Client Trap (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
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“Hey there,” the man said.
“Hey there back,” Raven said. “I have a weird question for you. Do you have any phonebooks that go back a year or two or three that you haven’t thrown away?”
The man smiled.
Flashing neglected teeth.
“I got better than that.”
HE DISAPPEARED INTO THE BACK ROOM, returned with an old phone book and set it on the counter. “This is an original—repeat original—phone book from San Francisco, 1964. It has Gracie Slick’s phone number in it.” To prove it, he flipped to a page marked with a yellow Post-It and pointed.
Sure enough.
Gracie Slick.
He beamed.
“I’m impressed,” Raven said. “Is the number still good?”
The man chuckled.
“You’d be surprised how many people ask that exact same thing,” he said.
“I was joking,” Raven said.
“Oh.”
“That’s cool, but what I really need is something just a year or two old, from Denver. I’m trying to track down an old friend.”
“Hold on.”
He took Gracie Slick back into the rear room and then returned with a battered White Pages, three years old.
“Try this.”
She tried it and actually found what she hoped to find, namely an address and phone number for Andrea Copperstone, the woman with the neck tattoo who mysteriously disappeared eleven months ago. She wrote the information down, slid a $5.00 bill across the counter and said, “Thanks. You have a nice store. I’ll come back someday when I have time to look around.”
“Right on.”
“And far out.”
OUTSIDE, SHE ALMOST CONTINUED HER JOURNEY to the blowjob alley, but instead turned around and trotted to her car parked by the library on Bannock. She headed west on the 6th Avenue freeway and punched the radio buttons as she drove, actually getting a few good songs.
Van Halen’s “Panama.”
Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”
Meatloaf’s “I Won’t Do That.”
Madonna’s “Burning Up.”
She exited at Wadsworth, drove for four blocks and wound east into a modest, older neighborhood of single, detached houses nestled in mature cottonwoods, maples and ponderosas. Andrea Copperstone’s address turned out to be a humble wooden bungalow in need of a paint job, on a good-sized chunk of shady land. Raven parked in the street, walked up the gravel driveway and rang the bell.
No one answered.
Walking back to her car, she looked around for signs of life and found some. Across the street two houses down, a woman was watering the grass with a hose.
Raven put on her friendliest face and headed over.
ON THE WAY, SHE LOOKED OVER HER SHOULDER and couldn’t believe what she saw.
Coyote.
Sitting in her car.
Fifty yards down the street.
Watching her.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
WHEN DALTON GOT BACK to the French Quarter after dropping the pirate off at the bus station, James Madden wasn’t there, but someone else was—an incredibly attractive black woman, sitting on the couch. She watched him with deep, brown predator eyes as he walked in. He immediately got the feeling that she could have killed him twice before he even knew she was there.
She walked over and shook his hand.
“We finally meet,” she said.
“So who am I meeting, exactly?”
She ran a finger down his chest. “Let me ask you a question,” she said. “If you were stranded on an island, and you could have any woman in the world stranded there with you, who would it be?”
“Living or dead?”
“Either.”
“Marilyn Monroe, I guess, assuming she lived up to the hype when I actually saw her in the flesh.”
“Then Marilyn Monroe it is,” she said. “That’s what you call me until our project is over. After that, I don’t exist any more.”
“So mysterious,” Dalton said.
“It’s safer for everyone that way,” she said. “Better yet, call me Norma Jean. I like that better than Marilyn.”
Dalton did too.
“That’s fine, but on one condition,” Dalton said.
“Which is—?”
“When the project’s over, you spend a night with me on that island.”
SHE TURNED, walked towards the couch and said over her shoulder, “I don’t do white men.” Then she sat down, looked at him and added, “But in your case I’m going to make an exception. So you have a deal. Now, let me tell you about my plan to kill Teffinger.”
“A full night,” Dalton said.
She nodded.
“Of course.”
“And my rules,” Dalton added.
She chuckled.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Yes I do.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you want rules, that’s fine, but we’re going to split them. Half the night yours, and half the night mine.”
Dalton smiled.
“This is going to be fun,” he said. “Now tell me how we kill Teffinger.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
SHORTLY AFTER NOON, a fierce wind kicked up and serious black clouds rolled in. Teffinger had never been in a hurricane, but this felt like the leading edge of one. He called Venzelle’s cell phone repeatedly, but each time the power was off, meaning he couldn’t trace the location.
He didn’t have much to go on but he did know one thing, namely, Kristen Starkell—the black woman who tried to kill him in Denver—had to be working with at least one other person in New Orleans.
That’s because she wasn’t in town yesterday when Teffinger’s car got forced into a death roll and Venzelle disappeared.
The best way to find Venzelle was to find Kristen Starkell and let her lead the way. And the best way to find Kristen Starkell was for Teffinger to turn himself into a more visible target and draw her in.
That wasn’t going to happen in the middle of downtown, so he got in his car and drove to where the people were fewer and where someone tailing him might actually become detectible.
The wind shook the car.
He drove with the radio off and kept one eye in the rearview mirror.
Then his cell phone rang.
HE ANSWERED IMMEDIATELY, hoping it was Maggie Bender with news of a BOLO hit on Venzelle’s car. Instead, Sydney’s voice came through. “Tell me her credit card was used,” Teffinger said.
No.
That wasn’t why she called.
“Do you know about Venzelle’s sister?” Sydney asked.
“Her sister?”
“Right.”
“I didn’t even know she has a sister,” Teffinger said.
“She never mentioned it?”
“No, why?”
“Well, when I was going through that box at your house, there was a clipped newspaper article that caught my eye. It was about a 30-year-old woman named Zandra Oceana, from Boston. Apparently she was found dead in her house. The police were treating it as a homicide.”
“Well that’s weird,” Teffinger said.
“It really didn’t mean much to me at first,” Sydney said. “But then I got to thinking that maybe all these murder attempts aren’t directed at you at all. Maybe they’re all aimed at Venzelle. Maybe she and her sister got on someone’s wrong side. The sister got killed. Now it’s Venzelle’s turn.”
Teffinger chewed on it.
To some extent, it made sense.
The shot through the Corvette window could have been aimed at Venzelle. The rattlesnake could have bitten her as easily as him. Venzelle was in the car yesterday when someone ran them off the road. And maybe the black woman followed Venzelle to New Orleans, not Teff
inger.
But, on the other hand, Teffinger spotted the black woman on the beach at Chatfield.
Venzelle wasn’t around then.
Same thing for when she tailed him down by the South Platte and he almost caught her before the drifter beamed him in the back of the head with a rock.
So, Sydney’s theory made some sense, but not enough to get diverted.
“Okay, do this—call Boston and find out what happened, but only after you run out of other things to do.”
A BLUE MID-SIZED CAR APPEARED in his rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure, but thought it might have been there ten minutes ago too.
He told Sydney, “I have to run.”
An asphalt road appeared on his right.
He took it.
Trees twitched violently in the wind. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the mirror.
Come on. Kill me.
Chapter Ninety
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
AFTER TALKING TO ANDREA COPPERSTONE’S grass-watering neighbor, Raven got in the 4Runner, did a U-turn, and waved at Coyote as she blasted past. She made a number of quick random turns. Three minutes later Coyote called and said, “You lost me.”
“Good. That’s what I was trying to do.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business,” Raven said. “Why are you following me, anyway?”
“It’s my job. Remember?”
“I’ll be back at the marina later,” she said. “Stalk me there.”
“You’re such an uncooperative stalkee.”
“So sue me.”
She hung up, took I-70 east, exited at Pecos and headed north. Ten minutes later she passed three strip clubs and pulled into a white standalone building with PHYSICAL GRAFFITI TATTOO in neon.
Inside, an attractive-in-a-scary-way man ran his eyes over her, from top to bottom, and introduced himself.
“I’m Big Rick.”
“Little Raven,” she said. “Andrea Copperstone used to work here, right?”
She already knew the answer was yes.
Andrea’s neighbor, the grass-waterer, had been very clear on where Andrea worked before she disappeared eleven months ago.
Big Rick leaned back.
“You know Andrea?”
“No.” She showed him a picture of the pirate. “Does this guy look familiar?”
He studied it.
“Robert,” he said.
“You know him?”
He shook his head. “Negative,” he said. “He only came in here once and that was—God, I don’t know—four or five years ago, maybe. The reason I remember him is because of the tattoo he got.”
“Why? What was it?”
“It was a woman getting shot in the back of the head with a revolver at point-blank range,” he said. “The bullet was just coming out of her forehead. Blood and skull and brains were splattering forward.”
She read nineteen potential last names.
He didn’t recognize any of them.
“Did Andrea give him the tattoo?” she asked.
Big Rick nodded.
“She did,” he said. “How do you know?”
Raven exhaled.
“I’m a lawyer, researching a case for a client,” she said. “From what I can tell, Robert got several tattoos four or five years ago. In each case, he got it from an attractive female—probably someone he picked in advance. In each case, it was a tattoo of a woman being killed. Now, if my theory is right, he’s killing the women who gave him the tattoos in the same way depicted in the tattoos they gave.”
The man didn’t blink or move a muscle.
Then his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.
“Are you saying this guy shot Andrea in the back of the head?”
Raven nodded.
“That’s my belief.”
Big Rick studied Raven’s face to see if she was messing with him.
Then he slammed his fist on the counter, so hard that a picture fell off the wall.
Glass shattered.
He didn’t look over.
Instead he looked Raven directly in the eyes and said, “He’s a dead man.”
Chapter Ninety-One
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
THE WIND HOWLED and pushed eerie black clouds violently across the sky. Dalton was nestled in an enclave down by the Mississippi, watching the wind whip the water into whitecaps, when his phone rang and the voice of Norma Jean came through.
“We just got some very interesting news,” she said.
“Like what?”
“It’s about Teffinger’s girlfriend,” she said. “The word is that she tried to reverse the death curse on Teffinger.”
“How?”
“By buying it off,” she said.
“So what happened?”
“She went to the wrong place—that was last night. Then things didn’t go well for her,” she said. “Where are you?”
He told her.
“Get back here,” she said. “We’re going to Plan B.”
“I like Plan A,” Dalton said.
“Trust me, Plan B is way better.”
TEFFINGER, IT TURNED OUT, was staying in Room 118 at the Cajun Blue Hotel, a cheap one-story structure at the edge of the city, where the parking lot came right up to the rooms. Dalton and his accomplice—Norma Jean—didn’t care about Teffinger’s room though. Instead, they backed into the parking space in front of Room 120 and killed the engine.
They looked around, saw no one and got out.
Dalton rapped on a blue wooden door.
No one answered.
He tried the knob.
It was locked.
They headed around to the rear of the building through a maddening wind, broke the bathroom window, and crawled in. Dalton knew what to expect, but the sight still caught him by surprise.
Teffinger’s girlfriend—Venzelle—was tightly tied spread-eagle to the bed, naked except for a black thong and gagged with a knotted rope.
On the floor was a dead rooster. The head had been cut off and the blood had been drained into a green plastic bowl that sat on a nightstand. The feet had also been cut off. Someone had dipped the feet into the blood and marked the woman’s stomach with some type of symbols.
“What do these mean?” Dalton asked.
Norma said, “They’re a curse.”
VENZELLE PLEADED WITH THEM through wide fearful eyes and tugged at her bonds. Muffled words came from the gag, too vague and jumbled to understand. Norma Jean sat down on the side of the bed and traced a fingertip on the blood symbols.
“You’re cursed,” she said. “Too bad, you’re so beautiful.”
She looked at Dalton and said, “Get me a wet washcloth. I’m going to clean her up.”
Dalton did it.
Norma Jean wiped the blood off the woman’s stomach and said, “This doesn’t remove the curse. It only makes you more presentable.”
Then she pulled a jackknife out of her pants pocket, opened it, waved a razor-sharp 3” serrated blade in front of Venzelle’s face, and gently laid it on the woman’s stomach. “Will you be quiet if I take your gag out?” she asked.
Venzelle nodded.
“Good, because if you say a word or make even the smallest sound, my knife friend here is going to slit your throat from ear to ear,” Norma Jean said. “Are we clear on that?”
Venzelle nodded.
“Crystal clear?”
Another nod.
Norma Jean picked up the knife, straddled the woman’s stomach and cut the gag off. Venzelle gasped for air but didn’t make a sound.
“Good girl,” Norma Jean said. “Would you like some water?”
“Yes.”
Dalton brought a glass of water from the bathroom.
Norma Jean lifted Venzelle’s head forward, put the glass to the
woman’s lips and poured, slow enough that she didn’t choke.
“There, better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Norma Jean said.
“I have to use the bathroom,” Venzelle said.
“Will you behave yourself if we let you up?”
“Yes.”
She cut off the woman’s thong and threw it over her shoulder. It landed on a lamp and got snagged on the shade. Then she cut the ropes, led the woman to the bathroom and stepped out—leaving the door cracked a couple of inches.
OUTSIDE, THE WIND SCREAMED and an evil blackness raked across the sky. The sound of a vehicle emerged above the noise of the weather. Dalton pushed the curtain aside, just an inch, and saw a vehicle jerk to a stop in front of Room 118, two doors down. Nick Teffinger muscled the door of the vehicle open against the wind, stepped out holding a disposable cup of coffee, and disappeared into his room.
Dalton’s heart raced.
He prepared himself to knock on the man’s door and beat him to death with his bare hands.
Chapter Ninety-Two
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
THE BLUE CAR BEHIND TEFFINGER either wasn’t following him or had a change of plans, because it didn’t turn down the asphalt road when he did. By the time he got back to the main road, it was gone.
Now what?
He was still a rabbit but one with no fangs chasing him.
He pointed the front end of the car back towards the city.
On the way, his phone rang and Sydney’s voice came through. “I called Boston on the Zandra Oceana deal,” she said. “The detective assigned to the case is someone called Tom Watkins, who’s on vacation this week. I spoke to another man by the name of Randy Brown, who wasn’t working the case but knew about it. According to him, the case was a robbery gone sour. Someone took her purse, jewelry, laptop, etcetera. The theory is that she came home while it was in progress.”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Teffinger said.
“That’s what they think.”