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

by Jagger, R. J.

“Damn,” Teffinger said. “I can’t believe you got all of this.”

  “You got a pencil?” Jean-Paul asked. “I’m going to give you his address.”

  AS SOON AS TEFFINGER HUNG UP, he called Sydney at headquarters. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I want you, Baxter, and every available warm body waiting for me in the large conference room when I get there. Tell everyone to clear their schedules.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  When he showed up, there were ten people in the room. The chair at the end of the table was empty and a full cup of hot coffee sat on a coaster. He looked at Sydney and said, “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  He took a sip, walked over to the white-board and uncapped a blue marker.

  “We got the name of the man who stabbed the Paris model in the heart with a wooden stake,” he said. “He’s an American named Trent Tripp. The Paris murder is connected to our Denver case, Cameron Leigh, who was killed the exact same way. Cameron Leigh, in turn, is somehow connected to the disappearance of Jena Vellone. I don’t know exactly how, yet, but there is definitely a connection. Right now, at this second, Trent Tripp is our strongest lead to finding Jena Vellone.”

  Someone coughed.

  Teffinger looked at the person.

  It was Chief Tanker.

  “We’re not on the Jena Vellone case,” he said.

  Teffinger nodded.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” he said. “I misspoke. Trent Tripp is connected to the murder of Cameron Leigh, which is our case. So we’re going to do everything in our power to find him and catch him as soon as we can.”

  Teffinger handed out assignments.

  Get a warrant out for his arrest.

  Find out what credit cards he has, get his most recent charges, and get notified of all future charges as soon as they take place; same thing with respect to his phone calls.

  Get his face on TV.

  Find out what he’s driving and get a BOLO out.

  On and on.

  “You don’t think he stayed in New York?” someone asked.

  Teffinger answered immediately.

  “No, he’s in Denver.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because there’s too much going on for him to not be here,” Teffinger said.

  AFTER THE MEETING BROKE, Teffinger met with Tanker in the chief’s office, and told him about the new lead involving Destiny Moon in Seattle. “We need to run that down, right now, this minute,” Teffinger said. “But I don’t want to get you into another mess like I did out in San Francisco.”

  Tanker wrinkled his forehead.

  “Let me make a few calls,” he said.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  TRIPP GAGGED AND HOGTIED his new captive, Geneva Vellone, who wore a pink T-shirt and nothing else. He ran down the road, got the Impala and pulled to the rear of her house. He threw her in the trunk and then drove to the abandoned warehouse and parked behind the building next to the rear door. He ran up the fire escape, unchained the lock and entered. Then he grabbed a flashlight and bounded down the interior stairwell two steps at a time with the yellow beam bouncing eerily in front of him. At street level, he opened the door.

  His heart raced.

  He scouted around.

  This was the tricky part.

  He had to be absolutely sure no one saw him lifting a body out of the vehicle and carrying it into the building. If anyone saw that, even one person, they’d call the cops.

  Guaranteed.

  He opened the trunk and then looked in every direction.

  Side to side.

  Up and down.

  Everywhere.

  He saw no one.

  He heard nothing, other than the city traffic in the distance, and a dog barking a ways off. No vehicles were entering the alley. He’d be able to hear them.

  He picked the woman up.

  She wasn’t heavy.

  A hundred and fifteen pounds at best.

  He took four quick steps and had her inside the building.

  THE PERIOD OF EXPOSURE couldn’t have been more than five seconds. He set the woman on the floor, stuffed the flashlight in his rear pants pocket, stepped back outside, and closed the door. He tried the handle to make absolutely sure it had locked. Then he fired up the Impala and parked it in a $3.00-Maximum lot five blocks away. He walked back to the warehouse, down the alley and up the fire escape, two steps at a time.

  Inside the building, he chained the top door shut.

  There.

  The building was totally secure again.

  He took the stairwell down to the first floor, picked up his victim, and carried her to the top floor.

  She was conscious now.

  And struggled as best she could.

  But the way she was tied, her twists and turns were hardly noticeable. They didn’t do anything other than emphasize how helpless she was.

  Which got him excited.

  Very excited.

  So excited, in fact, that he decided to show his little captive what a good lover he was. He put her on the floor, on her stomach, and ran his hands over her body.

  “Foreplay,” he told her.

  Muffled words came from behind her gag.

  Unintelligible.

  Garbled.

  “What’s that?” Tripp said. “More?”

  She struggled.

  So nice.

  He stood up and took his pants off.

  Then his cell phone rang.

  HE FOLLOWED THE SOUND to his pants pocket and answered on the last ring. Jake VanDeventer’s voice came through.

  Stressed.

  “What the hell’s going on?” VanDeventer asked.

  Tripp was confused.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your picture, man—it’s all over the news.”

  “What?”

  “They got your picture, they know your name, they even know you rented an Impala.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You, man,” VanDeventer said. “They have an arrest warrant out for you.”

  “Arrest warrant? For what?”

  “For Cameron Leigh.”

  “The vampire?”

  Yes.

  Her.

  “Hell, I wasn’t even in town when she got killed,” Tripp said. “This is stupid.”

  “Stupid or not, there’s a major manhunt going on for your ass. Where are you?”

  Tripp almost told him.

  But decided it would be best if even he didn’t know.

  “Somewhere safe,” he said.

  “Here’s the plan,” VanDeventer said. “I’m taking the first flight to Denver to get you out of there. There’s a public parking lot at 20th and Broadway. Be there at nine o’clock sharp, on the north side. As soon as we hang up, turn your cell phone off—it probably has a GPS chip in it. Don’t use any credit cards. Stay out of sight. Wherever you are right now, get out of there. The cops might be closing in.”

  They hung up.

  Tripp immediately turned his phone off.

  HE PULLED ON HIS PANTS, kicked Geneva Vellone in the ribs, and got the hell out of the warehouse, being sure it was locked behind him.

  He walked briskly.

  Away from downtown.

  Away from where the Impala was parked.

  He kept his eyes peeled for cop cars.

  One approached from behind.

  Tripp kneeled down, ostensibly to tie his shoe.

  He kept his face pointed away.

  The cop slowed down but didn’t stop; then turned at the corner. A bus came up the street and started slowing down. Tripp realized that he was walking right next to a bus stop. He almost got on, but didn’t because the driver would look at him while he climbed in.

  He approached an intersection.

&n
bsp; A red pickup truck pulled up and stopped.

  Tripp powered his cell phone back up, cut across the street behind the pickup truck, and tossed the phone in the truck bed when he got to the driver’s blind spot.

  Then he continued walking.

  The light changed and the truck drove off.

  “Chase that,” he said.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  THE AFTERNOON REHEARSAL at the Old Orleans should have taken Rave’s mind off Cameron Leigh, but it didn’t, even though the two new songs worked out perfectly. It wasn’t until Parker showed up halfway through the session that Rave relaxed.

  He sat with London at the bar.

  Not able to take his eyes off Rave.

  Engrossed.

  When the session was over, Tim Pepper came up to the stage and said, “Let me talk to you a minute.” There was something weird in his eyes that Rave had never seen before. It reminded her of London’s warning that Pepper might somehow be involved in all this. Pepper grabbed her by the arm, just above the elbow, and led her to the dressing room and shut the door.

  Rave tensed.

  This was strange.

  Very strange.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  “Let me ask you something real quick,” she said. “I heard a song on the radio the other day by a group called La Femme. Is that the same one that you mentioned before?”

  Pepper looked defensive.

  “Probably,” he said. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering,” Rave said. “The song was really good. Are you managing them?”

  Pepper frowned.

  “I did once,” he said. “They’re not together anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  TEFFINGER WAS DRIVING north on Broadway when Katie Baxter called, sounding as if she had just stepped out of a roller coaster.

  “Do you have a GPS with you?” she asked.

  “Hold on.”

  Teffinger asked Sydney.

  Then told Baxter, “No, why?”

  “Okay,” Baxter said. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way. I have Trent Tripp’s cell phone company on the other line. His phone has a GPS chip and they’re feeding me the coordinates. Right now he’s near 16th and Washington.”

  Teffinger slapped his hand on the dash.

  “We’re on our way!”

  “Don’t be obvious,” she said. “This is going to be tricky. When I get the coordinates, I’m punching them into the computer and—”

  “—yeah, I know how it works,” Teffinger said.

  Five minutes later they chased down a red Tacoma, got the driver on the ground, and found the cell phone in the bed. After they checked the guy out, Teffinger helped him up, said “Sorry,” and explained what had just happened.

  “Someone threw the phone in your bed,” Teffinger said. “I don’t suppose you saw him.”

  No.

  The man didn’t.

  “We’re going to need a detailed account of where this truck has been,” Teffinger.

  The guy grunted.

  “It’s been all over,” he said.

  “Of course it has,” Teffinger said. “That’s the way my life works.”

  TEFFINGER WAS HALFWAY DONE taking the man’s statement when his phone rang and Chief Tanker’s voice came through. “I just got a call from a friend,” he said. “Geneva Vellone was supposed to be at some kind of important radio meeting at four o’clock. She didn’t show up and isn’t answering her phone. He wanted me to look into it, in light of the fact that she’s been doing this stupid exchange talk.”

  “I just saw her earlier this afternoon,” Teffinger said.

  “You did?”

  Yes.

  “She was fine,” Teffinger said.

  “What was she doing?”

  “She was at her house, taking a shower,” Teffinger said. “Probably getting ready for that meeting, in hindsight.”

  “So why didn’t she go?” Tanker asked.

  Teffinger swallowed.

  “She might have gotten herself into trouble.” Then he told Tanker about the message on Geneva’s answering machine. “Hold on, let me try to call her.” He switched to the other line, dialed and got no answer. Then he switched back to Tanker and said, “I’m going to drive out and check on her.”

  “Do that,” Tanker said. “Call me as soon as you get there.”

  Teffinger hung up.

  The pickup driver looked at him.

  Waiting to finish his statement.

  Teffinger took a business card out of his wallet, wrote Katie Baxter’s name and cell phone number on the back, and handed it to the man.

  “Call this person and give her the rest of your statement,” he said. “Please and thank you. I have an emergency.”

  The man looked confused.

  “What?” Teffinger asked.

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  Teffinger reached into his pocket for a dollar but only had a five. He hesitated and then handed it to the man. “Call from a payphone.”

  He pointed the front end of the 4Runner towards Geneva Vellone’s house and stepped on the gas.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  WEARING DARK SUNGLASSES and a baseball cap, Tripp sat in the rear seat of an RTD bus, nonchalantly got off a mile from Rave Lafelle’s house and then walked the rest of the way under an increasingly stormy sky.

  The wind blew.

  It felt good.

  Wild.

  He saw no vehicles in the driveway as he approached. He walked towards the house like he owned it, headed to the back, and knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  Good.

  He tried the doorknob, found it locked, and busted the glass with his elbow. He reached in, undid the deadbolt and entered. A white cat trotted over to meet him; the same one that had been at Nick Teffinger’s house in Green Mountain.

  Tripp picked it up and petted it.

  “So, you’re over here now, huh?”

  Good.

  That meant that the vampire hadn’t abandoned ship and run off to some other part of the world. She’d be home, sooner or later. And when she showed up, she would die.

  Whatever it took, she would die.

  No matter how messy.

  No matter how loud.

  No matter how many protectors Tripp would have to kill first.

  Tripp owed that much to VanDeventer, at a minimum, for coming back to Denver to extract him.

  He made a sandwich.

  And washed it down with a Diet Pepsi.

  Then he scouted around for weapons. Within ten minutes he assembled a number of knives, a hammer and a crowbar. He broke a wooden leg off one of the kitchen chairs, sat down in the vampire’s bedroom, and whittled it to a point as he waited.

  Come on.

  It’s show time.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  AFTER THE REHEARSAL, Rave and London caught a late lunch at a mom-and-pop diner on south Broadway, then headed to Rave’s place. They were just getting out of the car and walking to the front door when Rave’s phone rang.

  It turned out to be Parker.

  More excited than Rave had ever heard him.

  “Have you seen the news?” he asked.

  She inserted the key into the lock.

  No.

  She hadn’t.

  “There’s a massive manhunt going on right now for someone named Trent Tripp,” he said.

  Rave turned the key.

  “Who’s Trent Tripp?”

  “He’s wanted by the police in connection w
ith the Cameron Leigh murder,” Parker said. “My guess is he’s a slayer.”

  Rave pushed the door open, pulled the key out and stepped inside the house. She asked London over her shoulder, “Does the name Trent Tripp ring a bell with you?”

  “No.”

  “Me and London never heard of him,” Rave said.

  “Yeah, well I think you know him,” Parker said. “The physical description of this guy matches the man who followed you to Rooney Road; the one who killed Forrest.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes, he’s big, about six-four,” Parker said. “Where are you right now?”

  “Just got home,” Rave said.

  She kicked off her tennis shoes and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Alley ran over and London picked him up. “There’s my little baby,” she said.

  “Listen,” Parker said, “We finally have the name and face of one of the slayers. Turn on your TV and see if you can find a news report; see if this Trent Tripp is the same guy you saw on Rooney Road.”

  “Sure.”

  Rave walked over to coffee table, picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV and clicked.

  “I’m doing it,” she said.

  “One more thing,” Parker said. “If this guy is the slayer, he might feel his time’s up and this is his last chance to get you. What I really think you should do is get out of that house, right now.”

  Rave ran the scenarios.

  She had a gig tonight.

  She needed a shower.

  Her clothes and makeup were all here at the house.

  On the other hand, Parker sounded more stressed than she had ever heard him. It wouldn’t be impossible to pack everything up and check into a hotel.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to gather a few things and be out of here in five minutes. I’m going to need a hotel, though.”

  “Meet me at the Adam’s Mark Hotel downtown,” Parker said. “I’ll check in and get a room going.”

  “Love you,” Rave said.

  “Ditto.”

  She hung up.

  London said, “I’m going to take a quick shower,” and headed for the master bathroom. Ten seconds later, the woman let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Day Eight—April 19