Weyler smiled. “I didn’t come out of the Academy looking and behaving the way I do today. I had plenty of cocky, youthful gusto to spare.”
Jane tried to picture Weyler with
youthful gusto.
“Boss, I don’t give a damn how much youthful gusto you had. You and Bo? There’s just no…connection.”
“You’re wrong, Jane.” Weyler’s voice became serious. “There
is
a connection.”
Jane waited. “And…?”
“And hopefully you and Bo will be able to form a connection as well. If he doesn’t kill you first.” Weyler started up the driveway.
Jane didn’t follow. She was blocked once again in her quest to understand the reason why Weyler “owed” Bo and, in turn, dragged her tired ass up to Midas. “I’m sure he had a few choice words to say about me after I left.”
Weyler stopped and turned to Jane. “He did.”
She was used to being talked about behind her back. Her often-aggressive nature didn’t earn her a lot of friends. “What’d he call me? A bitch?” Jane asked with a smirk.
“No. He asked me if you were a lesbian.”
Jane looked at Weyler, stunned. “What the fuck? He actually said that?”
“Not exactly. He asked me, ‘Does she pitch for the other team?’”
“Because I speak my opinion? Because I don’t take shit from people?”
“That played a part I’m sure. But Bo has always been visually driven.” Jane already surmised this but was tentative in how it would play out with her personally. Weyler was suddenly uncomfortable. “His perception was based on how you dress.”
Jane looked down at her plain dark blue poplin shirt with the powdery stain of orange rust from the bridge, jeans with splattered mud from the adventure, scuffed cowboy boots and beaten leather jacket. “This is not
gay
. This is
comfortable
!”
“Let it go, Jane. We’ve got a job to do. And now that job is a little more complicated with the media interest.” He started to move when Jane grabbed his coat sleeve again.
“Look, boss,” Jane felt the world closing in around her. “I didn’t know Betty was gonna blast this story on the wire. I just called her to put forth the possibility that…”
“You called her in hopes of getting out of this assignment…
period
. Don’t attempt to bullshit me, Jane. I’m too old to buy it and you’re too proud to sell it.” Weyler started up the driveway.
Jane aborted her improvised regret and followed him. “10-4, Beanie.”
Weyler cast a cautionary glance back at Jane. “Jane?”
“Boss, I gotta know. It won’t go further than the two of us. Why
Beanie
?”
“We’re late, Jane. Come on!” Weyler started up the steep driveway.
“Okay, fine.” She followed him. “But what about the
E
on your luggage?
M.E.W
.? What’s the
E
stand for?”
“Eloquent,” Weyler stated without missing a beat.
“Come on!” Jane cajoled.
“Educated,” Weyler affirmed.
Jane shook her head. “
Evasive
,” she countered. They crested the long driveway and stood aghast at the massive two-story log monstrosity that the Van Gordens called home. Four gigantic wooden pillars supported the entrance to the overwhelming structure that some might call a “show place” but most would term an over-the-top obscenity. The two pillars closest to the pathway were carved in the shape of owls and gave the appearance of ominous sentries. Jane counted no less than twenty-two perfectly pruned spruce trees that towered twenty-five feet and, she reckoned, cost a good three grand each to truck in full-size and plant in the most appropriate place to generate the greatest visual impact. At least thirty lofty aspen trees were scattered around the side of the house.
Overkill
, she thought to herself. The wide concrete walkway and stairs that led to the front door was tinted in shades of black and grey to simulate the look of marble. As Jane and Weyler approached the front entrance, they felt their size quickly dwarf under the dual-arched doorway, complete with stained-glass panels on each side of the door and above the archway.
Pretentious
. That was the next word rattling through Jane’s head as she pressed the lighted doorbell. A melodic
ding-ding-DING-ding-diiiing
rang out, followed by silence.
Jane turned to Weyler. “You know, if they’re in the back of the house, it might take them a few days to get here.”
“Try to control the sarcasm, Jane. They don’t know we’re coming.”
“Why?”
Weyler shrugged. “Why not?”
CHAPTER 8
The heavy, ornate front door opened just as the sound of a ringing telephone was heard. “Could you get the phone, Bailey?” Carol Van Gorden stood apprehensively in the doorway, assessing Jane and Weyler. The telephone rang again and then stopped. “Can I help you?”
Weyler flashed his badge. “My name’s Sergeant Morgan Weyler and this is Sergeant Jane Perry. We’re from Denver. Do you and your husband have a moment to talk with us?”
Carol looked exhausted as she nervously studied the ground. She was in her early forties, but the stress had clearly taken its toll. Her black wool slacks, black-and-white striped tunic with the cloisonné butterfly brooch and blond bobbed hair looked well put together though. “Uh, you know, it’s just that… we’ve already talked at length with Bo…”
“I’m heading out!” Bailey yelled from an upstairs area.
“Bailey, wait!” Carol yelled back. After Carol let him know that two sergeants from
Denver
were at the door, Jane heard a hard pause followed by determined footsteps toward the door.
Bailey graced them with his appearance. His look did not disappoint Jane, given her earlier derisive generalization of Colorado estate dwellers. He was about six feet tall and his forty-eight-year-old body was obviously acquainted with a gym. Bailey had the chiseled chin and jutting jaw of someone who always looks as if they’re about to speak but whose words were usually a bore. His tanned skin—acquired surely from a tanning bed this time of year—appeared more dramatic against his crisp white shirt that was tucked into a pair of pressed, stonewashed jeans. Jane figured the denim cost more than her monthly grocery bill. Around his thirty-three-inch waist was an alligator belt, which perfectly matched his…
yes
…two-thousand-dollar Lucchese alligator cowboy boots. Bailey observed Jane and Weyler like a lab worker regards a specimen in a petri dish. It was obvious to Jane that Bailey instantly labeled them as
amoebas
and he just didn’t
sink that low. “I’m sorry,” Bailey stated, clearly not sorry one bit, “I’m on my way out. You’ll need to come back another time.”
Jane was floored by his arrogance. “We’re here about your son…Jake?”
“We’ve already talked to Bo in great detail,” Bailey stated, his self-importance rising. “I don’t understand what you can offer us.”
“Sir,” Weyler interjected in his warm, congenial tone that never failed to ingratiate, “Police Chief Lowry requested our help from Denver to speed the safe recovery of your only child. We’ll only stay a short while.”
Maybe it was Weyler’s 6’ 4” stature or maybe it was his amenable manipulation of a quickly deteriorating situation, but Bailey let out a low sigh and showed them inside the house.
“Who called?” Carol asked her husband as Jane and Weyler closed the massive door behind them.
“Nobody. Probably wrong number,” Bailey said, preoccupied. “It rang twice and then nothing.”
“You’re not getting calls from the media, I hope?” Jane asked.
“Of course, not,” Bailey responded in the most dismissive tone he could muster. “Our number is unlisted.”
“Right,” Jane said with a half-smile. “That usually stops them.”
“We’ve had no calls from the media,” Carol offered in a weak, wispy voice. “Just the occasional call from a friend checking in.”
The domed entry of their palatial house could fit a medium-sized fishing boat and small truck. Jane looked up at the glass dome above her head that splayed diffused light across the eggshell walls and dual polished stairways that led to the second floor.
How in the hell do you clean that?
she wondered. To her left was another arched doorway that was closed. Straight ahead, across the black-and-white checkerboard floor, stood a massive archway in the center of the double staircases that
appeared to lead to an obscenely large family room and kitchen. On either side of the front door were two marble-topped tables, both holding large ivory pillar candles. Jane noted that the wicks were clean, having never been burned.
“Let’s sit in the living room,” Carol suggested, pointing to the right of the front door.
Jane and Weyler followed Carol and an obviously irritated Bailey into a room that ate up 1,200 frivolous square feet of real estate. The centerpiece for the room was the obligatory stone fireplace that was large enough and deep enough to cremate several human bodies simultaneously. As Jane noted the floor-to-ceiling cathedral window that overlooked the mountain ranges to the north behind the
de rigueur
dark leather couch with thick brass inlay buttons, she privately ticked off another requisite overdone feature of these styles of homes. Jane took a seat next to Weyler on the couch while Bailey and Carol sat across from them in matching leather wing chairs. A highly lacquered, burl slab coffee table created the necessary, weighted distance between them. Sitting atop the table was a graduated candleholder that cradled five medium-sized ivory pillar candles. Again, Jane noted, none of them had ever been lit. The place was starting to feel more like one of those model homes than an actual place where people kicked off their shoes and relaxed.
“Quite a little place you got here,” Jane said, doing her best to remain professional.
Carol smiled. “Bailey designed everything.”
“You an architect?” Weyler asked.
“No,” Bailey answered, again with the indifferent tenor. “I dabble in high-end real estate.” He crossed his legs and smoothed his already unwrinkled jeans. “I do have an artistic touch, but I designed this place to show others what could be done if they were serious about crafting the lifestyle of the Rockies.”
Jane had only known Bailey Van Gorden for less than five minutes and she hated him. Who in the hell “dabbles” in high-end real estate? And the crack about “crafting the lifestyle of the
Rockies” just about sent her looking for a place to puke. What did this East Coast snob know about the Rocky Mountains? As far as Jane was concerned, “crafting the lifestyle of the Rockies” had more to do with ripping open a bag of greasy corn chips, pouring a jar of salsa into a bowl and watching a Broncos game.
Weyler saw that Jane was getting ready to cast a wisecrack. He quickly spoke up. “You should have your home featured in a Colorado magazine or television show.”
“Bailey has a great video he made of the place,” Carol offered with pride. “He put it up on YouTube and has gotten over three thousand hits…”
Bailey waved off his wife’s comment. “Carol, it’s not important.”
For a guy who seemed so into showing others how to craft that ol’ Colorado lifestyle, Jane was perplexed by Bailey’s throwaway remark. “Three thousand hits is impressive. I’ll have to check it out,” Jane insisted. “What’s it listed under?”
Bailey eyed Jane with a guarded glare. “Bailey Van Gorden,” he said in a rushed manner. “Listen, I thought you were here to talk about Jake.”
“Yes, sir,” Weyler stated and proceeded to fill in the Van Gordens on everything that Bo knew about the case, excluding specifics on the clues that came directly to Lowry.
“
Copeland
is who you should be talking to!” Bailey stressed. “It’s obvious that fucking nutcase is involved! Little shit!”
Jane detected a slight smirk creasing into Bailey’s mouth when he said “Copeland.” While she couldn’t be certain, her attention to body language and the
tells
it generates, gave her the impression that Bailey was either not believing what he was saying or smugly disapproving of Jordan with an errant facial sign. However, when he uttered, “Little shit,” the tenor was completely different. Her heightened auditory sense heard a shift in his thoughts; as if Jordan Copeland was completely separate from the “little shit.” It was also accompanied by a defined sneer that Jane always read as a sign of superiority mixed with profound
contempt. “Little shit” was an odd tag, Jane surmised. Jordan Copeland was a big man—to refer to him as “little” made no sense to her. The uneasy thought crossed her mind that Bailey was, in fact, referencing his own son in a less than benevolent manner. Jane’s eyes drifted to Bailey’s left foot that was crossed over his leg. He was twirling it back and forth in an aggravated gyratory motion. She also couldn’t help but note his sudden flushed face and clogged sinuses. “You got a cold?” Jane asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re stuffed up. Look feverish.” Jane said, offhandedly.
Carol turned to her husband. “Are you getting sick?”
Bailey looked somewhat trapped by the question. “I don’t know. It’s probably allergies. You know…springtime?” He jutted his tanned jaw toward Jane. “You fall off a roof?” His tone was insolent and purposely meant to shift the conversation.
Jane glanced down at her rust-stained shirt and mud-splattered jeans. She wanted to reply, “
No, asshole. It was a bridge. The same fucking bridge your son tried to hang himself from because he couldn’t stand listening to your arrogant pie hole any longer
.” But she didn’t. “No, sir,” she replied with teeth clenched. “What was your son wearing when he disappeared?” Jane decided it was time for
her
to purposely shift the conversation to suit her objectives.
Bailey glanced at Weyler and then back to Jane as if he suddenly didn’t understand English. “How the fuck should I know?”
Jane looked at Carol. “Any ideas?”
Carol seemed equally baffled. “He might have been wearing one of his vintage shirts,” she carefully said in measured beats.