Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by Jagger, R. J.

  He looked back over his shoulder as he came up on the house.

  No one was behind him.

  There wasn’t a sign of life in any direction.

  He didn’t see any exterior surveillance cameras.

  The asphalt ended at the side of the house. From there, the drive turned to gravel and continued for another hundred feet or so where it ended at a small wooden barn.

  Next to the house, on the asphalt, sat a red Viper.

  Good.

  That meant the woman was home.

  No other cars were there, meaning she was alone, unless of course she brought someone with her. Tripp heard no sounds from the house. He was close enough now that he’d hear music if it was playing.

  He paused at the bottom of the front steps.

  Deciding whether to knock or not.

  His instincts told him not to.

  So he walked around the side of the house to the back. There he found a redwood deck that came off a living room. The sliding glass door was open but the screen was shut. He tiptoed across the wood, stopped at the screen and listened.

  At first he didn’t hear anything.

  Then he did.

  Faint, but definitely the sound of a shower.

  Upstairs.

  He slid the screen door open.

  Stepped inside.

  And then silently pushed it shut.

  A brown cat trotted over and stared at him.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  RAVE had been more than relieved to get out of Cameron Leigh’s house without being caught. So when London said, “We need to go back,” Rave’s heart raced.

  “Why?”

  “Because we left too early.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There has to be more information there,” London said. “We need to find it so I can feed it to Nick. The key to Jena Vellone’s disappearance is somewhere in Cameron Leigh’s house. The problem is that Nick thinks he found everything he needs after finding that calendar, so he’s not inclined to go back. We need to go back, do a complete search, and then if we find something I’ll find a way to feed it to Nick.”

  Rave swallowed.

  Then looked at London and said, “You’re nuts.”

  London grabbed Rave’s hand and pulled her towards the car.

  “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they were at Cameron Leigh’s back door again, putting on latex gloves. Unfortunately, they had locked the door behind them when they left earlier. London almost broke the glass with her elbow before pausing. “Let’s check the bedroom window first.”

  They did.

  And miraculously found it unlocked.

  Rave boosted London in.

  Ten seconds later the back door opened and London said, “Come on.”

  As soon as Rave stepped inside, her phone rang and Tim Pepper’s voice came through. “I have the session lined up,” he said. “Can you be down at the club in an hour?”

  She could come.

  But she might be running a little behind.

  “Wait for me if I’m late,” she said.

  THEY DECIDED TO FINISH searching through the rest of the books before heading to the bedroom or the basement.

  Good thing, too.

  Another large hardcover held a stash of eight or ten newspaper articles from the Seattle Times, printed off the web, very similar to the ones about Kennedy Pinehurst, except they pertained to someone named Destiny Moon.

  “I’ll be damned,” London said.

  “Destiny Moon,” Rave said.

  For some reason the name rang a bell.

  “Weird name,” London said. “It just goes to show; don’t let your parents be hippies.”

  According to the articles, Destiny Moon was the lead singer in a female rock group from Seattle called La Femme.

  La Femme.

  “I’ve heard of this group,” Rave said.

  “You have?”

  Rave nodded.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Destiny Moon, apparently, never made it home after a Saturday night gig. Her body was found two weeks later in an abandoned warehouse in a “messy condition.”

  They wrote down the dates of the articles.

  And put the originals back in the book.

  Then London said, “Let’s keep looking.”

  Rave must have had a strange look on her face because London asked, “Are you okay?”

  Rave looked London in the eyes.

  “I just remembered where I heard about this group,” Rave said. “My manager, Tim Pepper, mentioned them once.”

  “In what context?”

  Rave searched her memory.

  “I don’t recall,” she said.

  “Did he manage them or something?”

  Rave concentrated.

  But came up empty.

  “I just can’t remember,” she said.

  “I have to feed this to Teffinger somehow,” London said. “What I need to do is get him back here for some reason. Then I’ll wander over here, nonchalantly start pulling books, and accidentally stumble across it.”

  “How are you going to get him back?”

  “I don’t know yet,” London said. “Right now, let’s see what else we can find.”

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  WHEN TEFFINGER SWUNG into Geneva Vellone’s driveway, he was relieved to see the red Viper parked next to the house. That meant she was home and that he hadn’t wasted the trip. He topped off a disposable cup with coffee from the thermos, stepped out, and knocked on the front door.

  No one answered.

  He knocked again.

  And sipped coffee.

  No one answered.

  He headed around to the back, found the sliding glass door open, and stepped inside. The sound of a shower came from upstairs.

  “Anyone home?” he shouted.

  She didn’t hear, so he stepped outside on the deck to wait. When the water shut off, he called again and then headed up. She was toweling off when he got there. He expected her to cover up as he got closer, but she kept drying off.

  He stopped at the doorway and leaned against the frame.

  “Why aren’t you answering my phone calls?” he asked.

  “Because you’re calling to chew me out.”

  He nodded.

  That was true.

  But it wasn’t all of it.

  “Look, I understand that you feel desperate and want to do something, but what you’re doing isn’t going to help,” he said. “It’s only going to make things worse.”

  “Nothing’s worse,” she said.

  “Well, I’m here making sure you’re okay instead of concentrating on her,” he said. “That’s worse.”

  “Then get out of here and do your job,” she said.

  Her lips trembled.

  Then she cried.

  Teffinger hugged her.

  She buried her face in his chest.

  “Have you gotten any offers yet?” he questioned.

  “One.”

  SHE GRABBED A PINK T-SHIRT out of a dresser, put it on and then punched a button on the answering machine next to the bed. A man’s voice came from the speaker—“I’ll think about doing an exchange. To show me you’re serious, and that this whole thing isn’t just a publicity stunt, here’s what I want you to do. Tonight at nine o’clock, go to Downing Street where it crosses above I-25. Face the freeway traffic coming from Denver. Wear a red jacket with nothing underneath—no blouse or bra. Unzip the jacket and expose yourself to the oncoming traffic. Be sure your face is visible and that you’re under a light. Stay like that until 9:15. Then you can leave. If I see you there, I’ll know you’re serious. If I like what I see, I may or may not call to arrange somet
hing. Even if you do this, there are no guarantees.”

  Teffinger chuckled.

  “This guy is a first-class whacko,” he said. “He’s going to take your picture and then either sell it to some sleazy rag or post it all over the net.” He looked into her eyes to be sure she understood, but didn’t see what he wanted. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about doing this.”

  “What if he’s legit?” she asked.

  “He’s not,” Teffinger said. “But even if he is, that would just be all the more reason to stay away from him.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “I’m going to do it,” she said. “Maybe you could stake the place out and spot him. Maybe you could set up cameras and get the license plate numbers of the traffic.”

  “The guy’s a Loony Tune,” Teffinger said. “Don’t fall for it.”

  Chapter Ninety

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  TRIPP STOOD IN THE DARK in Geneva Vellone’s master closet, perfectly still, being as careful as he could to not bump into a coat hanger or make anything rattle.

  His heart raced.

  He breathed through an open mouth, so quietly that even he couldn’t hear the passing of air in and out of his lungs.

  In the master bedroom, not more than five or six steps away, Geneva Vellone and Nick Teffinger listened to a phone message from someone who wanted Geneva to expose herself to freeway traffic tonight.

  Tripp was concerned with Teffinger’s presence, but not scared.

  If anyone opened the closet door, he’d go straight for Teffinger. The secret would be to get to him before he could get his gun. Punch him hard and heavy, right in the nose. That would disable him enough to finish him off. The woman wouldn’t be a factor. She’d be too startled and scared to join in. If someone did open the closet door, it would probably be her. That meant that Tripp would have to get around her quickly to get to Teffinger.

  He stood directly behind the door.

  Poised.

  With his fist cocked back.

  Waiting.

  As long as the two talked, Tripp could tell where they were. It’s when they stopped that he tensed up. He didn’t know if one of them was heading his way.

  A minute passed.

  Then another.

  After what seemed like a long time, the voices trailed off and headed downstairs. Tripp stayed in the closet, but sat down to conserve his strength. Fifteen minutes later, an engine kicked over. Tripp pulled up an image of Teffinger turning his car around and heading down the driveway. Shortly after that, footsteps came up the stairs.

  Geneva.

  She sang a song.

  Lightly.

  Tripp stood up.

  Ready.

  And when the woman opened the closet door, he pounced.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  OTHER THAN THE DESTINY MOON PAPERS, Rave and London didn’t find anything of interest in Cameron Leigh’s house. They left out the back door, locked it behind them, walked to the side of the house and paused. They scouted around for nosy neighbors, saw none, and headed towards the sidewalk.

  Across the street, Rave saw a curtain move.

  “I think we’ve been spotted,” she said.

  “Just keep walking.”

  Ten minutes later they were in London’s car, driving to the Old Orleans, when London came up with an idea. “The thing we need to do is get this information to Teffinger and get it to him quick,” she said. “You’ve never talked to him, so he doesn’t know your voice. I think you should make an anonymous call and just dump it on him.”

  Rave contemplated it.

  “He’s heard me sing,” she said. “He might recognize my voice.”

  London shook her head.

  “Your singing voice is completely different,” she said. “Plus, when you call him, speak different—you know, disguise it as good as you can.”

  “This is dangerous,” Rave said.

  London nodded.

  True.

  “This might help him find Jena Vellone,” London said. “That outweighs the risk to us.”

  Rave chewed on it.

  She had shot two men in the face.

  First the skinhead.

  Then Forrest Jones.

  Teffinger was involved in both of those investigations.

  “He really thinks that Jena Vellone is alive,” London added. “He shouldn’t, at least in my opinion, but he does. If we gave him something to help with that case, he wouldn’t use it against us, even if he found out.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can tell,” London said. “That’s just the kind of person he is.” A pause, then she added, “You need to call from a payphone. If we use one of our cells, he’ll be able to trace it.”

  They were on California Street, almost at the Old Orleans, when London spotted a public phone.

  “There.”

  She pulled over and killed the engine.

  Then she looked at Rave and said, “Are you going to do it?”

  Rave paused.

  Then got out of the car.

  And called Teffinger.

  While London stood next to her and listened.

  She told Teffinger about the Kennedy Pinehurst papers stuffed in a hardcover book on the second shelf from the top; and about the Destiny Moon papers stuffed in a second vampire book near the bottom right.

  “Destiny Moon?” Teffinger asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is Destiny Moon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know all of this?” he asked.

  Rave hung up.

  THEY HEADED STRAIGHT TO THE OLD ORLEANS. On the way London asked, “Do you think that your manager is involved in any of this?”

  Rave cocked her head.

  “You mean Tim Pepper?”

  “Yes.”

  Rave laughed.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Just keep the possibility in the back of your mind,” London said. “He was at the club the night that Jena Vellone disappeared. Now we find out about the Destiny Moon murder, who he knew. Find out today how well he knew her and if he managed her group—what was the name of it?”

  “La Femme.”

  “Right,” London said. “If he managed them, then he knew her pretty well.”

  “Tim Pepper wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Rave said.

  “Well, someone’s hurting flies,” London said. “You want me to hang around while you rehearse?”

  Rave almost said no.

  She didn’t need London to baby-sit her.

  But then she said, “Sure, if you want.”

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  AFTER RECEIVING THE ANONYMOUS CALL, Teffinger headed straight to Cameron Leigh’s house. As soon as he came up to the front door, he realized he didn’t have a key. He tried the knob and found it locked. Then he tried the back door, also locked. The rear bedroom window was unlatched, however, so he pushed it up and muscled through.

  The papers were exactly where the caller said they would be.

  Teffinger spent ten seconds with the Kennedy Pinehurst articles and then set them aside.

  He already knew about her.

  It was the Destiny Moon articles that got his attention.

  The lead singer from La Femme.

  From Seattle.

  Who disappeared.

  And was later found in a “messy condition.”

  Why had Cameron Leigh been investigating her murder?

  Teffinger had never heard of La Femme, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t big enough in the Seattle area to get on billboards.

  Had Destiny Moon’s face been on a billboard?

  To promote an upcoming concert?

>   And what did “messy condition” mean? Did that mean someone hung her upside down and slit her throat? Or did someone pound a wooden stake in her heart? And who was the mystery woman who called Teffinger? What else did she know? How was she involved in all of this?

  TEFFINGER’S CELL PHONE RANG and he answered without even looking at the incoming number. It turned out to be Jean-Paul Quisanatte, the Paris detective working the murder of Diamanda, the model who got a wooden stake pounded into her heart.

  The same as Cameron Leigh.

  “We had a huge break in our case,” Jean-Paul said. “I thought you’d want to know about it.”

  Teffinger did.

  He did indeed.

  “Our vice people busted a local prostitute named Rozeen,” Jean-Paul said. “She said she’d give us some information if we cut her some slack. The long and short of it is that an American picked her up at about 10:30 p.m. last Tuesday, one week ago to be precise. He spent the night with her and then gave her a thousand dollars, American money, to tell the police he was with her since 7:30 p.m., if she ever got asked. She didn’t think anything about it at the time.”

  “Okay,” Teffinger said.

  “The model got killed about 9:00 p.m. on Tuesday night,” Jean-Paul said. “After this prostitute later read about Diamanda, she had a gut feeling that this American was the one who did it. She suspected that he gave her the money for an alibi, if he ever needed one.”

  “All right,” Teffinger said.

  “Anyway,” Jean-Paul went on, “this American asked for the prostitute’s cell phone number, ostensibly so he could call her the next time he came into town. Then he called her with his cell phone, to be sure she gave him the right number—that was his big mistake. She had indeed given him the right number and her cell phone rang. From that, we were able to get the American’s number from her phone records. It turns out that the man is someone named Trent Tripp. We also traced him to a flight from Paris to New York on Wednesday morning.”