Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
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“Why?”
London shrugged.
Then she said, “Probably for the same reason we are. She must have known that a slayer killed the woman.”
“But why would a slayer kill Kennedy Pinehurst?” Rave asked.
London cocked her head.
“The same reason they’d kill Cameron, or you, or me,” she said. “Kennedy must have been a vampire.”
“You think?”
London nodded.
“There’s no other explanation,” she said.
“But you never heard about Kennedy Pinehurst before, right?”
“Right.”
“So how would the slayers know about a vampire if the other vampires don’t?”
London retreated in thought.
“There are only two things I can think of,” she said. “Either our genealogist is leaking information; or they’re doing their own genealogical research.”
THEY GOT A BLANK PIECE OF PAPER and wrote down the dates of all the newspaper articles, so they could print them off the web later and have their own copies.
They put the originals back in the book.
And put the book back on the shelf.
And left.
Locking the back door behind them.
Outside, walking back to the car, Rave’s phone rang and Tim Pepper’s voice came through.
“Are you free this afternoon?”
“I can be.”
“I’m going to see if I can get the guys down for a short practice session,” he said. “I’d like to work up those two new songs you wrote and roll them out tonight. I want to watch the crowd go nuts.”
Rave’s heart raced.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Morning
______________
BRYON TEFFINGER GOT TO BED TOO LATE last night and got up too early this morning. To compensate, he stopped at a 7-Eleven on the way to work and filled a thermos with coffee. Elton John’s “Saturday Night’s Alright” came from speakers. The kid behind the cash register stopped reading a book called Witness Chase long enough to take Teffinger’s money.
“You seem familiar,” the kid said.
“I stop in here all the time.”
“Oh.”
Teffinger was almost out the door when the kid shouted, “Hey, you want a cup?”
Teffinger ran back in, grabbed a disposable cup from the coffee area, and said, “Thanks.” He had half the thermos under his belt by the time he got to the office. As usual, no one else had shown up yet, so he fired up the coffee pot before heading to his desk.
Chicago was one hour ahead of Denver.
Even with the time differential, Teffinger doubted that his counterpart, Thomas Stone, would be in yet. He called anyway. Nope, Stone wasn’t in yet. “Give him another hour,” the desk clerk said.
“Thanks.”
Forty-five minutes later, Teffinger called again.
“I said an hour, before,” the desk clerk said.
“Right, I know,” Teffinger said.
“Give him another fifteen minutes.”
Teffinger waited ten minutes and then called again.
“I said fifteen minutes, before.”
“Right.”
“Give him another five minutes.”
Four minutes later, Teffinger called again.
Stone wasn’t in.
“Give him another minute,” the desk clerk said.
“I’m just going to wait on the line until he gets in,” Teffinger said.
“Fine.”
Elevator music appeared.
One minute later, Thomas Stone’s voice came through.
“THE DESK CLERK SAYS YOU’VE BEEN HARASSING HIM.”
Teffinger grunted.
And said, “I have a second case here in Denver that I’m pretty sure is connected to your Kennedy Pinehurst case. My victim is named Cameron Leigh, twenty years old, murdered. Someone tied her down in a spread-eagle position and pounded a wooden stake into her heart—in an abandoned warehouse.”
Silence on the other end.
Teffinger could almost hear Stone processing the buzz words.
Spread-eagle.
Abandoned warehouse.
“Have you ever heard of her? Cameron Leigh?” Teffinger asked.
“Can’t say that it’s ringing a bell,” Stone said. “Tell me why you think the cases are connected.”
Teffinger told him.
About the calendar.
Chicago.
The arrow.
The date.
“It sounds like you’re on to something, but I don’t know what,” Stone said. “It’s weird, though.”
“What?”
“Well, you initially contacted me thinking that Kennedy Pinehurst was connected to that missing woman—”
“—Jena Vellone—”
“—Jena Vellone,” Stone said. “And now you think that Kennedy’s connected to this other woman—”
“—Cameron Leigh—”
“—Cameron Leigh,” Stone said.
“And?”
“Well,” Stone said, “if both of your assumptions are correct—namely that Jena Vellone and Cameron Leigh are each connected to Kennedy Pinehurst—then that means that Jena Vellone and Cameron Leigh are somehow connected to each other.”
Teffinger raked his fingers through his hair.
“I was just about to figure that out,” he said.
Stone chuckled.
They talked for another five minutes and then hung up.
WHEN SYDNEY SHOWED UP two minutes later, Teffinger filled her in. “I don’t think it will do any good to go back through Jena’s house,” Teffinger said. “If the name Cameron Leigh was anywhere, it would have jumped out at us the first time. Cameron was already dead before Jena got taken.”
“Agreed,” Sydney said.
“Same thing with respect to Cameron Leigh’s house,” Teffinger said.
“Agreed.”
Teffinger took a sip of coffee and found it lukewarm. He poured the rest in the snake plant and got a fresh cup.
“So what do we do now?”
Good question.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
AFTER LUNCH WITH BRITTANY, Tripp walked down the 16th Street Mall under a bright blue Colorado sky, hornier than usual. The temperature was nice, about seventy. Lots of people were out strolling around.
Including lots of females.
He bought a pair of mirrored sunglasses from a street vendor for ten dollars, to better hide his face as he checked out the eye candy.
He passed the Rock Bottom Brewery, spotted a bench next to the sidewalk, and took a seat.
Someone had left a Rocky Mountain News there.
He thumbed through it.
Four or five pages in, he came across something interesting—the picture of a very nice looking woman next to an article, “Radio Personality Geneva Vellone Shocks Listeners.” The article explained that Geneva Vellone is the sister of Jena Vellone, the TV 8 reporter who disappeared last week. Yesterday, during Geneva’s morning talk show, she shocked listeners by making an on-air plea to the person who abducted Jena; a plea for him to take her in exchange for Jena.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
A SECOND ARTICLE on the same page was of equal interest. It had the picture of an incredibly good-looking man below the caption, “Detective Still on Case.”
According to the article, Denver homicide detective Nick Teffinger had been with Jena Vellone the night she disappeared. Jena’s blood had been found in Teffinger’s truck, which had been confiscated by the Cherry Hills P.D. Teffinger had no authority to investigate the woman’s disappearance—it wasn’t a homicide, it didn’t occur in Denver, and, most importantly, Teffinger was a person of interest. Last week, the Denver Chief of Police issued a public statement confirming that the i
nvestigation was being handled solely by Cherry Hills and that Teffinger was not involved. And yet, yesterday Teffinger reportedly showed up in San Francisco trying to get access to confidential police records in connection with work he said he was doing on the Jena Vellone case.
In the meantime, Teffinger was the lead investigator in connection with the murder of Forrest Jones, the man who suffered a bizarre vampire-like death with a wooden stake in his heart. That killer, ironically, remained at large.
Teffinger had a good reputation and a good arrest record.
But police protocol was clear in that officers are not authorized to participate in the investigation of a crime in which they are a suspect or a person of interest.
Was the chief ignoring protocol?
And, even worse, covering it up?
Or had Teffinger turned into a rogue cop?
Stay tuned.
End of article.
TRIPP COULDN’T HELP BUT CHUCKLE, especially since he had recently been in Teffinger’s house. What a tangled web this had turned out to be.
He focused on the picture of Geneva Vellone.
She would be worth spending some quality time with.
Most definitely.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
AFTER THEY LEFT CAMERON LEIGH’S HOUSE, Rave called information and obtained a phone number for one Suzanne Wheeler in Montreal, Canada; the woman who she suspected to be the genealogist working with Parker.
She dialed.
A woman answered.
“This is Rave Lafelle,” Rave said. “Does that name ring a bell with you?”
A pause.
A long pause.
“How did you get my number?”
“A friend,” Rave said.
“This is a breach of security,” the woman said.
“Well, I just need to know a few things—”
The line went dead.
Rave looked at London and said, “She won’t talk. In fact, she sounded really nervous just hearing my voice.”
London nodded and said, “Good.”
She didn’t need to say more.
Rave understood that “Good” meant that Wheeler was following the security protocol that Parker had set up; namely, that Wheeler was only to communicate with Parker—whose voice she recognized—so that the slayers couldn’t trick her into giving them information.
“Okay,” London said. “So if she isn’t giving information out, then the slayers must be doing their own genealogical work. That’s the only reason they would kill Kennedy Pinehurst; if they thought she was a vampire.”
Rave frowned.
“The poor thing,” she said. “Killed the way she was, and not having a clue why.”
London grunted.
“She had a clue before she died, you can bet your bottom dollar on that,” she said. “I’m sure they tried to get the names of other vampires from her before they slit her throat.”
Rave pictured the poor woman.
Hung upside down by her ankles.
Naked.
With cuffs on her wrists and her arms stretched down and tied to the floor. Then being pumped for information from slayers.
SHE LOOKED AT LONDON and said, “I wonder why they slit her throat instead of pounding a stake in her heart.”
“Easy,” London said. “They know we’re mortal; they know they don’t need wooden stakes to kill us. And what good would it do them to have a bunch of wooden-stake cases popping up across the country? The MO is too unique, meaning that the cases would get connected. Too many detectives would get involved; they’d share files and information; they’d be a lot smarter in a group than they would be separately.”
“But now they’re using stakes,” Rave said.
“True.”
“Why the change?”
“My guess?”
“Right.”
“My guess is that they’re getting bolder,” London said. “They’re trying to terrify us. The stakes are a way of saying that all vampires will die.”
All vampires will die.
Rave had been in good spirits for the last couple of days.
Excited about her career.
Excited about Parker.
Excited about Twist.
But the words all vampires will die slammed her back to reality.
SUDDENLY LONDON’S PHONE RANG and Parker’s voice came through. “I just got a call from Suzanne Wheeler in Montreal,” he said. “The incoming call came from Rave’s phone. Did you and Rave just call her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see if she talks to anyone besides you.”
“She doesn’t,” Parker said. “You know that’s the security policy.”
Yes.
She did.
“You scared her to death,” Parker said.
“Sorry.”
He exhaled.
“Let me call her and tell her the call was legit,” he said. “The poor woman is absolutely terrified.” A pause, then, “Why in the hell would you think she would talk to anyone besides me?”
“We were curious.”
“Why?”
“We just wondered if she was feeding information to the slayers,” London said.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “She wouldn’t do that in a million years.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Morning
______________
MID-MORNING, CHIEF F. F. TANKER walked into homicide with the Rocky Mountain News in his hand and told Teffinger, “Why don’t you come down to my office for a minute?”
Teffinger grabbed his half-filled coffee cup.
And followed the man.
He sensed trouble.
So much so that he didn’t swing by the pot to top off. As soon as they got behind closed doors, Tanker held the paper up and said, “Did you read this yet?”
No.
He hadn’t.
Tanker opened the paper to page four and pointed. Teffinger read two articles, one about him and one about Geneva Vellone. Then he looked at the chief and said, “I have a solution.”
Tanker slumped into his chair and said, “Go on.”
“I can’t get you into trouble,” Teffinger said. “I don’t care about me, but I’m not going to let you go down. I’m going to the press and tell them in no uncertain terms that you had nothing to do with any of this. You never gave me authority to investigate Jena Vellone; you never covered anything up; you never knew a thing about what I was doing in San Francisco, period, end of story.”
“That’ll make you a rogue,” Tanker said.
Teffinger shrugged.
“I’ll say I took a vacation day yesterday,” he said. “I was off duty, taking an extended weekend. That actually sort of makes sense because my girlfriend, London Fontelle, was with me. In fact, to make it formal, I’m giving you my notice now that I was officially on vacation yesterday. I’ll fill out the paperwork as soon as I get back to my desk. Also, I’ll emphasize that my trip to San Francisco wasn’t funded by the department.”
“Can you back that up?”
Teffinger nodded.
“Luckily, I used my own credit cards for everything. I’ll never submit a reimbursement request,” he said. “I’ll emphasize that Jena Vellone is a longstanding friend of mine, since high school in fact, which is common knowledge anyway. Is it so wrong for one friend to worry about another? Anyway, with any luck, that will at least keep you out of it, and maybe get this thing positioned to die.”
Tanker frowned.
“They’re going to press for a formal investigation,” he said. “I can feel it. Then the question will be whether you should be suspended pending that investigation; and maybe me too, for that matter.”
Teffinger stood up.
And raked his fingers through his hair.
“We can’t let that
happen,” he said. “If I lose my resources here, Jena Vellone is dead.”
The chief nodded.
“I don’t care what happens to me afterwards,” Teffinger added. “I don’t care if I lose my job or pension or anything else. But right now I can’t afford to be jacked around. Jena’s counting on me and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her down.”
Tanker studied Teffinger.
“She’s been gone a long time, you know.”
“I know,” Teffinger said. “I just can’t let myself picture her dead.”
“Then find her,” Tanker said.
They shook hands.
And Teffinger left.
HE FILLED OUT THE VACATION PAPERWORK as soon as he got back to his desk, made a copy for himself and handed in the original. Sydney didn’t come over, but kept him in the corner of her eye, obviously wondering if he was okay. Teffinger got a fresh cup of coffee and took a seat in front of her desk.
“The chief’s going to paint his office,” he said. “He wanted my opinion on colors.”
She chuckled.
“What’d you tell him?”
“I suggested a light blue, to match his eyes.”
“His eyes are brown,” she said.
“Oops. Do you feel like taking a drive?”
She did.
And grabbed her jacket to prove it.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Afternoon
______________
BECAUSE SHE WAS A RADIO PERSONALITY, Geneva Vellone had a massive web presence. In just thirty minutes at the keyboard, Tripp was able to locate dozens of photos of the woman plus more information than he would ever need. It turned out that she lived on a 5-acre horse property off Morrison Road in unincorporated Jefferson County.
Nice.
Tripp parked the Impala a half-mile south, in a scooped out shoulder that looked like it was used for parking to access a trail that snaked into open space.
He raised the hood, as if he had engine problems.
Then he walked towards the woman’s house.
The temperature was nice, about seventy, but clouds rolled in from the mountains and hinted of rain tonight. He wore jeans, New Balance tennis shoes, and a dark-blue T-shirt. The woman’s driveway was asphalt and long. Tripp headed up it and approached the house; to all intents and purposes, just one more poor slob who needed a jug of water to fill a leaky radiator.