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
“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
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