Client Trap (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  She might know his name.

  She might tell the cops.

  They might show up at his loft.

  Game over.

  Even if the woman hadn’t spotted his wallet, she would know about the machine shop. The cops could trace ownership to Dalton with about three strokes of a keyboard.

  Either way he was screwed.

  What he needed to know now, more than anything, is whether the cops were on to him. If they were, he needed to drop off the face of the earth, immediately and forever.

  Get out of Denver.

  Cut his hair.

  Disappear.

  So, at two in the morning, he parked in the deepest shadows he could find and watched his loft.

  All night.

  The cops never showed.

  His name never got mentioned on the radio.

  When dawn broke, he went home, showered, and filled a suitcase with cash, credit cards, check books, computer discs and the like. The suitcase went into the back of the BMW.

  He stopped at a 7-Eleven, bought a large coffee and three bruised bananas, and drove to the machine shop to clean deeper. No cops were there. He hadn’t been inside for more than two minutes when the noise of a car engine filtered through the front door.

  He ran to a window and looked out.

  It was a black Lexus.

  Malcolm.

  All six-foot-five of him.

  THE MAN STEPPED OUT WITH A WEAPON in his right hand and trotted towards the front door. Three seconds later, he stuck the gun in Dalton’s face.

  “Where the hell is he?”

  He referred to G-Drop.

  Dalton put on his most confused face. “I have no idea,” he said.

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “He’s gone and the woman’s gone,” Dalton said. “If he killed her, I’m going to personally hunt him down and stop his heart. And if you helped dump her body, you’re going to get the same thing.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Dalton pushed the man’s arm down so that the gun pointed towards the floor. Then he stepped closer, narrowed his eyes and said, “Was he jacked up?”

  “Aw, man—”

  “I said, was he jacked up?”

  “I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “Maybe a little—”

  “A little my ass,” Dalton said. “I’ll bet dollars to pennies that he was jacked up; he went too far; she ended up dead; and then you and him dumped her somewhere. Now you show up pretending to not know anything, to see if I’m stupid enough to fall for it. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “I didn’t help nobody do nothing,” Malcolm said.

  “Well something sure as hell happened.”

  Malcolm looked confused.

  “I don’t know, man,” he said. “Maybe they called a cab and went to a hotel.”

  MALCOLM GAVE HIM A WEIRD LOOK and said, “I found a woman in the dumpster out back.”

  An image suddenly sprang into Dalton’s brain.

  An image of Malcolm showing up sometime last night to look for G-Drop; an image of him circling around the outside of the building, calling out; an image of Lindsay Vail hearing his voice and shouting for him to save her; an image of Malcolm pulling her out and sticking her in his car; an image of Malcolm interrogating her somewhere and getting the story.

  Dalton should have gagged her.

  “Where is she?”

  “I’m not telling you nothing until you tell me what you’re doing with her.”

  “Don’t get in the middle of it,” Dalton said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the middle is a dangerous place.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Day Three—July 14

  Wednesday Morning

  ______________

  ELEVATORS ALMOST ALWAYS CLOSED IN on Teffinger; rooms usually didn’t. But every once in a while, even a good-sized room was too small—the ceiling was too low; the walls were too close; the interior was too cluttered; there weren’t enough windows.

  The space was suddenly a cell.

  Teffinger never knew what brought it on.

  He suspected stress.

  But he didn’t really care to delve into the psychobabble since there was nothing he could do about it anyway, except get the hell out when it happened. That’s what he was doing late Wednesday morning—getting out of homicide, taking a quick stroll down Cherokee, able to breathe again under a wide Colorado sky, hoping that whatever it was that forced him out here would self-regulate and let him get back to work.

  Stress.

  He had to admit that Venzelle was right in that he hadn’t reacted enough to the fact that someone tried to kill him. Maybe the stress was there, running silent and deep, compressing the walls. Maybe he was affected more than he realized. Maybe he was just as mortal and frail as everybody else.

  He chuckled.

  No, that couldn’t be it.

  But the question remained—Who tried to kill him?

  And why?

  HE LOOPED OVER TO SPEER BOULEVARD and walked on the pathway next to the river. The water was slow and only waist deep, thanks to too many days in the upper-90s. Homeless guys slept wherever they could find shade, with their precious shopping carts at their sides.

  They looked dead.

  Even to Teffinger’s trained eyes.

  But they weren’t.

  They could jump up as if they’d been stuck with a cattle prod if someone tried to make off with their cart. Once or twice a year a teenager tried to do that, just for kicks, and found out the hard way.

  Someone had tried to kill Teffinger.

  And missed.

  But did kill the windshield of the ’67. The replacement would need to have the original 1967 insignia in the corner, which would be pricey. Plus it would be tricky to install on account of the aluminum trim, which would end up bent unless someone really knew what they were doing.

  HE TOOK A GLANCE OVER HIS SHOULDER.

  And saw something he didn’t expect.

  An exotic black woman walking thirty steps behind.

  Her 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 searched his memory.

  And got nothing.

  Come on, think.

  More nothing.

  Then it came to him.

  She was the same woman from the Chatfield beach, the one who looked so out of place. He stopped, turned and waited for her. She looked directly into his eyes. Then turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  As soon as she did, Teffinger knew.

  She was the one who tried to kill him.

  And he ran after her.

  WHEN SHE LOOKED OVER HER SHOULDER and saw Teffinger running, she immediately broke into a dash, but her skirt was tight. With each step Teffinger closed more of the gap. Then something happened that he didn’t expect. The woman hiked up her skirt, all the way to her waist, and freed her legs. She had a sprinter’s ass and muscular thighs. At first she appeared naked, but then a white thong showed.

  She was quick.

  And began to pull away.

  Teffinger raised his knees higher, forcing his body to pick up speed.

  “Stop!”

  She looked over her shoulder and shouted, “Rape!”

  Teffinger looked around to see if anyone heard. A couple of bums brought groggy heads off the ground, wondering what the hollering was about.

  “Stop!”

  She didn’t.

  But Teffinger was closing the gap now.

  Not by much.

  But definitely some.

  His lungs burned.

  His legs ached.

  He didn’t care.

  When he was two steps away from tackling her, she twisted to the right, bounded down the embankment and splashed into the r
iver. Her purse flopped wildly and she lifted her feet high to get through the water.

  There was no walkway on the other side. Instead, a steep embankment climbed out of the river, immediately followed by a six-foot concrete retaining wall.

  She was trapped.

  He had her.

  HE STEPPED INTO THE WATER. Halfway across, something whizzed through the air. The back of his skull suddenly exploded in pain.

  A terrible pain.

  He turned and saw a homeless guy still coiled from throwing something.

  A rock.

  Colors flashed.

  And he fell backwards into the river.

  Cold water rushed into his ears and nose. It blinded his eyes and compressed his chest. His weapon and clothes turned to lead and pulled him to the bottom.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Day Three—July 14

  Wednesday Morning

  ______________

  BACK AT THE SAILBOAT, Raven hole-punched the Ink Spot receipts, put them in notebooks, and Bates-stamped the bottoms—starting with 0001 and ending with 1139. Then, one by one, she began the arduous task of alphabetically inputting the names, and their corresponding Bates numbers, into an Excel spreadsheet. That way she’d have something electronic and searchable, so if “John Doe” became a name of interest for some reason, she’d be able to immediately tell if he’d gotten a tattoo at the Ink Spot. That’s what she was doing late morning when her cell rang and Dakota Van Vleck’s voice came through.

  She sounded excited.

  “I think Ripley’s murder had something to do with voodoo,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because there are too many connections,” she said. “First, you and Ripley had that voodoo case together and, like you said, he got into it way deeper than he should have. Then the plaintiff and his attorney both died within 24 hours of each other. One was clearly murdered, stabbed in the back to be precise. The other one, the one who ran into the telephone pole in the storm, could have done it by accident but could have been run off the road, too. Now Ripley’s dead; and we have a rumor going around that there was a voodoo doll in his house. Everywhere I turn, there’s voodoo.”

  True.

  Raven couldn’t disagree.

  There were more connections than there should be.

  “Here’s the kicker, though,” Dakota said. “I think Jeff Salter’s mixed up in it somehow. That’s the reason I’m calling you. I don’t know who else to talk to.”

  RAVEN STOOD UP. Seven or eight geese spotted her and paddled over, looking for a handout. She ignored them.

  “What makes you think Salter’s involved?”

  “I went to him this morning and told him about all these connections,” Dakota said. “I said that we should give them to the police so they can run them down. He said no.”

  “Why?”

  “He said all our information comes from representation of our client and is covered by the attorney-client privilege,” Dakota said. “Because of that, we’re not at liberty to disclose it to anyone, even the cops, and even for a good cause.”

  Raven didn’t hesitate.

  Because Salter was right.

  Dead right.

  “He’s exactly right,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Dakota said. “That’s not why I think he’s involved. The reason I think he’s involved is because of the look he had in his eyes.”

  Raven pictured it.

  And knew the look.

  But wasn’t impressed.

  “If that’s all you got, you got nothing,” she said.

  Silence.

  “I WANT YOU TO BE MY LAWYER ON THIS,” Dakota said.

  Raven chuckled and said, “Your lawyer on what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to sniff around,” Dakota said. “If I find something, I’m either going to confront Salter directly or bring his involvement to the attention of the steering committee. If I get fired, I’m going to want your opinion as to whether I have a legal claim against the law firm—for retaliation, or being a whistleblower, or whatever. If I do, I’m going to sue.”

  Raven pictured it.

  Suing Salter.

  And Radcliffe & Snow, LLC.

  For a brief second, she saw herself at the podium giving an opening statement; and saw Salter squirming at the defendant’s table, feeling the sting of her every word and not being able to do a thing about it.

  It would be sweet revenge for the way they fired her.

  Unjustly fired her.

  But it would also be a bare-knuckles fistfight.

  Nasty, nasty litigation.

  The kind that could do her in—financially and emotionally.

  “Plus,” Dakota added, “I need what we talk about to be confidential, just to be sure that I don’t get myself into a position of slander or breach a fiduciary duty or something. The last thing I need is for them to actually have a reason to fire me. So, with that said, what do you charge?”

  Raven grinned.

  “For you? Lunch—”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “There’s a conflict of interest issue.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re an opposing counsel,” Raven said.

  “Not directly anymore. Remember, Osborne kicked me off the case.”

  “I appreciate that,” Raven said, “but you’re still in the opposing law firm. The only way I can represent you is if I disclose the potential conflict to my client and she waives it.”

  “Fine,” Dakota said. “Talk to her, then.”

  Raven thought about it.

  “I don’t have anyone else who I can really trust,” Dakota added. “Or anyone else who knows what this firm is really capable of.”

  “I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no. Let me think about it,” Raven said. “In the meantime, I suppose that what we talked about just now is confidential, since it’s in the context of you asking me to be your lawyer.”

  “Good,” Dakota said. “That’ll help me sleep better.”

  “If you really want to sleep better, just drop the whole thing. In fact, that’s what I recommend you do, even if you don’t want to sleep better.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Day Three—July 14

  Wednesday Morning

  ______________

  DALTON STARED AT MALCOLM’S FACE and tried to decide whether to kill him or not, right here in the machine shop, right now, with his bare hands. If he did, he might never figure out where the man stashed Lindsay Vail. But if he didn’t, Malcolm would be a loose cannon in his life, forever.

  The pressure of G-Drop’s death would start in mere hours.

  When he mysteriously didn’t show up for the concert.

  The press would be all over it, especially as time went on and no one heard from him. Everyone in the world would be trying to get face time with G-Drop’s good buddy, Malcolm.

  Cops.

  Journalists.

  Hip-hoppers.

  Malcolm wasn’t the smartest person in the world. Sooner or later he’d say something stupid, something that implicated Dalton, even if he didn’t want to. Either that or he’d resort to blackmail.

  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 M
alcolm 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.”