by R. J. Jagger
As soon as she did, Teffinger knew.
She was the one who tried to kill him.
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 river. 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.
41
B ack at the sailboat, Yardley 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.
Yardley 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.”
Yardley 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.”
Yardley 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.”
Yardley pictured it and knew the look but wasn’t impressed.
“If that’s all you got, you got nothing,” she said.
“I want you to be my lawyer on this,” Dakota said.
Yardley 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.”
Yardley 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?”
Yardley grinned.
“For you? Lunch—”
“No, I’m serious.”
“There’s a conflict of interest issue.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re an opposing counsel,” Yardley said.
“Not directly anymore. Remember, Osborne kicked me off the case.”
“I appreciate that,” Yardley 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.”
Yardley 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,” Yardley 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.”
42
D alton stared at Malcolm’s face and tried to decide whether to kill him or not, right here in Refuge-7, 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 Malcolm 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.
43
B ack 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.
Then she 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.”
He chuckled as if he just heard a joke.
“What?” Sydney asked, curious.
“Except for her ass and thong,” Teffinger said. “That’s etched in my memory pretty good.”
“It would be.”
“Maybe we’ll need a thong lineup at some point,” Teffinger said.
Sydney punched him in the arm and said, “Men.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to do my civic duty.”
“By agreeing to witness a thong lineup—”
“Exactly.”
She grinned and said, “Well, just don’t expect me to be a part of it.”
“Why not?” Teffinger said. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you before.”
She knew what he was referring to. It was the night at the bar, about ten of them, drunk out of their minds, celebrating the capture of one of Denver’s worst. Then one of them came up with the brilliant idea to see who could bounce a quarter the highest off Sydney’s ass. She was drunk enough to pull her pants down to her knees, drape herself across the table and let them go for it.
“Seriously, Nick,” she said. “Why would a black woman want to kill you?”
“There’s only one explanation that makes even an iota of sense,” he said.
“And what’s that?”
“It has something to do with that voodoo doll.”
She cocked her head and looked at him.
“You said you wouldn’t talk about that night at the bar any more,” she said.
“I know. I won’t do it again.”
She punched his arm.
“Yes you will.”
He thought about it.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Two blocks from headquarters his cell phone rang and Paul Kwak’s voice came through. “Hey, I got a lead for you on someone who does windshields on the mid-years.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Ralph Something Or Other,” Kwak said. “I came down to see you but you weren’t there. I put his number on your desk.”
“Thanks.”
“All the NCRS guys use him,” Kwak added.
National Corvette Restoration Society.
If they used him, he was good.
“Cool.”
“The Haggerty insurance guys know him too, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Oh, one more thing—the blood on that voodoo doll and the newspaper is human, not animal.”
“Ripley’s blood?”
“Don’t know that yet one way or the other,” Kwak said. “That’ll take a little time.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I have,” Teffinger said. “I’m pretty sure the person trying to kill me is linked to that doll somehow. So if you could put a rush on it, I’d appreciate it.”
“Well in that case,” Kwak said, “I’ll get to it in the next three or four months.”
“Not funny.”
“Be sure you leave the ’67 to me in your will.”
“Trust me,” Teffinger said. “You’ll be in there for everything you deserve.”
44
B y noon, the temperature climbed into the mid-90s. That usually translated into a deserted marina. So it was weird when a woman hung out by herself all day long on a powerboat over on P-Dock. Yardley had never seen her before. Rather, she had always seen a man on that boat; a man who wasn’t a catch by anyone’s standards. The woman looked to be too old to be his daughter and too cute to be a lover.
Way too cute.
Even weirder, the woman seemed to be keeping an eye on Yardley.
So, when she disappeared into the cabin, Yardley pulled out her Bushnell PermaFocus binoculars and took a closer look. The center of the boat’s windshield was swung open. On the dash was something that looked like a camera pointed directly at Yardley. A towel covered it so that only the glass was visible. Yardley wrote down the vessel’s CL numbers and disappeared below before the other woman came back up.
The web told her that the CL numbers were registered to someone named Todd Rice. She Googled him and didn’t get many hits, but did get enough to discover that he was employed by the Denver Police Department.
She pulled out her phone directory, called the main information number and said she was trying to get in touch with Todd Rice. “Do you have a direct number for him?”
“That would be the vice department.”
Yardley got the number.
Hung up and tried not to panic.
Not knowing if she was being brilliant or dumber than dirt, she put four diet pops in a small cooler, covered them in ice and then headed over to the boat.
The other woman was topside now.
She was pretty, in a bikini.
“I saw you over here by yourself and thought I’d come over and say hello,” Yardley said. “I brought some pop.”
“Well aren’t you the sweetie,” the woman said.
“I’m Ya
rdley.”
“Coyote,” the woman said. “Come on aboard.”
“Coyote as in dogs and wolves?”
“Right.”
“Well that’s pretty cool,” Yardley said.
“It’s a nickname,” Coyote said. “My parents weren’t hippies or anything. My real name’s Amanda.”
“So how’d you get the nickname?”
“I got bit by one in high school.”
“A coyote?”
The woman nodded.
“I didn’t think they attacked people.”
“They usually don’t. But if you fall out of a tree and land on one, they do.”
Yardley studied the woman’s face to see if she was messing with her, but didn’t detect it.
Then she chuckled and said, “Good thing your name’s not Crocodile.”
“Right—or T-Rex.”
Coyote handed her a bottle of SPF 15, presented her back and said, “Do you mind?”
No.
That would be okay.
She squirted the lotion on her hands and rubbed it into the woman’s shoulders.
Her muscles were firm.
Her skin was baby smooth.
Yardley worked her way down the woman’s back.
Coyote had a tattoo that started above the bikini line and disappeared below.
“What’s the tattoo?” Yardley asked.
The woman looked around, saw no one, and pulled her bikini bottoms down six or eight inches.
Her ass was taut and perfect.
The tattoo was some type of Asian writing.
“It means Forever Young,” Coyote said. She chuckled and added, “At least that’s what they told me. Sometimes I wonder if they just screw with people, though. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that there’s an Asian guy running around somewhere with Joe’s Garage tattooed on his arm in English, and he thinks it says Super Stud.”
Yardley pictured it and laughed.
“You never know.”
“No, you don’t.”
The woman pulled her bottoms up, sat down on the seat and then stretched out on her stomach. “As long as you’re doing my back, would you mind getting my legs?”
