“My soul won’t rest,” Devinder stated, the aroma of sandalwood thickening the air as he leaned toward Jane. “And my family will forever bear the shame of my death. It will kill my mother years before her time.” He gently grasped Jane’s hand. “Is it possible that you have been sent to me to save my soul?”
“I’m a cop, not a priest.”
“I don’t need a priest. I need a cop. A good cop. If you can show my death for what it was, you can lift the shame and I can accept my karma and my fate, and move on.” Devinder’s eyes dimmed with concern. “But you have miles of trouble.”
Jane considered the obstacle of Detective Miles. Miles of trouble made sense. But she also understood something else.
Devinder moved his left hand to Jane’s neck and pulled her hair away, exposing the pinpoint light. “It’s getting dimmer, Jane. You’re in danger.”
5
Jane startled awake, shocked to find that it was already 8:00 A.M. on Wednesday. She remembered everything—especially Devinder’s ominous warning. Bolting out of bed, she quickly showered and grabbed her morning coffee. She didn’t think through what she was about to do because she knew that if she did, she’d be smart and reconsider the idea. The whole while, she had to keep in mind that a dead man was orchestrating this case.
Just after 9:00 A.M., she rolled to a stop in front of Mrs. Bashir’s opulent home in Cherry Creek. A Range Rover was parked in the driveway. Jane walked up the driveway and checked the temperature of the SUV’s hood. In the old West, law enforcement checked the heat of the dying coals from the criminal’s campfires. In the modern world, one checked the heat of a suspect’s hood to determine approximately how long the vehicle had been parked. Based on Jane’s seasoned sense of hood temp, she figured the SUV had been there no longer than 30 minutes.
She walked around the Range Rover, scanned the windows and noted some movement in the kitchen inside the house. Carefully crawling amidst the perfectly manicured
shrubbery, Jane peered inside. There was Cath looking grave and grim, surrounded by what Jane deduced were Devinder’s truly grieving parents. The mother did indeed look frail, as if her world had crashed around her and she couldn’t see clear of the debris to escape. She stayed quiet, as her husband appeared to make what looked like emotional appeals to Mrs. B. The blonde vixen hung her head, wiping away the occasional counterfeit tear, while she cupped her forehead in her hand. The father moved briefly out of Jane’s point of view before reappearing at Cath’s side, hand outstretched with what was obviously a check.
Cath turned away, even motioning with her crocodiletear-stained hankie, as if she were saying, “No, please. I just couldn’t accept that money!” But after the father pursued the matter with more vigor, Cath gave in and took the check. As Cath turned away, she caught sight of Jane framed in the window. Her mien changed from heartache to irritation, as she excused herself and crossed to the kitchen door.
“Can I help you?” Cath’s voice was huskier than Jane imagined.
Jane quickly flashed her shield. “Detective Jane Perry,” she stated with all the cop bravado she could rally at nine in the morning. “I knocked on your front door,” Jane lied, extricating herself from the shrubs, “but I guess you couldn’t hear.” She peered over Cath’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at Devinder’s parents.
Cath closed the door, obviously wanting to keep her conversation with Jane private. “Detective Miles made no reference to you working this case.”
“Really? Humph. That’s odd. There’s a gaggle of us down at Headquarters assigned to your husband’s case…“
“A gaggle? What in the hell are you talking about?” She tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder and moved closer to Jane. Based on Jane’s first real world impressions—as opposed to the disincarnate visions of Cath killing her husband and then engaging in carnal sex with her hump of a boy toy—this was a woman who spent most of her time between the Pilates center and the day spa. Her toned body was lean and her tanned skin polished to perfection. Under the conservative white tunic, Jane spied a pair of tits that stationed a little too upright for her 40-something age.
“Detective Miles is lead on the case, but we all work different angles.”
“Angles?” she questioned, her come hither voice sounding more like “back off.” “There is only one issue and that is the child pornography my late husband shamed our family with.” Suddenly, the grieving widow reappeared on cue, complete with her manufactured facial distortions that attempted to convey dishonor with a capital D. Jane half-wished she could arrest the bitch for bad acting.
“Right. The porn. Child porn,” Jane deadpanned. “Doesn’t get more shameful than that…“
“It’s a curse, Detective Perry,” Cath interrupted, deciding that it was time to school Jane on the facts. “Not only did my husband corrupt his family’s bloodline, he made it so that I could no longer live in this beautiful home.”
“Sorry? I don’t follow.”
“A wife can’t live in the same place where her sick, twisted husband took his life. It’s asking too much.”
The pieces began to click in Jane’s head. “Wow… and with a helluva real estate market these days. The house could be up for sale for six months and it still might not sell. Even then, you’d be lucky to get 60 percent of what you paid for it…”
“Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about such things.”
Now it was Jane’s turn to exercise her acting chops. “How’s that?”
“My in-laws are very generous and understand my delicate situation.”
Without realizing it, Cath exposed part of the personal check in her hand. Jane furtively glanced down and saw a four followed by six very nice zeros. Even during the booming days of Colorado real estate, this tony mini-manor wasn’t worth that much. Jane reckoned the additional amount was for Mrs. B.’s pain and suffering. Consider it a little somethin’-somethin’ to take the edge off the shame.
Jane peered over Cath’s shoulder. “You know, we don’t have any interviews with your late husband’s parents. I’d love to talk to them…“
“Are you crazy?” The sexual barracuda had been replaced by an all-business broad. “They are beyond distraught. This whole thing came out of nowhere! None of us expected it! And besides, Detective Miles promised me that there would be no tasteless follow-up with the investigation.”
Tasteless, Jane thought. Not a word Miles bandies around. Jane knew that what Cath really meant was that she had it on good faith by her good ol’ broken down, over-the-hill, alcoholic, vice cop that this purposely prurient, suicide set-up would stay confined to the walls of
Denver Headquarters and not bleed into too many departments that might leak this deviant case to the media. Yeah, that would just fuck up everything, Jane reasoned. Even psychopaths such as Mrs. B. knew that if the local press picked up this story, her life would be one flame eater away from a circus. No, deep scrutiny was not wanted here. Better to take the dirty money, meet your trashy, 20-something fleabag with six-pack abs outside the county line and disappear into obscurity.
Jane’s expression must have concerned Cath because if Jane read the double-D tramp’s body language correctly, she was exhibiting a threatening stance.
“I think you need to leave, Detective Perry.” Cath took another purposeful step toward Jane, her Botoxed forehead unable to show the true scorn she really felt at that moment. “I don’t need this to get complicated.”
Jane stared into Cath’s eyes. She wished thoughts were as transparent as they were in the middle world with Devinder. But even though she couldn’t hear Cath’s thoughts, she could patently feel them. It was the stuff that raised the hair on your arms and sent a jolt down your spine. You can’t hear the threat but your body reacts just the same. This is one desperate woman, Jane surmised. And nothing was going to complicate her plan at this critical juncture.
Jane held Cath’s gaze a little longer. She could outlast anybody in a stare down and she’d perfected the intimidating narrowing of her eyes to complete the menacing effect. Finally, Jane nodded, wished Mrs. B. a nice day and walked back to her Mustang. But on her way there, she couldn’t help but see something sitting at the curb—something that could be important. When Cath returned
inside, Jane quickly collected the evidence. She had one more stop before going to Headquarters.
By the time Jane arrived back at Headquarters, she hoped she had enough to convince her boss, Sergeant Morgan Weyler, to take a hard look at Devinder’s case. At least, she figured, she had something to cast doubt on the suicide. Right now, doubt was all Jane needed before Miles buttoned up the suicide and sent the merry widow on her way.
But Jane smelled trouble when she approached Weyler’s office and saw Miles seated across the desk from her boss.
“What in the hell’s goin’ on, Jane?” Miles erupted. Jane could smell the booze on his breath.
“We got a call an hour ago from Devinder Bashir’s widow,” Weyler offered in his usual calming tone.
“Her exact words?” Miles interrupted with a sharp edge, “’Who’s the bitch named Jane and why is that cunt coming to my house unannounced?’”
Jane was cornered. “Humph. Well, looks like I’m crossing her off the Christmas card list!”
Miles was dogged. “She also wanted to know why we had a gaggle of detectives workin’ her case. I assured Mrs. Bashir that it was just me workin’ the case. At least, I thought I was workin’ it solo! Since when did homicide start hijackin’ vice cases?”
“When the suicide is really a homicide.” Jane let that gem linger in the air.
Weyler trusted Jane enough to wave off Miles’ blustering indignation. “What proof do you have?” he asked.
Jane produced three orange prescription bottles. “I saw these through a clear plastic garbage bag at the curb of the Bashir’s house. Trash is still open season, right?” Miles looked wary, but Weyler nodded. “So, I took a look at them real closely. The date is almost one year ago and if you look at Devinder’s name on the bottle… ” Jane handed a bottle to each of the men, “you can see how the lettering was skillfully duplicated with a computer and literally pasted over the real owner of these drugs.”
Miles lifted the tape to reveal Cath Bashir’s name on the prescription bottle.
“I just came from that doctor’s office,” Jane continued. “It’s a plastic surgeon. What a shock, right? Cath had a boob job and ass implants last year. They gave her Ambien to sleep, Valium to take off the edge, and everybody’s favorite painkiller, Oxycodone. Apparently, she told the doc that she needed refills about three months after the surgery because of the continued discomfort when she sat, walked or took a breath!”
Miles looked shocked. “Patient records are confidential. You don’t just walk in off the street with no warrant and get this info!”
“You know, it’s just amazing the kind of things you can learn when you’re a woman and you’re talking to another woman and then you flash a badge and tell that woman that there are children in danger.”
“Children?” Weyler questioned.
“That was a stretch, boss. But remotely, kids are involved. The porn part of this. Anyway, I’ve found that if
you use the kid card, you’ve got a winning hand and a better chance at gaining info.”
Miles’ fury built. “Off the record, of course! That way, they don’t lose their job for talking!”
“Well, yeah. But we build a case from here…”
“We?” Miles yelled. “Are there not enough homicides in Denver, that you gotta infringe on my territory?”
“Bruce,” Jane stated, “Devinder Bashir was killed with premeditation.”
“Who told you that?” Weyler asked.
Jane hesitated. “My gut tells me.”
Miles threw up his hands. “The DA doesn’t accept gut as evidence!”
“I’m telling you, he was killed by her tool of a boyfriend. They drugged Devinder and set up the scene to make it look as smarmy as possible. Devinder wasn’t depressed. He didn’t do drugs, or drink. It goes against his Hindu faith!”
“What the hell!” Miles mocked. “You act like this perv was your buddy!”
Jane’s ire peaked. “Fuck it, Bruce! He’s not a perv! He’s a decent man with a good heart who got set up by his golddigging, Botox bitch of a wife! I know him!” Jane realized she’d said too much. “I knew him,” she quickly corrected. She turned to Weyler. “Boss, Devinder was killed. You gotta trust me on this one.” She turned to Miles. “Check out the suicide note. Devinder is left-handed. It was written with a right-handed slant. The pen is in Devinder’s right hand in the crime shot. Sloppy job on their end. And the note itself? It uses words that Devinder doesn’t say. The last part…I have shamed my family name and now I must
die for my mortal sins? Devinder is a devout Hindu. Hindus don’t believe in mortal sin. They believe bad luck is due to bad karma. The person who really wrote this note should have used the word karma and it would have been more believable, but that person’s not too bright. And I’m betting that the porn was downloaded by Cath’s human dildo of a boyfriend. Get a warrant for the asshole’s computer and you’ll see the download history for yourself!”
“With nothin’ to support any of this, except for your gut feeling!” Miles screamed, his face turning five shades of crimson. “I got less than a fuckin’ year left on the job, Jane. I’m not gonna put my ass on the line without tangible evidence!”
“We have the drugs with the computerized name on the bottle!”
“Which will get thrown out of evidence by the DA because of your OTR interview.”
“He’s right, Jane,” Weyler quietly agreed.
Now Jane needed a late morning adult beverage. She had to keep pushing the true numinous instigator of this investigation to the back of her mind and focus on the fact that her gut really did drive her actions. “So, that’s it? You’ll try to track down the porn, but you won’t find anything on Devinder’s computer and there’ll be no credit card charges for overseas kiddie skin rags. And by the time the trail runs cold, Cath and her waste of skin scrote will have jumped five time zones, never to be seen again. Great. Fucking great!” She turned to Miles with one last appeal. “Take another look at the crime scene photos. It’s hinky, Bruce. JDLR.” Jane figured she might be able to create a pseudo bond with Miles by using cop talk. In
this case, “JDLR” stood for “Just Doesn’t Look Right.” She wanted to say how the death scene was overkill in the smarmy department and to talk to Devinder’s parents to find out about his recent behavior, any business troubles, depression—and so on. But it would have been like talking to a shoe and asking it to get up and walk.