by R. J. Jagger
“There are rumors about him,” Tammy said.
“What kind of rumors?”
A pause.
“Not over the phone,” she said. “Avoid him.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m just emphasizing it. You need to be working with Maggie Bender. I’ll call her and have her contact you.”
“Who’s Maggie Bender?”
“She heads up missing persons, born and raised in New Orleans.” Tammy said. “She’s a good woman. You can trust her.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, MAGGIE BENDER CALLED. Based on her voice, Teffinger pictured her as black, sixty and southern through and through. Within two minutes he knew she was a competent detective and, more importantly, she didn’t tell him to get out of New Orleans. He gave her a detailed explanation of everything he’d found out so far.
“The BOLO’s going out right now,” she said. “If we get any hits, I’ll let you know.”
“Right away?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
There.
Done.
At least the cops were on the lookout for Venzelle’s car now.
Up ahead, a homeless woman sat on the sidewalk, leaning against a building with her legs stretched out. Her ankle-length dress was tattered, her hair was oily and her hands had lots of veins.
Teffinger pulled his wallet out.
And put a $10 bill in her hand.
She looked at it to see the denomination, clenched her fingers around it when she saw what it was, and then pointed her face up and smiled.
Half her teeth were gone.
“God bless you,” she said.
“You too.”
He took five steps, turned around and gave her another ten.
Then he headed back to Venzelle’s hotel.
ON THE WAY, HE CALLED SYDNEY and explained what was going on. He gave her the number of Venzelle’s VISA card—the one she used for the hotel and the rental yesterday—and said, “I want to know every purchase she’s made in the last 24 hours and I want instant notification if it’s used again. Can you do that?”
Absolutely.
Right away.
“I think I should come down there,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because right now, the only thing Lindsay Vail has going for her is you,” he said. “It’s bad enough that I abandoned her. What’s going on with her, anyway?”
“Nothing new.”
“Shake the trees,” he said. “Make something fall out.”
Silence.
Teffinger could read her mind.
“I know it’s been a long time,” he said, “but we need to proceed as if she’s still alive.”
“But if you’re right and you actually saw the pirate down there in New Orleans—well—I mean, obviously the guy didn’t bring her with him—”
Teffinger frowned.
“First, I’m not positive if it was him or not. Second, her body hasn’t shown up anywhere. Right?”
“Right—”
“So shake the trees.”
He was hanging up when he heard, “You still there?”
He was.
“Did you check those airline manifests I emailed you?”
Yes.
Nothing stood out.
“Well, I’m sending you some more.”
Good.
Thanks.
“We’re still running down the names on our end, but it’s slow going. Did you hear about our new case?”
No.
“It’s the rapper, G-Drop, who didn’t show up for a concert at Red Rocks on Wednesday night,” Sydney said. “Double-F himself opened the file—a Missing Person Report, technically; except everyone knows the guy’s dead. Everyone’s walking on eggshells to be sure nothing gets screwed up. CNN’s practically living down here.”
Teffinger didn’t know that.
He hadn’t been watching the news.
“Well, have fun.”
BACK AT THE HOTEL, he took the stairs to the 10th Floor, went into Venzelle’s room—1014—and found it as he left it. He searched it again, discovered nothing of interest again, and plopped down on the bed.
Now what?
He closed his eyes.
The caffeine spun his brain and shook his fingertips.
A dark feeling washed over him, a feeling of death.
Who did it belong to?
Lindsay Vail?
Venzelle?
Him?
The room was empty without Venzelle.
In fact, the whole world was empty.
The silence made him realize that he needed to tell her something—something he should have told her before when he had the chance.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Day Five—July 16
Friday Noon
______________
RAVEN WAS IN THE DENVER PUBLIC LIBRARY, searching through old piles of the Rocky Mountain News, when she stumbled upon an article that made her chest pound. A Boulder woman named Andrea Copperstone disappeared one night last August while taking her poodle for a walk. The dog was found the next day, two miles away, still wearing the collar and leash. The woman wasn’t found; then or since.
A photograph of the woman accompanied the article.
She was attractive.
Very attractive, in fact.
There was a tattoo on the woman’s neck, barely visible above the collar of a white blouse. Raven couldn’t tell what it depicted, nor did she care. The important thing is that it was on the woman’s neck, meaning she was hardcore.
Maybe hardcore enough to work in a tattoo shop.
Maybe she tattooed the pirate—Robert.
Like Lindsay Vail did.
And Dawn Hooker.
She called Dawn Hooker and asked if she knew Andrea Copperstone.
She didn’t.
She called Joe Cotter at the Ink Spot.
He never heard of her either.
Then she fired up the Gateway and Googled the woman.
She got no hits.
She checked the phone book to get her address.
There was no listing.
Dead end.
SUDDENLY HER CELL PHONE RANG and Dakota’s voice came through. “Can you meet?”
“Why, what’s up? You sound weird—”
“I am weird.”
They met for lunch at the Supreme Court Café and Nightclub on the 16th Street Mall, a short walk from the library. Dakota, as always, was dressed to the nines; a combination of money, class and expensive fragrances.
She looked excited.
They ordered shrimp salads and then Dakota got to the point. “The very fact that Salter called you this morning means he has something to hide,” she said.
Raven took a sip of iced tea and nodded.
“Agreed.”
“I’m pretty sure he killed Whitney White,” Dakota said. “They were sleeping together and then something went wrong. Exactly what, I don’t know. Something that made him need to shut her up.”
Raven shrugged.
They’d already had this discussion.
“Could be,” she said.
“NOW I’M THINKING SOMETHING ELSE, TOO,” Dakota said. The tone in her voice made Raven pay attention.
“Like what?”
“I think he also killed Ryan Ripley,” Dakota said.
The words were so unexpected that Raven held the iced tea in her mouth for a second before swallowing.
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet,” Dakota said.
“Well that’s a pretty wild conclusion, based on nothing to support it.”
Dakota shrugged.
“I wouldn’t say nothing. Rumors are floating around the firm that this wasn’t Ripley’s first trip down to the blowjob alleys,” she said. “The word is that he’d been doing it for some time. Salter apparently knew about it and rebuffed Ripley on a number of occasions to get him to
stop before he got his picture in the paper and embarrassed the firm.”
“Who said that?”
“It’s just gossip,” Dakota said. “But here’s the important part. Jeff Salter knew that Ripley would be down there again, sooner or later. Now, if you were Salter, and wanted to kill Ripley, what would be the perfect murder?”
Raven cocked her head.
“So, what you’re saying, if I understand you, is that Salter followed Ripley to the alley and then stabbed him in the back so it would look like some lowlife did it,” Raven said.
Dakota twinkled her eyes and nodded.
“It’s perfect,” Dakota said. “He takes Ripley’s wallet and Rolex to make it look like a robbery. No one in the world would ever suspect him.”
Raven wasn’t impressed.
Dakota must have read the doubt on her face, because she added, “Salter is one of the few people in the world smart enough to put a plan like that together. And he’s gutsy enough to do it.”
Their salads arrived.
Raven dug in, suddenly starved.
Then she said, “So what’s his motive? Why in the world would Salter go to all that trouble and risk to kill Ripley?”
“I don’t know,” Dakota said. “That’s what we need to find out.”
RAVEN TILTED HER HEAD. “Dakota, I love you darling, you know that,” she said. “But I’m really starting to worry about you. You keep coming up with these extreme theories based on nothing. I’m worried that you’re turning yourself into a crime junkie or something.”
She expected Dakota to back down but she didn’t.
“I’ll admit that they’re extreme theories,” she said. “But we also have lots of extreme stuff going on. Whitney White is dead. So is Ryan Ripley. So something’s going on. And like I said before, the very fact that Salter called you this morning to get me to back off means he’s in it up to his eyeballs.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Dakota speared a shrimp with her fork, brought it to her mouth and pulled it off with her teeth.
“When Ripley went into the alley, he was obviously going in to get serviced—say, to get a blowjob,” Dakota said. “Now, if I’m going to stab someone in the back in an alley, and I knew he went in there to get a blowjob, I’d wait until he was totally distracted, meaning in the middle of it. Then I’d sneak up from behind and do it. Does that make sense?”
Raven shrugged.
It did, as far as that part of it went.
“That means there was someone else there at the time, namely the person who was sucking Ripley’s dick.”
True.
“She must have seen Salter’s face.”
“Maybe,” Raven said. “But if it was Salter, like you say, he might have worn a mask.”
“That’s right, we don’t know one way or the other,” Dakota said. “But what we do know is this—we need to find this little blowjob girl and talk to her.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to start tonight, down on Colfax,” Dakota said. “You want to come?”
Chapter Eighty-Five
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
DALTON WALKED OUT OF THE GREYHOUND bus station with a one-way ticket to Baton Rouge in hand. Under a muggy Louisiana sky, he hiked back to his car a block down the street and handed the ticket to the man sitting in the passenger seat—Robert, the pirate.
“It leaves in thirty minutes.”
The pirate examined the ticket and checked his watch.
“Thanks,” he said.
The plan was simple.
With Robert’s face all over the news, New Orleans was too hot. Now that Dalton was here, they didn’t need the pirate. So he would take a bus to Baton Rouge and fly to Denver from there. He’d kill Lindsay Vail, who absolutely, positively needed to die, since she’d seen Dalton’s face.
Dalton reminded him again where the key to the machine shop was stashed—ten paces to the right of the front door, under a rock.
“Be sure you clean up the blood,” he said. “If I were you, I’d dump her where she’ll never be found. Up in the mountains somewhere is your best bet. Put a lot of rocks on her. Otherwise the animals will dig her up and a hunter will end up stumbling on her.”
The pirate chuckled.
“You act like this is my first time.”
HE PULLED OUT THE MAP THAT DALTON DREW FOR HIM; the map to Dawn Hooker’s house; the 5-acre horse property off Highway 93, north of Golden. He studied it and said, “So three Harley guys live there with her, huh?”
Dalton nodded.
“Yeah. Why don’t you just blow her off? I mean, your face is already all over Denver. You should just slip in, do Lindsay Vail, and then head to L.A. or somewhere. Kick back and hit the strip clubs and the beach. ”
The pirate chewed on it.
“Can’t,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it for too long. The Harley guys weren’t wearing colors, right?”
Dalton shook his head.
“Not that I saw.”
“Because I’d rather have cops chasing me than Hell’s Angels.”
Understood.
The pirate looked at his watch.
Game time.
He slapped Dalton on the back and said, “Thanks for checking her out. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Dalton said. “Oh, she has a dog, too. Did I mention that?”
No.
He didn’t.
They hugged.
Then the pirate slipped on sunglasses and headed for the bus station carrying a black nylon bag in one hand and the ticket in the other.
Dalton leaned out the window and shouted, “Good luck.”
“You too.”
“See you in hell.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER WAS WALKING OUT of Venzelle’s hotel when Sydney Heatherwood called and said, “We found someone on one of the airline manifests who fits the profile of the woman trying to kill you. She’s black, younger and good-looking. Her name is Kristen Starkell. Does that name ring a bell?”
Teffinger searched his memory.
The name didn’t pop up.
He dug deeper.
Again, nothing.
“No.”
“I’m going to send her photo to your phone,” she said. “Call me back and let me know if it’s her.”
Teffinger hung up.
Ten seconds later the photo arrived.
He studied it and swallowed.
Then he dialed Sydney and said, “I’m pretty sure that’s her. What do we know about her?”
“Hardly anything yet, other than she flew to New Orleans this morning.”
“So she’s here now?”
“Yes. Any sign of Venzelle?”
No.
Not a one.
“I’ll let you know what I find out on your new friend.”
TEFFINGER ALMOST HUNG UP.
“Hey? You still there?”
She was.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Venzelle has three or four credit cards, but the only one we have the account number on is the one she used for the hotel and the car rental last night. Go to my house. The key to the front door is taped under the electrical panel on the east side of the house. There’s a box of papers that Venzelle set in the spare bedroom. I’m pretty sure there are bank statements and financial stuff in there. See if you can find out what other credit cards she had and then get in touch with those companies too. If any of them are used, I want to know about it immediately.”
“What do you want me to do first? That or run down Kristen Starkell’s background?”
“That.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t look under my mattress,” Teffinger said.
�
��Why not?”
“Just don’t do it.”
AN HOUR LATER, Sydney called back, very excited. “I found something I didn’t expect,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Venzelle has five other credit cards in addition to the one we knew about,” she said. “Someone made the rounds at several banks in New Orleans yesterday afternoon, drawing cash against them. Guess how much—”
He didn’t know.
“Fifty thousand dollars, total.”
“You’re kidding.”
She wasn’t.
“Did someone steal them?”
“I haven’t had a chance to run that down,” she said. “But I’m assuming she was the one who got the money. All the cash came over the counter as opposed to ATMs. Banks would want some type of identification before handing over that much green.”
True.
“So what the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Sydney said. “But something, that’s for sure. Hey, I looked under your mattress. There was nothing there.”
He chuckled.
“Got you,” he said.
“Yes I did. I suppose you’re all proud of yourself.”
“Yes I am.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
THE BLOWJOB ALLEY was up Colfax, a few blocks north of Capitol Hill, less than a twenty-minute walk. Instead of heading back to the library after lunch, Raven walked up Broadway and turned north on Colfax, drawn to the alley.
It always surprised her how edgy the city felt just a few blocks off the beaten path.
This time was no different.
A storefront jammed with comic books and posters attracted her eye across the street. It looked like something straight out of the sixties.
She picked her way through traffic and went over to see if the inside was as cluttered as she pictured.
It was, even more so.
It didn’t look like the owners had thrown anything away in twenty years. The aisles were jammed with an eclectic mix of old vinyl albums, cassettes, posters, pot paraphernalia, tie-dye shirts, beads and you-name-it.
The guy behind the counter was stuck in the sixties, right down to the bandanna, long hair and Doors T-shirt. An old Turtles song—“So Happy Together”—came from the speakers. Incense wove through the air.
