Not good.
The man wasn’t a human being any more.
He was a six-foot-five ticking bomb.
Dalton had no choice.
He took a deep breath, put on his friendliest face, and then sucker punched the man as hard as he could, directly on the nose. The man’s head flew back. Anyone else would have dropped to the floor.
Malcolm didn’t.
He staggered backwards.
Bloody.
Seriously hurt but trying to get enough distance and time to recover. He still had the gun in his hand. Dalton kicked it as hard as he could. Malcolm never saw it coming. The weapon flew through the air and landed ten feet away.
Dalton ran for it.
But before he got there, the back of his head exploded with a terrible pain. Then Malcolm had him from behind, in a python death squeeze.
He couldn’t breathe.
He dropped and twisted.
But the man dropped with him.
And Dalton couldn’t break loose.
Chapter Forty-Four
Day Three—July 14
Wednesday Morning
______________
BACK AT HOMICIDE, TEFFINGER showered the blood out of his hair, hoping the wound didn’t need medical attention. He hated doctors; not the physicians per se, but the whole check in and then sit next to sick people for an hour part. Unfortunately the bleeding wouldn’t stop and when he had Sydney take a look at it she said, “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”
He chuckled.
“I’m serious.”
Then she took him to the hospital.
A nurse put four stitches in his head. She also gave him a prescription for painkillers but Teffinger didn’t get it filled. He hated pills and didn’t think it was healthy to artificially tinker with his body too much; except for Bud Light, of course. He handed the prescription to Sydney as they walked out of the building and said, “Here, take these if I get to be too big of a pain in the ass.”
She looked at the paper.
And said, “I’m going to need a stronger dose.”
TWO MINUTES LATER HE FIRED UP THE TUNDRA, merged into thick Denver traffic and pointed the front end towards headquarters. Sydney punched the radio buttons until she landed on an old Shakira song, “Hips Don’t Lie,” and left it there. She looked at Teffinger and said, “So you really think this black woman is the one who shot at you?”
“Positive,” Teffinger said. “She followed me at least twice and ran when I spotted her. That about says it all.”
Sydney nodded.
“I’m a black woman and I have to admit, I’ve been tempted to shoot you a few times myself,” she said. “Maybe it’s something in all of our blood; a recessed gene or something.”
Teffinger chuckled.
“Did you get a good enough look at her to do a composite?”
Teffinger pictured the process.
“I doubt it,” he said. “I saw her good enough to know she’s the same woman I saw at Chatfield, but she’s sort of vague other than that.”
He chuckled as if he just heard a joke.
“What?” Sydney asked, curious.
“Except for her ass and thong,” Teffinger said. “That’s etched in my memory pretty good.”
“It would be.”
“Maybe we’ll need a thong lineup at some point,” Teffinger said.
Sydney punched him in the arm and said, “Men.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to do my civic duty.”
“By agreeing to witness a thong lineup—”
“Exactly.”
She grinned and said, “Well, just don’t expect me to be a part of it.”
“Why not?” Teffinger said. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you before.”
She knew what he was referring to. It was the night at the bar, about ten of them, drunk out of their minds, celebrating the capture of one of Denver’s worst. Then one of them came up with the brilliant idea to see who could bounce a quarter the highest off Sydney’s ass. She was drunk enough to pull her pants down to her knees, drape herself across the table and let them go for it.
“Seriously, Nick,” she said. “Why would a black woman want to kill you?”
“There’s only one explanation that makes even an iota of sense,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“It has something to do with that voodoo doll.”
She cocked her head and looked at him.
“You said you wouldn’t talk about that night at the bar any more,” she said.
“I know. I won’t do it again.”
She punched his arm.
“Yes you will.”
He thought about it.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
TWO BLOCKS FROM HEADQUARTERS his cell phone rang and Paul Kwak’s voice came through. “Hey, I got a lead for you on someone who does windshields on the mid-years.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Ralph Something Or Other,” Kwak said. “I came down to see you but you weren’t there. I put his number on your desk.”
“Thanks.”
“All the NCRS guys use him,” Kwak added.
National Corvette Restoration Society.
If they used him, he was good.
“Cool.”
“The Haggerty insurance guys know him too, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Oh, one more thing—the blood on that voodoo doll and the newspaper is human, not animal.”
“Ripley’s blood?”
“Don’t know that yet one way or the other,” Kwak said. “That’ll take a little time.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I have,” Teffinger said. “I’m pretty sure the person trying to kill me is linked to that doll somehow. So if you could put a rush on it, I’d appreciate it.”
“Well in that case,” Kwak said, “I’ll get to it in the next three or four months.”
“Not funny.”
“Be sure you leave the ’67 to me in your will.”
“Trust me,” Teffinger said. “You’ll be in there for everything you deserve.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Day Three—July 14
Wednesday Noon
______________
BY NOON, THE TEMPERATURE CLIMBED into the mid-90s. That usually translated into a deserted marina. So it was weird when a woman hung out by herself all day long on a powerboat over on P-Dock. Raven had never seen her before. Rather, she had always seen a man on that boat; a man who wasn’t a catch by anyone’s standards. The woman looked to be too old to be his daughter and too cute to be a lover.
Way too cute.
Even weirder, the woman seemed to be keeping an eye on Raven.
So, when she disappeared into the cabin, Raven pulled out her Bushnell PermaFocus binoculars and took a closer look. The center of the boat’s windshield was swung open. On the dash was something that looked like a camera pointed directly at Raven. A towel covered it so that only the glass was visible. Raven wrote down the vessel’s CL numbers and disappeared below before the other woman came back up.
The web told her that the CL numbers were registered to someone named Todd Rice. She Googled him and didn’t get many hits, but did get enough to discover that he was employed by the Denver Police Department.
She pulled out her phone directory, called the main information number and said she was trying to get in touch with Todd Rice. “Do you have a direct number for him?”
“That would be the vice department.”
Raven got the number.
Hung up.
And tried not to panic.
NOT KNOWING IF SHE WAS BEING BRILLIANT or dumber than dirt, she put four diet pops in a small cooler, covered them in ice and then headed over to the boat.
The other woman was topside now.
She was pretty.
And wore a bikini.
“I saw you over here by yourself and thought I’d come over and say hello,” Raven said. “I brought some pop
.”
“Well aren’t you the sweetie,” the woman said.
“My name’s Raven.”
“Coyote,” the woman said. “Come on aboard.”
“Coyote as in dogs and wolves?”
“Right.”
“Well that’s pretty cool,” Raven said.
“It’s a nickname,” Coyote said. “My parents weren’t hippies or anything. My real name’s Amanda.”
“So how’d you get the nickname?”
“I got bit by one in high school.”
“A coyote?”
The woman nodded.
“I didn’t think they attacked people.”
“They usually don’t. But if you fall out of a tree and land on one, they do.”
Raven studied the woman’s face.
To see if she was messing with her.
But didn’t detect it.
Then she chuckled and said, “Good thing your name’s not Crocodile.”
“Right—or T-Rex.”
Coyote handed her a bottle of SPF 15, presented her back and said, “Do you mind?”
No.
That would be okay.
She squirted the lotion on her hands and rubbed it into the woman’s shoulders.
Her muscles were firm.
Her skin was baby smooth.
Raven worked her way down the woman’s back.
Coyote had a tattoo that started above the bikini line and disappeared below.
“What’s the tattoo?” Raven asked.
THE WOMAN LOOKED AROUND, saw no one, and pulled her bikini bottoms down six or eight inches.
Her ass was taut and perfect.
The tattoo was some type of Asian writing.
“It means Forever Young,” Coyote said. She chuckled and added, “At least that’s what they told me. Sometimes I wonder if they just screw with people, though. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that there’s an Asian guy running around somewhere with Joe’s Garage tattooed on his arm in English, and he thinks it says Super Stud.”
Raven pictured it and laughed.
“You never know.”
“No, you don’t.”
The woman pulled her bottoms up, sat down on the seat and then stretched out on her stomach. “As long as you’re doing my back, would you mind getting my legs?”
Okay.
She could do that.
Coyote moaned and said, “That feels nice.”
“Good.”
Then Coyote flipped over, raised her arms above her head and closed her eyes. “Can you do the front?”
“Are you serious?”
The woman wiggled her stomach.
“I don’t want to get burned.”
Raven hesitated.
Then she rubbed lotion on the woman’s legs.
And stomach.
And arms.
She was just about done when Coyote pulled her bikini top up and exposed her breasts.
Nice ones.
Not too big.
Not too small.
“You missed a spot.”
Raven looked around to see if anyone was watching.
No one was.
She had never touched another woman’s breasts and made a spur of the moment decision to see what it was like—strictly as research for future books. Coyote’s nipples were perky and hard. And she moaned every time Raven’s fingers brushed against them. She felt powerful, making this beautiful woman moan; and touched her more and more to get that reaction.
Then suddenly the woman pulled Raven’s head down.
And kissed her on the mouth.
Something inside told her to pull away.
But she didn’t.
And instead she let the woman stick her tongue in her mouth.
Chapter Forty-Six
Day Three—July 14
Wednesday Morning
______________
IT TOOK FIFTEEN MINUTES FOR DALTON to kill Malcolm. Fifteen bloody minutes. Fifteen minutes of fighting for his life with every ounce of strength he had. When it was over, he didn’t have enough energy left to walk. He collapsed flat on his back, with his arms limp, and listened to his lungs pass air in and out.
He didn’t turn his head.
Or move his fingers.
Or shift his legs.
His body needed to be motionless.
And he let it.
He let it for a long time.
Then he raised a hand to his face to get a feel for the damage. There was a lot. He needed to wash the blood off and check the wounds in a mirror.
But not yet.
Right now he just needed to lie there.
Yeah.
Just like that.
The front door was open, the way Malcolm left it.
If someone popped their head inside, they’d see a six-foot-five man lying next to Dalton, dead. They’d know Dalton killed him. They’d be able to run faster than him; and would be able to call the police. He knew he should get up, close the door and lock it. He knew it was important.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
He needed to just lie there first.
TWO MINUTES LATER HE HEARD A CAR ENGINE directly outside. It shut off. Then someone stepped out and headed for the building at a brisk walk. At that moment, Dalton realized that the person would get to the door before he would.
He pushed up onto one elbow.
The movement was more painful than he expected.
But he fought it and got to his feet.
Too late.
The person was already stepping into the building.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Day Three—July 14
Wednesday Morning
______________
CHIEF FORREST F. TANKER aka Double-F had only one question after Teffinger told him the story—“So what were you going to do when you caught up to her?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“Tackle her, I guess.”
Tanker creased every wrinkle in his 60-year-old face.
“Tackle her, you guess.”
Teffinger nodded.
“Then I’m glad she’s faster than you because that’s the only thing that kept us out of a lawsuit,” Tanker said. Teffinger knew what he meant. The simple fact that he saw the woman twice in two different locations didn’t give him sufficient probable cause to physically chase her down and tackle her, irrespective of his gut feeling that she was the one who shot at him.
“You’d understand better if you were the one shot at,” Teffinger said.
Tanker nodded.
“You want some time off?”
“No.”
Tanker leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Next time you see her, call Sydney. Let her set up some backup to come in and find a reason to make contact with the woman. That way we can at least find out who she is. Maybe she’ll say or do something to give us a reason to search her—if she’s packing a gun or drugs or something, game over.” Tanker stood up and rapped his knuckles on a photograph hanging on the wall—of him and the mayor. “Do you know why he’s smiling?”
No.
Teffinger didn’t.
“Because no one is suing the city,” Tanker said.
Teffinger nodded.
“And do you know why I’m smiling?”
He didn’t.
“Because the mayor’s smiling.”
“Understood.”
TWO MINUTES LATER, filling up at the coffee pot, Teffinger must have had a look on his face because Sydney walked over and asked, “What’s wrong?”
Teffinger exhaled.
And lowered his voice.
“Double-F doesn’t want me tackling strange women for no reason. It makes him picture himself sitting at the defendant’s table.”
“Well, if the choice is either him sitting, or you being dead, then let him sit,” Sydney said. She took a sip of caffeine and added, “You want to head down to the river and see if we can find the guy who hit you with the ro
ck?”
Teffinger shook his head.
“No, he was just doing what he thought was right.”
“You don’t think he saw your gun and knew you were a cop?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“I don’t know, maybe,” he said. “But we need to stay focused on Lindsay Vail.”
VENZELLE CALLED AND WANTED TO MEET for lunch. Teffinger didn’t have time, but she talked him into a quickie at Wong’s. They got a booth and he told her about the chase this morning and the fact that it was a black woman trying to kill him.
“So keep a look out for her,” he said. “You could be a target by association.” He cocked his head and added, “In fact, you should probably stay away from me until this is resolved.”
She chuckled.
“That’s not going to happen.”
Teffinger considered arguing.
But knew he’d lose.
“Now that we know it’s a black woman,” Venzelle said, “it’s definitely connected to that voodoo doll. My guess is that the woman is from New Orleans.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where all the hardcore voodoo stuff comes from,” she said. “What you should do is find out if the dead lawyer made any trips down there. If he did, that’ll confirm it.”
Teffinger cocked his head.
“So now you’re telling me how to be a detective?” he asked.
She nodded.
“After we confirm it, we should head down there,” she said.
“To New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
“And you said we—”
She nodded.
“That I did.”
“Why would we go there? Obviously, she’s here.”
“Simple,” Venzelle said. “If she’s from there, and you head there, she’s going to follow. Then she shows up on an airline manifest.”
Teffinger nodded.
Impressed.
Venzelle took a sip of tea, leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I am going to screw your socks off tonight, stitches or no stitches. So be warned.”
Teffinger chuckled.
“In that case, I’m going to wear two pair. So be warned yourself.”
Client Trap (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 12
