Client Trap (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
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“I already have someone in mind.”
AFTER THE CALL, Dalton walked over to the aquarium and sprinkled shrimp on the surface as he dialed Samantha Dent. She answered on the second ring.
“How would you like to make some insane money tonight?”
She would, very much so.
“Let me finish before you say yes,” he added.
Then he explained the nature of the session.
“So how crazy is this guy going to get?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I do know that he’ll pay in accordance with whatever it is he does,” Dalton said. “If he demands a lot, he’ll pay a lot. He can’t afford not to, quite frankly.”
“Will you be there?”
“No, it’ll be just you and him,” Dalton said.
She hesitated.
“Will you tell me who he was, afterwards?”
“No.”
“Not even if he gets off-the-hook?”
“No,” Dalton said. “If something weird happens, he’ll have to make it good to you, both to your satisfaction and mine. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“No, I have to. I have bills sitting on the counter.”
“I’ll pick you up at six,” Dalton said. “You’ll need to wear a blindfold in the car.”
“I can’t even know where it’s at?”
“No.”
“This guy must be huge,” she said.
“He’s paying big bucks,” Dalton said. “Be sure he gets his money’s worth. My reputation is on the line.”
Silence.
Then Samantha said, “If he kills me, will you kill him back?”
Dalton laughed.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. But if he does, will you?”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“I said, sure.”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
“And hope to die?”
“And hope to die.”
AFTER HE HUNG UP, Dalton walked over to the pinball machine and put a ball in play.
His flipper action was off.
He knew why.
He was nervous.
He needed to get Lindsay Vail into the mountains.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
WITH A CUP OF COFFEE IN HAND, Teffinger walked down to the office of Todd Rice, the head of the vice unit, and closed the door. Rice looked up from a pile of papers, took his reading glasses off and said, “This can’t be good.”
“You still got that boat of yours?” Teffinger asked.
Rice wrinkled his 52-year-old forehead and said, “The last time you came in here, it was to tell me that you were stealing Sydney.”
True.
Teffinger talked Sydney into leaving vice and joining homicide.
But that was a year ago.
More, even.
“You still mad about that?” Teffinger asked.
“Maybe,” Rice said. “Give her back and we’ll call it even.”
Teffinger chuckled.
“I’d rather have you mad.”
Rice cocked his head. “So what’s going on?”
“You still got that boat of yours?”
“Maybe.”
“Is it still slipped out at Chatfield?”
“Maybe,” Rice said. “Why?”
It took five minutes, but Teffinger talked Rice into letting him use his boat—a 270 Searay—as a base to stakeout Raven Lee, with one very important condition. “I don’t want anyone using the head,” Rice said. “If someone has to go, either do it in the lake or take a hike to the restroom.”
Teffinger pictured the hike over to the south loading ramp, bout two hundred yards.
“I’m serious,” Rice added.
“That’s going to be hard to enforce,” Teffinger said.
“Then you need to pump it out,” Rice said.
Teffinger thought about it.
He stood up, headed for the door and said, “I’ll be sure no one uses it. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“One?”
Teffinger chuckled.
“Thanks again.”
HE CALLED VENZELLE and found that she was in the middle of a photo shoot with Geneva Vellone for billboards that would go up around the city.
“When this is done, I’m going to buy a gun,” she said.
What?
Why?
“To protect you,” she said.
Teffinger chuckled.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“There’s the problem, right there,” she said. “You’re not taking this whole thing seriously. Someone tried to kill you last night and you’re walking around today like nothing happened.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
A pause on the other end.
“If this guy shows up again, I’m not going to be standing there with my mouth open like some dumb bimbo,” she said. “If you have a gun you want to let me use, then fine. Otherwise I’m going to buy my own.”
Teffinger shook his head.
“Are you always this stubborn?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But I’ll let you win every once in a while, so don’t get alarmed.”
“You’ll let me win?”
“Right.”
“How generous.”
She laughed. “The camera guy is waving for me to come over and shake my ass. So, should I go shopping for a gun or do you have one you want to give me?”
AFTER CHANGING INTO A T-SHIRT, sunglasses and a baseball cap—looking as Jimmy Buffet as he could—Teffinger got the Chatfield Marina gate code from a slip renter, and walked on wooden planks to P-Dock where Rice’s boat was moored. He found it in P-2, which was at the corner of the marina, with a great view of the lake and the dam—and, better yet, a straight visual shot to the end of D-Dock, where a large wooden sailboat was tied.
Raven Lee’s law office.
The sky was blue and friendly.
The sun felt perfect on his face.
The interior of the Searay, by contrast, wasn’t much cooler than the surface of the sun. He took off the black camper canvas, except for the top, and let the cool lake breeze work its magic. Every bug in the world had come there to die. He wiped the interior down with a wet sponge, keeping an eye on the sailboat.
He saw no movement.
The door to the cabin was shut.
If someone was there, it would be open.
He headed over to take a look.
ON THE WAY HE SPOTTED A BLACK WOMAN strolling on the sand on the other side of the no-wake zone about fifty yards away. She had long, panther-black hair and a strong, athletic walk. Even from this distance, she looked like someone Teffinger wouldn’t mind knowing.
She wore street clothes.
And looked out of place.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
RIPLEY’S MURDER TROUBLED RAVEN. Sure, the man was an ass—as big if not a bigger one than Adam Osborne—and because of that alone, he could do or say something to provoke a bad reaction from a stranger; even a deadly reaction.
But he was smart, too.
Smart enough to know he was an ass and had to watch himself. It would be rational to view his murder as nothing more than one of those stray, random things. It would be equally as rational to view it as the end result of something more sinister.
The man was obnoxious.
And powerful.
And rich.
And a lawyer.
Which meant he had enemies.
Well-earned enemies.
After lunch, Raven grabbed her laptop out of the 4Runner, found an empty bench on the shady side of the 16th Street Mall, and used her wireless to log on to the net.
The city throbbed around her.
And city smells.
And city vibrations.
She didn’t realize until now just how much she missed it. She was supposed to be downtown every day, a senior associate at this point, an important person and an accomplished attorney.
Oh, well.
She Googled Ripley but didn’t pull up a single thing about his death other than a few short articles.
SHE CLOSED THE COMPUTER, called Erin and got informed that nothing unusual had happened so far today, at least that she was aware of.
“When are you leaving work?” Raven asked.
“I don’t know, five or so.”
“Where are you parked?”
“Broadway and 20th.”
“Do this,” Raven said. “Leave at exactly 5:10. I’m going to follow you from a distance and see if I can spot anyone else doing the same thing.”
“That’ll be hard,” Erin said. “There’ll be a million people.”
“Take a zigzag path to your car. Stop somewhere for five minutes and buy something.”
“Okay.”
“When you get to your car, pretend you have engine problems,” Raven said. “Open the hood and stick your head in like you’re trying to figure out what’s wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because if the guy’s around, he’ll probably hang out and watch. That’ll make him easier to spot; he’ll be the one who isn’t moving.”
“What are you going to do if you find him?”
“Follow him and see if he leads me to a car,” Raven said. “All we need is a license plate number.”
A pause.
“Be careful,” Erin said. “I don’t want you on this guy’s radar screen.”
Raven chuckled.
“We might get to the point where we need to get me on there on purpose.”
Huh?
Erin didn’t understand.
What was that supposed to mean?
“What I mean is, after last night, you’re fairly tainted as far as bait goes. That means we need fresh bait.”
“You mean you?”
Right.
That’s exactly what she meant.
“No way,” Erin said. “I won’t let you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
AMY WHITEBERRY, THE OWNER of Savant—an insanely successful contemporary art gallery on Wazee—called Dalton mid-afternoon, looking for a new cocaine supplier.
“What’s wrong with Jenkins?”
“He’s getting unreliable,” she said. “Half the time he doesn’t even answer the phone. I’m ready to strangle him.”
Dalton heard that same thing last week.
Too bad.
“Okay,” he said. “Got a pencil?”
She did.
He gave her a name and number.
Savant could hold three hundred people. For a split second, Dalton thought about renting it for tomorrow’s party, but decided just as quickly that it would be too much hassle to bring in seating. Plus, the artwork would get jacked up and no one would want to open their wallet to un-jack it.
“Stop by some time,” Amy said.
“Will do.”
“I’ll give you a private showing,” she added.
He chuckled.
“I might just take you up on that.”
“I’ll save the best piece in here for you.”
He grinned and said, “You’re too much.”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Dalton called his contact at B.T.’s, a free-spirited strip club on the south edge of Denver renowned for wild nights, a dance floor, and strippers who liked to get up-close-and-personal.
Not just friendly.
Very friendly.
In-your-face friendly.
B.T.’s had an upper level that looked down over the main floor and could hold three hundred people easily. It also had a separate VIP room up there, in case anyone needed even more privacy. Dalton negotiated a deal to rent the upper level for the party.
The rest was easy.
One call took care of bartenders, who held their own liquor licenses and would bring all the booze. There would be an open bar plus drink tables, meaning full bottles, mix, ice and glasses. Since the alcohol was free to everyone at the party, they didn’t have to worry about liquor curfews. They could party till morning if they wanted.
Another call got a DJ.
Another got four limos on standby outside the club, to get people safely to their hotels after they got jacked up.
Another got security.
Another got catering.
They would stock three stages upstairs, each with two women at all times, with another twenty or so topless lovelies milling around in the crowd and doing whatever they were comfortable doing for whatever money they could arrange.
Good.
Done.
Now he could concentrate on Lindsay Vail.
WHEN DALTON GOT TO THE MACHINE SHOP mid-afternoon, the exterior showed no signs of activity. He unlocked the gate to the chain link fence, drove through, and relocked it behind him. He backed the vehicle as close as he could to the front door, so there’d be minimum exposure when he carried the woman out and put her in the trunk.
He killed the engine and stepped outside.
It was hot—95 at least.
The asphalt was slightly sticky. The only clouds hung over the mountains and even they were mere wisps.
He put the woman in the trunk.
And headed west.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Day Two—July 13
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
THE CABIN DOOR OF RAVEN LEE’S SAILBOAT was locked. Teffinger gave the vessel an inconspicuous once-over and detected nothing out of the ordinary. The windows had curtains. A red 5-hp Honda generator was strapped to the deck near the mast.
The sun beat down.
Hot.
Back at the 270 Searay, he was surprised to find a strange woman on board, about thirty with thick brown hair, in the process of unbuttoning her blouse. She looked at him as he stepped onto the swim platform and said, “You must be Nick Teffinger.”
He nodded.
“Guilty.”
She shook his hand, said “I’m Amanda Fox but my friends call me Coyote,” and continued to unbutton her blouse. “I have to warn you, I’m new to vice. This is my first assignment.”
She pulled her blouse off to reveal a bikini top.
Pink.
Complementing a deep tan.
“I assume that the sailboat you were just checking out is our target,” she added.
“It is.”
They talked about the assignment. She would photograph everyone who came to the sailboat and log the times. If the pirate showed up—the guy with the forehead scar—she would call Teffinger immediately and not try to apprehend him herself.
She’d sleep there tonight.
“By the way, sorry to hear about the Corvette,” she said.
Teffinger cocked his head.
“How do you know about that?”
She laughed.
“I know a lot more than that, starting this morning,” she said. “And so does the rest of Denver.”
Teffinger swallowed.
“Venzelle Oceana?” he asked.
Coyote nodded.
“The woman’s a firecracker. Do you think you can handle her?”
Good question.
Very good question.
TEN MINUTES LATER, as Teffinger was driving out of the park, the subject of that very good question called and said, “The shoot’s over and I’m a walking zombie. I need to get to bed early tonight—by eight or eight-thirty.”
“No problem,” he said.
“That means I need to start seeing you now to get my proper fix for the day,” she said.
“I’m working.”
“Come on,” she said. “It’s the le
ast you can do after I made you famous this morning. Let me tag along. What are you doing, anyway?”
He told her.
He was headed to the house of the dead lawyer, Ryan Ripley, to have a closer look around. He was particularly interested in seeing if any more voodoo dolls popped up.
“So let me come with you,” she said.
He considered it.
“If I say okay, will you behave yourself?”
She chuckled.
“What do you think?”
“I think not.”
RIPLEY’S HOUSE APPEARED TO BE AS TEFFINGER LEFT IT, with no signs that anyone had entered or broken in. Before, he primarily concentrated on the office. Now he wanted to search the nooks and crannies.
“So what are we looking for, besides voodoo dolls?” Venzelle questioned.
Teffinger shrugged.
“I never know until I find it.”
She made a sour face.
“Really,” he said. “Someone killed him and I’m getting less and less convinced that it was a hooker or a thief. That means someone went to an awful lot of trouble to plan the whole thing. No one goes to that much trouble unless they have a lot of motive. That’s what we’re looking for—the motive.”
Wearing gloves, they worked one room at a time, searching it thoroughly but leaving it as intact and original as possible.
More than an hour into it, they found something underneath the bed in the spare bedroom. Teffinger got down on the carpet, stretched his arm all the way in and barely managed to grab it.
A voodoo doll.
He let it lie on the carpet and studied it.
Unlike the prior one that was relatively intact except for the needle in the left eye, this doll was sliced all over with a razorblade or something of similar sharpness. The head looked as if someone had stuck it in a flame and held it there. But the most interesting thing was the blood. It almost appeared as if someone with profusely bloody hands handled it.
“Weird.”
He looked back under the bed just to be sure he got everything. Good thing, too, because he spotted something else. He reached in and pulled out a page of a newspaper that had been folded open to an article.
An article he recognized; an article about him; with his picture, even.
The paper was covered in blood.