Client Trap (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
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“Screw you and your little games,” he said. “Your client is going to answer my questions and we’re not going to have any more interruptions from you.”
Raven’s heart raced.
“Screw me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually I don’t.”
Osborne scowled.
“What do you mean, screw me?”
He sat down and poured a cup of water.
Then Raven did something she didn’t expect. She stood up, packed her briefcase and told her client, “Come on. This deposition’s over.”
“This deposition isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Osborne said.
Raven ignored him.
Instead, she looked at the court reporter and said, “Please be sure I get a copy of the transcript.”
Then they walked out.
“This is why we fired you,” Osborne shouted. “You’re not a real lawyer and never will be.”
IN THE ELEVATOR, Marilyn Gruenwald said, “What a flaming idiot. So what happens now?”
“He was way over the line,” Raven said. “The only way he could get the deposition back on the table at this point is to file a motion to get an order from the court forcing us to come back. He wouldn’t do that in a million years, because he’d have to tell the court that we walked out, and then we’d tell the court why. He’d probably end up slapped with sanctions.”
“You think?”
Raven nodded.
“Even if my objections were improper—which they weren’t—the remedy is for him to certify the questions to the court and get a ruling as to whether you have to answer. He’s not allowed to slam his hand on the table; he’s not allowed to order you to answer; and he’s certainly not allowed to say screw you to me, you or anyone else. That’s totally inappropriate and unprofessional.”
“The guy scares me,” Marilyn said.
“Don’t let him,” Raven said. “That’s part of his plan, so don’t give him the satisfaction.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, while walking back to her car, Raven’s phone rang and the voice of Dakota Van Vleck came through. “You’re my hero,” Dakota said. “We need to have lunch and catch up, off the record.”
“Fine.”
“I read Deadly Web by the way. It was fantastic.”
“Yeah? Did you really like it?”
“Let me put it this way, I’ve only read two books in the last year and both of them were Deadly Web.”
“You read it twice?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
“I’m major jealous.” A pause, then, “I don’t know if you heard, but Ryan Ripley got murdered Saturday night.”
“You’re kidding.”
No.
She wasn’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Morning
______________
DALTON WAS ABOUT TO PUSH THROUGH the revolving door of Martin Production’s building when an exotic black woman passed him on the sidewalk. He stopped, turned, and followed her with his eyes. The woman’s skin was dark; her hair was long; her clothes were expensive and so was her walk. She looked to be about twenty-five and important; a diplomat’s daughter or something.
He knew her from somewhere.
Where?
He trotted after her and jumped in front.
“I know you,” he said.
She studied him.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “What’s your name?”
She cocked her head and said, “Listen, you’re cute and all, but I’m in a hurry.” Then she walked around him.
“Wait!” he said.
He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Give me a call when you remember where you know me from.”
She looked at the card—Dalton Wrey, Martin Productions. “I don’t know you,” she said.
“Then just call me anyway,” he said.
She handed the card back to him, then walked away.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Dalton walked into Mandy Martin’s office. She looked harried; no doubt because Summerfest was slated for tomorrow at Red Rocks.
Six hip-hop acts.
“So far, no one’s cancelled,” she said. “What’s going on at your end?”
Dalton told her.
He had been working the phone for the last two days and so far hadn’t received a request he couldn’t handle. “Here’s the latest, though, which I just found out about ten minutes ago. They all want to get together after the concert and have a blow-out party; the kind they’ll still be talking about for ten years. So between now and then, I need to set the whole thing up.”
That meant to find a place big enough and private enough and stock it with liquor, food, strippers, DJs, etcetera.
“How many people are we talking about?”
“I’m guessing two to three hundred, counting crews, friends, and all the rest.”
“Security’s going to be the big thing,” Mandy said. “Every groupie in the world will know about it by midnight. I’m already picturing a scene from the Alamo.”
Dalton chuckled.
“How are they handling the costs?” Mandy asked.
“They’re going to split it equally, six ways. Martin Productions will advance all the upfront money,” Dalton said. “Then we’ll withhold one-sixth of the total costs from what we owe each act under their base contract.”
“Be sure the total cost includes a 20 percent markup for our time and effort,” Mandy said. “And be sure the lawyers are in the loop. I want them to send all the right emails so there’s no argument about the money afterwards. We’ve been stung before on this kind of thing. In fact, let’s get Prichard on the phone right now.”
Dalton smiled.
“Now I remember why I keep you around,” he said.
AN HOUR LATER, JAMES MADDEN CALLED and said, “We have an assignment for you.”
“Where?” Dalton asked.
“Miami.”
“Your timing couldn’t be worse.”
Chapter Twenty
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER WADDED A PIECE OF PAPER and tossed it into the air to see if he could get it to land in the snake plant. It bounced off the edge and landed on the floor. As he picked it up, he got an idea and headed over to Sydney’s desk. She was working the phone, trying to get in touch with the rest of Lindsay Vail’s friends and clients to see if they recognized the pirate.
“Any luck?” Teffinger asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “All bad.”
“Let’s shift gears,” he said. “I want to find out what that woman knows, the woman who was in front of Lindsay’s house.”
“The one I took a picture of?”
Teffinger nodded.
“She told me her name was Raven,” Teffinger said. “Let’s pull driver’s licenses with that name, age bracket twenty-five to thirty-five. There can’t be that many.”
There were more than Teffinger thought.
But that was okay, because in the end they found her.
Raven Lee.
“It figures,” Teffinger said.
“What?” Sydney asked.
“Every time I try to find something, it’s in the very last place I look.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Bad, even for you.”
“Actually, not bad for me,” he said. “Run a background on her.”
Sydney did.
THE RESULTS WEREN’T WHAT TEFFINGER EXPECTED. The woman turned out to be an attorney, licensed five years ago. She worked for Radcliffe & Snow for four years and then opened her own practice, Raven Lee, P.C., a year ago. She used to have an office downtown but it burned down. Now, according to the Colorado Supreme Court records, her office was located in the Chatfield Marina, Slip No. D-38.
“This is more than a coincidence, her being with Radcliffe
& Snow,” Teffinger said.
“You think?”
He nodded.
“So why was she at Lindsay Vail’s house?”
Teffinger retreated in thought.
“It could be that she’s the pirate’s lawyer,” he said. “She might have been hanging around specifically to talk to us, to see if we were getting anything on her client.” He sipped coffee. “I’m thinking that we should stake her out and see if we can catch the guy going to meet her. Call Clay down at the D.A.’s office; he’ll know how to get into the court databases. See if he can find out if she does any criminal work.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“She still might be the pirate’s lawyer,” Teffinger said, “a friend or a family member or something like that. My gut tells me that she’s tracking our investigation and giving him feedback.”
Sydney nodded.
“Nice office,” she said. “Slip No. D-38. It must be a boat. I wonder if she lives there too.”
THREE MINUTES LATER, Paul Kwak called from the 6th Floor. “I drove the split window to work this morning,” he said, referring to his 1963 Corvette. “You want to take a cruise during lunch?”
Teffinger was tempted but couldn’t.
There was too much going on.
“Your loss,” Kwak said. He almost hung up and then added, “Oh, wait a minute, that’s not the reason I called. Remember that dead lawyer, Ryan Ripley?”
Teffinger remembered.
“I told the coroner to check the guy’s dick, like you wanted,” Kwak said. “Guess what he found?”
Teffinger didn’t know.
“Saliva. A lot of saliva.”
“The guy’s my hero,” Teffinger said. “That’s exactly how I want to go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Noon
______________
OVER LUNCH AT A SOUP-N-SALAD BAR on Larimer Street, Dakota Van Vleck kept her back to the wall and kept one eye on the door, obviously nervous about someone in the firm stumbling in and seeing her with Raven—the enemy. She was thirty-one and in training for a triathlon next month in Daytona Beach.
Single.
Attractive.
Short black hair.
Killer legs, framed in nylons and a Saks Fifth Avenue skirt that rose seductively high when she crossed her legs.
“I can’t believe how you ripped Osborne a new one,” Dakota said. “It was all I could do to keep from jumping up on the table and going into a full-blown cheer. I was actually looking around for my pompoms.”
Raven laughed, then got serious and said, “That’s so weird about Ripley. How’d he die?”
“Details are sketchy. About all we know for sure is that he got killed Saturday night,” Dakota said. “There’s a rumor going around that he was in a Colfax alley getting a blowjob and got stabbed in the back. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it or not.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Raven said.
“You never did like him.”
More than true.
“He was just one more frog on Jeff Salter’s leash,” Raven said. “Did I ever tell you about the voodoo case I had with him?”
Dakota shook her head.
No.
“What voodoo case?”
“OUR CLIENT WAS A WOMAN from New Orleans who, supposedly, was a voodoo priestess.”
“You’re messing with me, right?” Dakota said.
“Wrong,” Raven said. “Anyway, this voodoo lady supposedly put an evil spell on a man from Denver by the name of Michael Coburn.”
Dakota chuckled.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” Raven said. “Coburn was married to a woman named Susan, who was half Haitian. After five years of marriage, Coburn decided that it wasn’t fair to only let Susan experience the splendor of his cock, so he started to spread the joy around. Susan, of course, found out and was none too pleased. She made a trip down to New Orleans and had a voodoo priestess put an evil spell on hubby-face.”
“Don’t tell me,” Dakota said. “Let me guess . . . his dick fell off. Am I right?”
Raven pictured it and chuckled.
“Nothing that dramatic,” she said. “But, believe it or not, he ran into an incredible string of bad luck. He lost his job; he got arrested for drunk driving; the hearing in his left ear started to go; he went bald almost overnight; a strange red rash started to grow on his face.”
“I’m starting to like this voodoo woman,” Dakota said. “I might need to have a talk with her about my ex.”
“You jest,” Raven said, “but this was no laughing matter to Coburn. He actually went out and got a lawyer.”
“Who?”
“A guy by the name of T. Schiel.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’re lucky, he’s an asshole—one of those last-in-the-class P.I. attorneys with a linoleum-floored office in Wheat Ridge,” Raven said. “Anyway, he drafted a Complaint but didn’t file it. Instead, he mailed a copy to the voodoo lady with a letter that basically threatened that he would file it unless she removed the spell and coughed up some money.”
“Remove the spell?”
“Yes.”
“Weird.”
“Very,” Raven said. “Anyway, Ripley ended up with the case. He brought me into it to do research on whether any courts have acknowledged a cause of action based on a voodoo spell or a spiritual assault or anything like that.”
“I can already tell you the answer to that,” Dakota said.
“And you’re right, too,” Raven said. “Amazingly, three or four cases like that were actually filed. Various theories of relief were asserted—negligence, assault and battery, outrageous conduct, invasion of privacy, and others that I can’t think of right now. In each case, the trial court dismissed the action for lack of a cognizable claim.”
“That just goes to show you,” Dakota said.
“Show me what?”
“That even judges can get it right sometimes.”
Raven chuckled.
“SO, I DID THE RESEARCH AND GAVE IT TO RIPLEY,” she said. “I didn’t hear much more about it after that, other than an occasional comment from Ripley that the parties were exploring settlement.”
“Settlement?”
Raven nodded.
“Apparently this voodoo woman didn’t want to go to court, no matter what,” she said. “Anyway, time passed and then one day Ripley told me that the case settled. He said our client formally denied that she put a spell on Coburn but agreed to pay him $5,000. The agreement had a confidentiality clause. Here’s the weird part—she also agreed to counter the spell that had been put on him.”
“You’re kidding.”
No.
She wasn’t.
“So who was this woman?”
Raven shrugged. “I don’t know. Ripley opened the file under an alias name at her request. In fact, I don’t even know the name that he used for the alias.”
“Weird,” Dakota said. “So what happened to Coburn? Did his hair grow back?”
Raven started to answer.
BUT DAKOTA SUDDENLY TWISTED HER FACE AWAY from the front door and said, “Don’t turn around! Jeff Salter and Adam Osborne just walked in.”
Raven looked for just a heartbeat.
Dakota was right, but they hadn’t been spotted yet.
“I am so fired if they see me,” Dakota said.
Raven grabbed Dakota’s hand and pulled her into a standing position. They kept their faces pointed towards the back of the restaurant and made their way to the kitchen. They had one of the busboys get the manager, paid the check, and slipped out the back.
They hugged.
Then went separate ways.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Morning
______________
WITH A SALTWATER AQUARIUM, two pinball machines, a treadmill, a wet bar and a jaw-dropping view of the city
and the mountains, Dalton’s office wasn’t a bad place. He was reclined in a contemporary leather chair with his feet propped up when Malcolm called.
“I’m calling on behalf of G-Drop,” Malcolm said.
Dalton pulled his feet off the desk and paid attention.
This call wasn’t just important.
It was important.
Malcolm only got that tone in his voice when he wanted to be absolutely sure that the conversation remained confidential. “There are no problems, I hope,” Dalton said.
“No, no, no, dude,” Malcolm said. “Nothing like that.”
“So are you guys all set for tomorrow?” Dalton asked, referring to the Red Rocks concert—Summerfest. G-Drop was the third act.
“Absolutely, don’t sweat it,” Malcolm said. “But here’s the thing. G-Drop is in one of his moods. You were talking before about setting up a special place—”
Dalton knew what he meant.
The dungeon.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“And?”
“And, it’s set up.”
“Nice,” Malcolm said. “G-Drop is going to be very pleased to hear that. So here’s the deal. We’re going to fly into Denver this afternoon. G-Drop would like to do a session tonight—let’s say seven o’clock. Can you get a woman?”
“No problem.”
“She needs to be tied down and blindfolded when G-Drop shows up. Stretch her out on a rack. Have you got one of those?”
“Yes.”
“The blindfold is the important thing,” Malcolm said. “It needs to be solid and needs to be something that isn’t going to fall off. She can’t know who she’s having the session with.”
“Understood.”
“Obviously, you’re not going to say anything to tip her off.”
“You know I can be trusted,” Dalton said. “We’re way past that.”
“Yes we are,” Malcolm said. “I’m just reminding you. Be sure the woman is drop-dead gorgeous.”