by R. J. Jagger
“Well, that doesn’t bode well for your theory,” he said.
Meaning her theory that someone was out to kill both Zandra and Venzelle; and that Venzelle was currently the real target, not Teffinger.
“It could be that the guy just staged it to look like a robbery,” Sydney said.
True but unlikely.
“It was a good thought, but shelve it,” Teffinger said. “We have too much going on to get sidetracked. Besides, I know in my heart that I’m the target.”
“Maybe you’re both targets, for different reasons,” she said. “Maybe one person is trying to kill you and someone else is trying to kill her. Maybe that’s why we can’t figure it out. We’re looking for one person when we should be looking for two.”
“Now you’re getting too complicated,” he said. “You’re starting to make my brain hurt.”
Silence.
“Any sign of Kristen Starkell?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Teffinger said. “She’ll make a move tonight, if she doesn’t before then.”
“Nick, I should be there.”
Her voice trembled.
He considered it and had to admit deep down that he didn’t want to die alone, in a strange city, in a storm.
But he couldn’t put her at risk.
He just couldn’t.
Suddenly “Love Me Do” got his attention.
“A Beatles song just came on the radio.” He turned it up and held the phone by the speaker to prove it. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Nick!”
He hung up.
WHEN THE BEATLES STOPPED SINGING, Teffinger called Coyote and could hear the lapping of the lake against the breakwater when she answered. “Give me some good news,” he said.
“Nick?”
“Right.”
“Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a hurricane or something.”
“Just a little breeze,” he said. “Are we still thinking that the pirate’s name is Robert and that he got a tattoo?”
“Let me put it this way, Raven Lee is still running all over town, flashing his picture in tattoo shops, to see if anyone recognizes him.”
“Why does she think he got a tattoo?”
“She won’t say.”
“Is she legit? Is she really on to something?”
“I think so,” Coyote said. “She’s not the kind to waste her time.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Then she’s doing better than us,” he said. “How could that happen?”
Coyote didn’t know but added, “I fed her some information to help her. I’m hoping that if she finds the guy, she’ll give me his name.”
Fed her information?
What information?
She told him.
“That’s against every rule in the book,” Teffinger said.
“Do you want me to find the pirate or follow the rules? Because I’m only going to be able to do one of them—”
He shifted his weight.
And pulled up an image of Lindsay Vail.
Missing since Saturday night.
Almost a week now.
Probably dead.
But maybe not.
“Find the pirate,” he said.
“I’m sort of seducing her, too, to get her to talk,” Coyote added.
“Don’t tell me what you’re doing. I don’t want to know,” Teffinger said. “Just find the pirate.”
HE HUNG UP AND HEADED BACK TO HIS HOTEL to see if anyone had broken into the room while he was gone. If they had, maybe they inadvertently left breadcrumbs to follow.
Debris flew through the air.
The storm was getting meaner.
On the way, he called Maggie Bender, to see if there were any hits yet on the BOLO for Venzelle’s rental.
There weren’t.
“Trust me,” she said, “I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being a pest. I know that.”
“No you’re not.”
“Next time, I’ll count to ten before I call.”
She chuckled.
“Five’s good enough,” she said.
“Then five it is,” he said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
HE CALLED THE TV REPORTER, Tammy Bahamas. “I got a lead that the pirate’s name might be Robert and that he might have one or more gruesome tattoos,” he said. “What’s the chance that I can get his picture on the news again, with this updated information?”
“I’d say your chances are pretty good.”
“Thanks,” he said. “If I’m still alive when this is over, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Be careful, I’ll hold you to it.”
“You do that.” He chuckled and added, “If I’m not alive, and you do a story on me, don’t look under my mattress.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t do it,” he said.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
AFTER LEAVING PHYSICAL GRAFFITI TATTOO, Raven had a wild thought while driving back to the marina and called Dakota. “I’ve been thinking about your theory that Jeff Salter killed Ripley. I might have come up with a motive, but it’s purely speculation.”
“I’ll take speculation,” Dakota said.
Raven swallowed.
“Actually, it’s more of a wild-ass guess than speculation,” she said.
Dakota chuckled.
“I’ll take wild-ass, too.”
“Okay, but don’t think I’m nuts.”
“You mean more nuts than me? Come on, girlfriend, spit it out.”
“Okay, but—”
“Damn, girl, you’re like a vibrator on slow speed. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
Raven laughed.
Then got serious and said, “Okay, it goes like this. Whitney got wind of Ripley’s voodoo obsession through the grapevine; and the fact that the opposing counsel and the opposing client both mysteriously died within 24 hours of each other. She started to snoop around to figure out if Ripley killed them—maybe he got paid to do it from his voodoo client or something like that. Ripley found out she was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong and took her out. Salter then found out about the whole thing and killed Ripley for killing Whitney. He bided his time and did it in the alley, just like you said—the perfect murder.”
“God, it all fits,” Dakota said.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“So how do we prove it?”
“I don’t think we can.”
RAVEN WASN’T AT THE SAILBOAT more than ten minutes—just long enough to throw water on the deck, open the hatches and get the fans blowing—when she got a call from the last person in the world she expected.
Susan Salter, Jeff Salter’s wife.
“Can we meet?” Susan asked. “I’d like to talk to you, but it needs to be in the context of an attorney-client privilege.”
“As long as you’re talking to me in my capacity as an attorney, then whatever you say will be privileged and confidential,” Raven said.
“So you can’t tell anyone?”
“That’s correct,” Raven said.
“Or use it against me?”
“Also correct.”
“Even if I don’t end up retaining you?”
“The privilege attaches, either way.”
RAVEN MADE SURE Coyote wasn’t following her, and met Susan at Red Rocks Park, in the lower parking lot of the amphitheater. The woman was exactly as Raven remembered her from law firm Christmas parties.
Elegant.
Flawlessly attractive.
Kind.
Soft spoken.
At Susan’s request, they hiked down a trail at the base of a mountain of red rocks. They got sufficiently away from prying eyes and found a shady boulder to sit on. Susan got right to the point and handed Raven a large manila envelope. Inside were several photocopie
s of eight-by-ten pictures of Jeff Salter and Whitney White, in intimate positions. Plus a photocopy of a blackmail note to Jeff Salter, telling him that the pictures would be turned over to his wife if he didn’t cooperate with their demands.
“Jeff has a wall safe at home,” Susan said. “About a month ago, he had it open and didn’t shut the door all the way. Before I closed it, I took a peek inside. I found these and made copies.”
“I’m so sorry,” Raven said, and squeezed the woman’s hand to prove it.
Susan squeezed back and fought tears, then regained her composure.
“I don’t know when these pictures were taken,” she said. “But I had my accountant go back and track the finances to see if Jeff actually paid any blackmail money.”
“Did he?”
Susan nodded.
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Millions.”
Three magpies glided down from the rocks and landed on a scraggly pine ten yards off. They squawked and then took off again.
“Why are you telling me this?” Raven asked.
“Jeff was irritable at supper last night,” she said. “When I asked what was going on, he said that you were running around doing some kind of investigation on him. Is that true?”
“I can’t comment on that one way or the other,” Raven said.
Susan nodded, understanding.
“On the off chance that it was true, and you really were investigating him, I thought you should know about this,” Susan said. “This is going to sound totally cold, but I hope you can use this against him.” She paused and added, “My life with him is over. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re getting divorced as soon as I finish figuring out everything he did. That’s why I need this to be confidential; to be sure you don’t say anything to him or to anyone else. If he knows I’m on to him, he’ll cover his tracks. He might even kill me.”
Raven shuffled through the photographs again.
“Most of the marriage money is mine,” Susan added.
“So it’s pre-marital property?”
“Right,” she said. “And it appears that Jeff stole a lot of it to pay off his blackmailer. I’m going to do everything in my power to see that he goes to jail for it.”
Raven picked up a pebble and flicked it with her thumb.
“So who was doing the blackmailing?”
Susan shrugged.
“There’s no paper trail,” she said. “What Jeff did was funnel money through several different banks and then made repeated cash withdrawals. Where that cash ended up, I don’t have a clue.”
“What a scumbag.”
Susan chuckled and said, “Don’t say that. You’re insulting scumbags all over the world.”
Raven grinned.
Then she grew serious and said, “To be sure that this stays confidential, you should probably ask me something legal.”
“Fine,” Susan said. “Do you want to be my divorce attorney?”
DRIVING BACK TO THE MARINA, Raven had a weird thought. Was Susan actually working with her husband to feed Raven false information?
Was the whole story a big charade?
Orchestrated by Jeff Salter?
To throw her off track?
Were the pictures doctored? Is that why Susan only gave her photocopies of the pictures instead of the actual photos themselves?
Would Jeff really be so stupid as to leave his safe open with something that damaging inside?
Something didn’t smell right.
And what about Adam Osborne?
Raven had a bad feeling about him that she hadn’t been able to shake from day one.
Adam Osborne.
Mr. Opposing Counsel.
Why did he pop into Raven's head right now, when he should be the furthest thing from it?
Her brain hurt.
She powered up the radio and got a song she hadn’t heard in years—Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer.”
She cranked it up and sang along.
The ache in her head softened.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
DALTON WAS JUST ABOUT TO WALK over to Teffinger’s room and kill him when his cell phone rang. He checked the incoming number, saw it belonged to Samantha Dent, and decided he’d better answer.
“Oh my God,” she said, “have you been watching the news?”
He hadn’t.
“They found G-Drop’s body,” she said. “It’s all over CNN.”
Dalton’s stomach clenched.
His equilibrium tipped.
How could they have possibly found him?
“Don’t panic,” he said. “They can’t trace anything to us.”
“You don’t know that!” she said. “Who knows what kinds of fibers and DNA they’re going to turn up—”
“Just stay calm. It’s actually sort of good in a way, because now that they found him the whole thing will blow over in a couple of days. By Monday morning he’ll be history.”
“He’ll be history on the news, but not in the police station,” she said. “I’m getting out of town. I’m going to drop down so deep that no one will find me in a million years.”
Dalton chewed on it.
Actually it wasn’t a bad idea.
Maybe he ought to do the same.
Right now.
This minute.
“That’s not a bad plan,” he said. “Don’t ever tell anything to anyone, not even ten years from now.”
“I won’t. You too,” she said.
“Never,” he said. “I swear.”
“I swear too.”
The line went dead.
The wind rattled the windows. The sound of an engine emerged above it. When Dalton pulled the curtain back and looked, Teffinger was driving off.
He sat down.
His brain cells were focused on DNA.
And fibers.
And Samantha Dent running for her life.
AFTER VENZELLE CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM, Norma Jean made her lie face down on the bed and injected her in the ass with a syringe. After she passed out, she dressed her. Dalton made sure no one was around, opened the car trunk, carried the woman out the front door and dumped her in.
She was exposed to view for three seconds or less.
No one appeared during those three seconds.
They left her purse and suitcase in the room and got the hell out of there.
THEY HOOKED UP WITH JAMES MADDEN who led them deep into the cavity of an old building, in an underground room that smelled like wet rocks. The New Orleans humidity hung thick and oppressive.
The air didn’t move.
The quietness was absolute.
Cave-like, almost.
Not a sound from above could force its way this deep.
They laid Venzelle’s unconscious body on a mattress, tied her hands behind her back and closed the door on the way out, sealing her in darkness.
They locked the door.
Walking up the stone steps, Madden said, “This is sort of befitting. That’s the room where Teffinger got the death curse put on him.”
Chapter Ninety-Five
Day Five—July 16
Friday Afternoon
______________
THE WIND GOT EVEN MORE FIERCE and then the rain came—thick, horizontal and almost opaque. Even with the windshield wipers on high, Teffinger could hardly see. When his phone rang, he didn’t need the distraction and almost didn’t answer, but was glad he did because Maggie Bender said, “We got a BOLO hit on Venzelle’s car.”
“Where?”
“The Cajun Blue Hotel.”
“Did you say the Cajun Blue?”
She did.
“That’s where I’m staying,” he said.
“Meet me there.”
He sped, dangerously close to hydroplaning, hoping against hope that Venzelle had mysteriously appeared from out of nowhere and was
waiting for him in his room. If that was the case, he was going to put her in his car and drive both of them straight to Denver. When he pulled up, though, all the action was in Room 120, two doors down from his.
Detective Maggie Bender turned out to be as he pictured her.
Black.
Fifty.
In good enough shape to still have a spring in her step.
He liked her immediately and gave her a hug to prove it, but then got sidetracked by a dead rooster lying on the floor. Its head and feet were cut off. A bowl of blood sat on the nightstand. Ropes were attached to the four corners of the bed; they had been cut.
A black thong hung on a lampshade.
A suitcase and purse squatted on the floor in the corner.
“Those are Venzelle’s,” Teffinger told Bender.
“I know,” she said. “According to the front desk, she checked in last night, paying cash. Why didn’t she stay with you?”
TEFFINGER RAKED HIS HAIR BACK WITH HIS FINGERS.
It immediately flopped back down over his face.
Then he slumped into a cheap vinyl chair.
“Because I was trying to get her to go back to Denver,” he said. “She must have checked in here to watch my back. Tell me about the rooster blood. I’m so far out of my league with all this occult stuff that it isn’t even funny.”
She told him.
Namely, according to her best guess, Venzelle had been tied down and painted with blood.
Cursed.
They processed the scene as thoroughly as if it was a homicide. The $50,000 cash that Venzelle got from her credit cards was nowhere to be found.
Her phone was in her purse.
Turned off.
“So is she still alive? Or did they just decide to dump her body after they had their fun?” he asked. “How do these curses work?”
Bender frowned.
“Good question.”
THE RAIN POUNDED against the building with a vengeance. Suddenly the room was too small and Teffinger couldn’t breathe. He headed for the door.
“Where you going?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know.”
He got in his car and spun the tires.
The vehicle lunged into the storm.
He couldn’t shake the image of Venzelle being tied down and painted with blood; probably while he was sleeping peacefully two doors down.
