Witness Chase (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  She had to talk to senior partner Michael Northway, Esq., right away, this very minute. Whatever was going on was somehow connected to the little stunt they pulled last May.

  That much was clear.

  Chapter Two

  Day One - April 16

  Monday Morning

  ____________

  THE THING THAT IMPRESSED KELLY the most about Holland, Roberts & Northway, LLC, when they flew her out from Cleveland to interview four years ago, wasn’t the grandeur of the offices, or the ivy-league credentials of the attorneys, or the sheer size of the firm, or the list of clients that read like a Who’s Who of the big and relevant. Most established firms had that tapestry in one weave or another. The thing that made the deepest, most lasting impression was that Michael Northway himself picked her up at the airport. Now here's a man whose legal commentary you could catch with increasing regularity on CNN, personally driving to the airport, parking the car, making the trek inside, and then waiting for her with the masses, like she was somebody and he didn’t have a single other thing in the world to do.

  She reached the top floor of the firm.

  There the staircase entered the Jungle, a one-of-a-kind space designed by Alan Willbanks out of New York, built for no other reason than to impress the hell out of clients. Brown cobblestone paths wandered through dense jungle foliage and water features. At the top of the stairs she walked around the Piranha display, then to the left past six suites, where the path eventually ended at the desk of Lori Chambers, Northway’s executive assistant.

  “Lori, hi,” she said. “Tell me Michael’s in or I’m going to scream.”

  Lori, a Marilyn Monroe type, the third in fact of that particular genre to sit at that desk, looked sympathetic. “He is, but barely. I’m dragging him out of there at nine-fifteen for the airport. And even that’s pressing it.”

  Kelly looked at her watch, seven after, meaning an eight-minute window. “Where’s he going?”

  “The D.C. office.”

  “How long?”

  “Until Friday.”

  “Damn it. Okay, I’m going to have to interrupt him,” she said, heading for the door that, at the moment, was closed.

  INSIDE, SHE FOUND NORTHWAY sitting behind his desk, feet propped up, talking on the phone with someone he appeared to enjoy very much judging from the look on his face. She sensed a woman. He waved her in and looked glad to see her. She closed the door, took a chair, crossed her legs, pulled her skirt up just a touch and waited.

  The wall behind him was covered with photographs, mostly Michael with people of recognition—politicians, athletes, actors, businessmen—and not just standing together for some quick snapshot at some public relations function but really doing things; deep sea fishing, sailing off Bermuda, climbing fourteeners in the San Juan mountains, biking in Aspen . . .

  One picture in particular always captivated her—namely Michael sitting on the bench of the United States District Court for the District of Colorado, wearing a black robe with a thoughtful, pensive expression. That picture above all else defined him. Who else could have left the firm to take an appointment as a federal judge, only to then resign the position of power and lifetime tenure three years later to return to private practice? As far as she knew he’d been the only person in history to do that, at least that quick and that young.

  “All the fights have other people in them,” he said. “You’re just the referee. Where’s the fun in that?”

  He’s an attractive man, with an ability to turn on a waterfall of charisma at will, who now spends most of his waking hours trading favors, doing them and getting them at levels that most people don’t even know exist. Technically he’s the manager of the law firm’s Employment Law Department, a group of more than sixty lawyers. Un-technically he’s the firm’s principal rainmaker, not to mention a bare-knuckles, much-feared trial lawyer.

  The minute he hung up she spoke.

  “Michael, two people from homicide showed up at my office this morning, out of the blue. Do you remember D’endra Vaughn?”

  His face wrinkled as if recalling a name he’d rather not. “Of course.”

  “Well, she’s dead,” she said. With that, she told him everything she knew so far, including the fact that someone telephoned her on Sunday using D’endra Vaughn’s cell phone, which Teffinger interpreted as a possible warning that she was next. She studied his expression as she told the story and couldn’t help but notice the furrow slowly growing between his eyes.

  “The only thing in my life that connects me to D’endra Vaughn is last May,” she said. “Whatever it is that’s going on is somehow tied to that.”

  SHE WAS REFERRING TO THE EVENT that took place almost a year ago. Senior partner Michael Northway walked into her lowly little associate office one day, closed the door, fumbled around, and said, “Kelly, I need your help. The firm needs it, to be precise.”

  She knew from the tone of his voice that he had something serious on his mind.

  She took off her reading glasses, set them on the desk and looked at him.

  “How so?”

  He hesitated, as if caught in indecision.

  “This is going to seem a little out of the ordinary. I’m going to propose something, but before I do, I want you to know up-front that you don’t have to do it. I want to be absolutely one hundred percent clear about that. Do you understand?”

  “You sound like you want me to kill someone.”

  “Hardly, but it is something serious. And I guess, technically speaking, maybe a little illegal.”

  “Michael . . .”

  “Think of it as client development,” he said, “if you really want to get to the heart of it. Client development at its most basic, primitive, ugly level. All I ask is that if you feel this is beyond you, this conversation never happened. I mean you mention it to no one, ever.” He paused, then added, “I need that assurance before I can continue.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Your name came up because we felt you could be trusted.”

  “We?”

  “Some people here in the firm,” he said. “I can’t tell you any more than that right now. So, have I totally freaked you out? I can leave, just say the word . . .”

  She didn’t hesitate. “There’s no way in hell you’re going to get out of here alive without telling me what in the world you’re up to.”

  “You’re sure? There’s absolutely no repercussions if you . . .”

  “God, Michael. You’re like a vibrator on slow speed.”

  He laughed and seemed to picture it.

  “Okay, but remember, after I outline this, you can say no. Agreed?”

  “Fine.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let me give you a little background first. This is a firm that’s always helped people. Most of the time, ninety-nine percent of the time, that simply means providing first-class legal services or trading a little politics or making a special phone call. But sometimes, once in a great while, it means something more than that. On rare occasions, and only for very special friends of the firm, it means getting something done for them.”

  He looked at her as if waiting for a reaction.

  “Talk about vague . . .”

  “Okay,” he said. “On unique occasions, when it comes to our attention that a client has a bona fide need, there’s a small group of people here in the firm that gets together to discuss it. I happen to be one of the people in that group. I also serve as the spokesperson of that group for meetings like the one you and I are having right now.”

  “So who all’s in this group?”

  “That’s not relevant right now. And to be honest, never will be. That’s why we only have one visible spokesman.”

  “Can you at least tell me how many . . .”

  “Even that . . . no . . . it varies.” He looked at her, sympathetic. “I know this is unfair, but it has to work this way. You look hesitant.”

  “Not hesitant, surprised. I had no idea that
anything like this was going on.”

  “Few do. Even most of the partners around here don’t know, which is why, no matter what else happens, you have to keep this quiet.”

  She nodded.

  She would do that.

  “But getting back to the point, we recently came across a situation that required the group’s attention. I can’t give you all the details, but here’s the gist of it. Someone very relevant to the firm is interested in helping a young woman by the name of Alicia Elmblade.”

  “Alicia Elmblade?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why does he want to help her?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a good question. But it’s a piece of information that he hasn’t volunteered,” Northway said. “We do know, however, that it’s very important to him to help her and he’s let us know that in no uncertain terms. That makes it important to us.”

  “Is she a mistress or something?”

  “I don’t know.” A pause. “To be honest, she could be. She’s a stripper.”

  “A stripper?”

  He nodded.

  Kelly cocked her head.

  “Don’t tell me. He’s married and she’s pregnant.”

  “No,” Northway said. “It’s not that. It’s something else.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “Meaning she wants to disappear off the face of the earth,” he said. “She wants something to happen to make it look like she’s dead. She wants to fake her own death.”

  “Why?”

  “Another good question.”

  “Jesus, Michael,” Kelly said. “This sounds strange. Are the cops after her or something? How do you know you’re not participating in a scheme to hide a fugitive?”

  “No,” he said, chuckling. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do,” he said. “Trust me.”

  “This is so convoluted. I mean, we’re lawyers, aren’t we?”

  He looked at her and she could feel him sizing her up.

  She exhaled, weighed and balanced it for a split-second, then looked in his eyes.

  “Okay, the client wants to help this woman, who in turn wants to disappear.”

  “Right, disappear in such a way that no one would ever try to find her, because she’s dead. We’ve already come up with a plan. Let me tell you how you fit in, if you agree to help.”

  Chapter Three

  One Year Earlier

  ____________

  THREE DAYS AFTER THAT CONVERSATION with Northway, on a creepy moonless night in May almost a year ago now, Kelly sat alone in the dark behind the steering wheel of her 3-Series BMW, parked on the shoulder of a beat-up country road a half mile down from an equally beat-up place called Rick’s Gas Station.

  Waiting.

  She was excited but apprehensive.

  She was excited that Michael Northway and other still unknown but obviously high-ranking partners trusted her enough to do this.

  She was apprehensive about breaking the law.

  What they were about to do, although innocent enough looking at first blush, was actually serious business. She’d spent a couple of unsettling hours in the library looking up the statutes and the case law. Once it was done, if caught, they could be prosecuted under a number of felony offenses including perjury, obstruction of justice and conspiracy. Hell, they were already guilty of conspiracy. And there’s no shortage of prosecutors around who would love nothing more than to notch their belt with the high and mighty.

  Suddenly lights appeared behind her—a car approached.

  It slowed, pulled up next to her and stopped.

  A touch of dust kicked up.

  It loomed there as a large black shadow, darker than the night but not by much, and she recognized it as a van. Inside Northway sat behind the wheel, his face tight and faintly illuminated from underneath by the dashboard lights, motioning for her to roll her window down. She inhaled, turned the key to auxiliary power and brought down the glass. The sound of the van’s engine abruptly burst through the open window, punctuated by a fan belt given to slipping and squealing.

  He stayed behind the wheel and leaned toward her as far as he could.

  “They haven’t come by yet, have they?”

  His voice was tense and anxious—so tight in fact that she caught the feeling herself.

  “No.”

  He exhaled, and the furrow between his eyes visibly eased back.

  “Where have you been?” she questioned. “You’re late.”

  “Traffic. Are you ready?”

  She hesitated.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound sure. You need to be sure. We can’t afford . . .”

  She cut him off.

  “I’m sure. Your getting here late didn’t help anything, that’s all.”

  He looked at her hard, glanced at his watch and then at the rearview mirror.

  “They should be here any minute. I’ll give them a five-minute head start, time to gas up and get positioned. When I leave, give me thirty seconds before you take off. Then bring your speed up to twenty-five and hold it there . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I know you know. I’m just being sure.”

  “Thirty seconds, twenty-five miles an hour. Relax.”

  “Watch my taillights. If you get too close, back off. Timing is everything.” He looked at her and she looked back at him, realizing that this was it. “Okay, point of no return. Anything else?”

  She thought about it.

  Was there anything else?

  If so, it wasn’t popping up in neon.

  They talked it over at lunch, twice. She drove the area yesterday and knew the layout. She played it out repeatedly in her mind, running through What Ifs one after the other. The cell phone signal was strong, no problems there.

  But something was out of place.

  What?

  The van?

  The weirdness of seeing Michael out here in the dark?

  “Where’d you get the van?” she questioned.

  “Borrowed it.”

  A beat, then, “If we get caught . . .”

  He cut her off.

  “We won’t.”

  SUDDENLY THERE WAS A LIGHT ON HIS FACE, a flicker of illumination present and then gone, and she realized that headlights from behind them were reflecting in his rearview mirror and into his eyes. She twisted and saw them, snaking up the road, punching out fleeting images of trees and brush and asphalt as they approached. They looked eerie and for a brief moment she wondered if she was really going to go through with this, but knew that she had already come too far to go back.

  He turned his eyes from the rearview mirror and looked at her.

  “Looks like we’re up.”

  She nodded.

  “See you in hell.”

  He smiled.

  “Dramatic. I like that.”

  Northway pulled up in front of her, on the shoulder, and waited with the engine running, looking in the driver’s side rearview mirror at the approaching car. From behind, the headlights grew brighter. The inside of her car started to light up. She turned on her parking lights as a safety precaution and the dashboard sprang to life. She could hear the whine of the approaching car’s tires now.

  It pulled up next to her and stopped. There were three figures inside, all women, she could tell that from the hair and profiles, two in the front and one in the back. She could see well enough to tell that she didn’t know any of them. The sound of a radio dropped off, she could hear them talking to one another, but couldn’t make out the words. Then she saw Michael with his arm out the window, waving them forward, and they must have seen it too because they pulled up next to him and stopped. She heard a brief exchange of words, laughter, then more talk. Then they took off. Whoever was in the passenger seat waved an arm out the window. The whole thing reminded her a little of high school, when they’d pull over somewhere and d
ecide whether to head to Dairy Queen or down by the river.

  She looked at her watch.

  Ten fifteen.

  With luck she’d be home by midnight.

  There was nothing to do now but wait—wait for five minutes, then Michael would take off; wait for another thirty seconds, then she’d take off. Wait and hope that another car didn’t come along and screw things up.

  SHE SHIFTED IN HER SEAT and tried to clear her head.

  Tomorrow morning would be busy.

  Russell Travis, the horniest man on the face of the earth, wanted to meet her for an early breakfast at the Brown Palace, ostensibly to discuss his case. He put in the infrastructure for an upscale residential subdivision and then enticed five builders to construct spec houses, at their cost, with an understanding that anyone who bought a lot in the future in the subdivision would have to use one of the five ‘approved’ builders to construct their house. Now, some jerk wanted to buy a lot and use an outside builder. Travis wouldn’t sell the lot to him. So the want-to-be buyer sued, claiming that the approved-builder system was an illegal tying arrangement, an antitrust violation, in that someone couldn’t buy a lot without being tied to a group of five particular builders. Travis wanted to discuss defense strategy. Emmit Jackson, one of the firm’s law clerks, was researching the law for her. He was supposed to e-mail her a memo by nine tonight, but it hadn’t showed up by a quarter to when she left the house. Worst-case scenario, she’d fill the breakfast with smiles and let Travis spend some time with a younger woman.

  Maybe she’d wear the black skirt and a white sleeveless blouse if he was lucky.

  SUDDENLY MICHAEL STARTED OFF, with a short honk and a rigid thumbs up. Kelly fired up the engine—it started just the way it was supposed to, bless those Germans—then looked at her watch. It didn’t have a second-hand. The realization unnerved her. So basic, yet missed.

  What else had she overlooked?

  No time.

  One thousand one.

  One thousand two.

  One thousand three . . .

  One thousand thirty.

  Pulling out, according to plan, she brought the car up to twenty-five and held it there. The half-mile to Rick’s Gas Station took no time. The place was a two-pump, paint-peeling shack with a neon sign in the window that said Bait and another one that said Coors Light. No video cameras, which is why they chose it. The women’s car, now recognizable as an old green four-door sedan, sat on one side of the pump, the side closest to the station. Northway’s van sat on the other side. At first Kelly didn’t see any movement and wondered if something had gone wrong.