in her injury. Together, they were about to break open one of the most frustrating cases of Jane’s career.
     
    Jane squealed into the DH parking garage with five minutes to spare. She grabbed her leather satchel, papers and files bursting from its seams, and caught the elevator. Jane hit the third floor button with the heel of her boot. As she puffed nervously on her ash-heavy cigarette, she shook her head from side to side in an attempt to throw off the heavy, throbbing aftermath of booze. Jane squashed her cigarette on the elevator wall as the doors opened onto the third floor. As she headed toward Weyler’s office she nearly ran right into evidence technician Ron Dickson.
     
    “Detective Perry!” Ron exclaimed. “Excuse me!”
     
    “It’s okay, Ron,” Jane said, trying to maneuver her way around him.
     
    “I know you’re in a hurry, but I wanted to remind you about the fundraising campaign for D.A.R.E. Can I put you down for your usual donation?”
     
    “Yeah, sure. But not now. I gotta be somewhere,” Jane said as she made her way to Weyler’s office. She hit his office with one minute to spare. Weyler looked up from his desk, assessing Jane’s appearance.
     
    “Good morning, Detective Perry.”
     
    “Morning,” Jane said as she slid into a chair and unloaded paperwork.
     
    “Close the door, would you?”
     
    Jane pushed the door shut with her hand. The sound of the sudden slam caused her to grimace in pain.
     
    “How are you this morning?” Weyler said haltingly.
     
    “Fine, sir,” Jane said, keeping her eyes on her files and avoiding Weyler’s glare.
     
    Weyler leaned over and turned on the radio to an easy listening station. Jane’s attention was immediately drawn to the music. Weyler gradually cranked up the volume on a particularly high-pitched Bee Gees tune. To Jane, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. She grabbed her head in pain. Weyler quickly turned off the radio.
     
    “You’re hungover!” Weyler said angrily.
     
    “No! I fell asleep on the dining room table. My neck’s stiff. I’ll be fine.”
     
    Weyler rose from his chair and leaned across his desk toward Jane. “I told you this was important! I told you this was a highly sensitive meeting. And you still got drunk!” Weyler’s voice had a nervous edge that Jane had never heard. “You’re going to make me look like a damn fool, Detective Perry. I’m putting my ass on the line for you! I expected a little more cooperation!”
     
    Jane was taken aback by Weyler’s sudden anger. He seemed overly