Witness Chase (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  When they actually paced it off though, it was one step farther.

  This month’s edition of Old Car Trader sat on his desk, dog-eared to the 1967 Corvettes. He didn’t much care for the new Vettes, but the old ones, the midyears from 1963 to 1967, were works of art. The 1953s to 1962s were nice, too, but he really couldn’t picture himself driving a single-axle car with drum brakes. And he would drive it, if he ever got one. No trailer queens for him. Yes, the midyears were the ones to have. And of those, the 1967 was the keeper—dual brake solenoids, parking brake in the center console instead of up near the dash, and the last good Vette made before the Sharks came out and ruined everything in 1968. A major step backwards, that, if you asked him. But the 1967s were pricey, even the small blocks.

  HE SPOTTED PAUL KWAK’S FORENSIC REPORT in the D’endra Vaughn case sitting next to the Old Car Trader, a pleasant surprise, and started thumbing through it while the coffee machine gurgled.

  A considerable amount of trace evidence had been collected from the scene. A large number of hairs had been collected from hairbrushes, the bathrooms, the shower drain traps, the carpeting, clothing, the victim’s car and other locations. Items that may have come in contact with a person’s mouth had been collected. A large number of fingerprints had been lifted. The bedding, of course, had been bagged. It contained blood, urine, saliva and semen. Three footprints had been lifted from one area in the backyard where the ground sunk down and held the moisture. Because of that, Kwak had coordinated with the scribe, obtained the names of everyone who had been at the crime scene, including the medical responders, and taken imprints of their shoes, so as to be able to rule them out.

  Now the ball was in Teffinger’s court.

  What items, if any, did he want DNA tested at this time?

  Did he want the testing expedited?

  Obviously much of the DNA evidence would point to the boyfriend, Aaron Whitecliff. But they already had his statement that he was there the night the woman was killed. Plus, he reported having sex with her.

  Before he could make a decision his morning got sucked into a series of meetings and a pile of must-have-by-yesterday paperwork.

  SYDNEY SHOWED UP shortly after noon looking harried. She waved at him, stopped for coffee, fell into a chair at his desk and crossed her legs. She took a noisy slurp from the white Styrofoam cup and wrinkled her face. “This stuff sucks,” she said. “We need to get some Starbucks in here.”

  Teffinger cocked his head.

  “D’endra Vaughn. What do we have so far in common between her and the lawyer, Kelly Ravenfield? Anything?” He threw his legs up on the end of the desk, facing away from her so she wouldn’t have to look at the bottom of his shoes.

  She shook her head and made a sour face.

  “So far there’s no overlap at all that I can tell, other than the obvious, they’re both attractive women and they’re both white. Other than that, though, they have totally different friends; that was the thing I looked at the hardest. They also went to different colleges, never worked for the same employer or even in the same building, they have different hairdressers, they live in different neighborhoods, they have different interests . . . what else? . . . oh, yeah, they do have the same bank but different branches, they go on different types of vacations, they were raised in different states, they have very different money—a lot like you and me—that’s about it. Different, different, different.”

  “Different parents?”

  She made a face.

  “Bad, even for you.”

  Teffinger narrowed his eyes.

  Both attractive women.

  If the man they were looking for was nothing more than a garden-variety hunter, the link may be nothing more than that. They both turned him on.

  “How’s our lawyer-friend been, cooperative?”

  Heatherwood smiled.

  “Kelly Ravenfield? She asks a lot of questions about you.”

  He kept his face blank, with some effort.

  “And?”

  “And I lie, on your behalf.” She leaned forward. “Are you going to make a move on her, or what?”

  He grunted.

  “Here we go . . .”

  “She’d be good for you, Nick. She’s down to earth, mature, and emotionally stable. You could do worse.”

  “Don’t say it . . .”

  “Got to, and have. And I’ll bet you one of those stupid old Corvettes that you’re always drooling over that she’s good in bed, too. She has a tattoo on her ass, you know what that means.”

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “What of?”

  “A butterfly.”

  “You saw it?”

  “No,” she said. “I just asked her if she had any since the D’endra woman did.”

  “Don’t tell me, different tattoo shops.”

  “Different countries, even. The lawyer got hers down in Mexico. She has quite a story to go with it, smashed on Tequila, spring break, second year of law school. The way she tells it is hilarious. She said she couldn’t sit down for two days. I like her, Nick. You ought to go for it. She’s got a wild side. You wouldn’t be bored.”

  He picked up a pencil and wove it through his fingers.

  “A butterfly, huh?”

  “Smack dab on her lily white ass.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Let me know how big,” Sydney said.

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “Get those wings flapping,” she added.

  He laughed, picturing it.

  Then, more serious, “I’ll take anything you can get me at this point—a place where he may have run into both of them, a restaurant, a store, a park, I don’t care how vague, just something I can put my hands around and squeeze.”

  She didn’t seem enthused.

  “I’d like to, Nick, but I’ve about run out of rocks to look under.”

  He could read the look on her face. “Well, keep thinking,” he said. “Let’s talk about the mystery money that Whitecliff says she had. Where we at on that?”

  She took a noisy slurp of coffee and seemed to brighten.

  “I’ve been able to rule out an inheritance.”

  Teffinger was intrigued.

  “So it really is mystery money.”

  Heatherwood nodded.

  “Apparently so. I’m getting a pretty good list of her friends and I’ve taken about seven phone interviews so far but haven’t seen anything yet that gets me wet.”

  He winced.

  “Two words. H and R.”

  “What, gets me wet?” she questioned.

  He nodded.

  “Okay, let me rephrase it,” she said. “I haven’t seen anything yet that would give you a hard-on.”

  He shook his head and smiled, then said, “I keep thinking, if she came into money that she wanted to keep quiet, where would she get it? Maybe she blackmailed someone, and then later he finds out who she is and takes her out. Or maybe she was involved in some kind of Bonnie and Clyde deal and later Clyde decides that he really can’t afford a loose Bonnie running around. Something like that.”

  She smiled. “Bonnie would be turning over in her grave if she knew you were comparing her to a school teacher. I mean, give the woman a little respect.”

  He grinned and grabbed his coffee cup. “Refill?”

  “I’ll walk over with you.”

  He poured for both of them and had another thought.

  “I’m not totally convinced that this Aaron Whitecliff isn’t worth squeezing some more, too. I have a gut feeling that he didn’t tell us about the mystery money before because he’s involved in it. Do you believe that he’s banging her for a year but never knew where the money came from?”

  “It seems thin.”

  “Paper,” Teffinger said.

  “You said, banging her.”

  He looked at her, as if confused.

  “And?”

  “And you can say banging her but I can’t say gets me wet?”

 
“They’re different.”

  “They are?”

  “Dramatically.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me to check with HR, just to be positive? Maybe Beverly would be kind enough to give us a professional opinion.”

  He smiled. “Oh, I’m sure she would.”

  SERGEANT KATIE BAXTER WALKED into the room and Teffinger waved her over. She was a catcher of things since her tomboy days, with short wash-and-blow hair, a pleasant face, and an easy smile for just about everyone. She never flaunted her chest but Teffinger didn’t know a man in the department who wouldn’t lay down a twenty for a peek.

  She walked over to the coffee machine, poured a cup, added creamer and no-calorie sugar, took a careful sip and then pulled up a chair and joined them.

  “Chicago’s coming to the Buell,” Baxter said.

  Teffinger was shocked. He’d watched the DVD about a hundred times but always thought he’d have to go to New York to see it live.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really, and to remind you, you really said you’d take me if it ever did.”

  Ouch, expensive.

  “You’re thinking of someone else, someone nice.”

  “And me too,” Sydney reminded him.

  Teffinger waved his hands in surrender.

  “I’ll get the tickets.”

  Sydney looked at Baxter. “Get ready for the last row, far right, by the kitchen and the elevator.” Then added, “With a post obstruction.”

  Baxter laughed, then got serious. “Did you hear about Megan Bennett?”

  Teffinger recognized the change in her voice and focused. Megan Bennett was the woman who had the fight outside her house, with the two dead Crips.

  “No, what?”

  “She’s missing.”

  “Since when?” he questioned.

  “Since sometime last night, apparently.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Day Four - April 19

  Thursday Noon

  ___________

  WHEN TEFFINGER WALKED into the interview room, a young woman was sitting at the wooden desk with a look on her face, the kind you see in a dentist’s office. On the table in front of her sat an unopened Diet Pepsi. She had raven black hair and pale alabaster skin, almost a gothic look, minus the black lipstick and face piercing. She was Jasmine Temple, one of Megan Bennett’s two roommates.

  Detective Richardson had been assigned as the primary detective in charge of the two killings that had taken place at Megan Bennett’s house, so he took the lead in the interview and got her talking while Teffinger sat back and watched. Richardson had a boyish face that belied the mind behind the eyes.

  “Jackie and me drove back from Breckenridge this morning,” she explained. “I dropped her off at her boyfriend’s over by Wash Park and then went home. Megan was missing.”

  The long and short of the roommate’s story was that Megan Bennett’s six o’clock radio alarm had never been turned off, she wasn’t home, she hadn’t shown up for work, she didn’t leave a note, there was no sign of forced entry, and her car was still parked outside on the street. Her tennis shoes were gone and so was her purse.

  “Maybe someone called her on an emergency basis during the night and picked her up,” Richardson speculated. “Whose name is the phone in?”

  “Mine.”

  He nodded.

  “Good. We’re going to want you to sign a letter to the phone company authorizing them to release your phone records from last night to us. We’ll fax it over to them.”

  “You need my permission for that?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. That or paper.”

  They talked for another twenty minutes. At the end Teffinger felt the need to say something positive. “Ninety-nine percent of the people who seem like they’re missing or are reported as missing actually aren’t. They’re somewhere and they show up, usually with an explanation that you wouldn’t have thought of in a thousand years. That’s why we usually wait seventy-two hours before we take a missing person’s report.”

  She looked at him.

  “But you’re not waiting this time.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “No.”

  “So your pep talk is pretty much bullshit.”

  He shrugged.

  “Pretty much.”

  WHEN SHE LEFT, TEFFINGER AND RICHARDSON had the same thought—the white man who killed the two Crips had returned to eliminate a witness. “Some of the blood that ended up on the ground the other night has to belong to this white guy,” Teffinger said. “Let’s get going with the DNA testing.”

  “You wanted it expedited, then?”

  “Expedited to death.”

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER THE FAX MACHINE GURGLED. The sound made Teffinger realize that the room was quiet and everyone else had gone home. He wandered over. The fax was from the phone company, bless their hearts. Someone had called Megan Bennett’s number at 11:47 last night. The call came from a pay phone located at a Total, not more than three blocks away from her house. It lasted only one minute.

  He picked up his jacket and headed down the hall, past the elevators, to the stairs.

  Maybe the store had something on videotape.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day Four - April 19

  Thursday Noon

  ___________

  NORMALLY, KELLY LOVED downtown Denver at lunchtime. There was energy in the air and you could push the workday aside for a precious few minutes, stretch your legs and take a deep breath of life. But she didn’t feel like that today. Today she felt more like she was in a shower and someone or something had just stepped in behind her.

  She stood outside Ruffy’s on Court Place, waiting, five minutes early. People paraded back and forth. Most of the men looked in her direction as they passed. A convertible drove by and a few bars of “Satisfaction” filled the air and then dropped off.

  The day was warm but the sky was clouding up. She wouldn’t be surprised if it stormed again this afternoon.

  Nick Teffinger.

  She hadn’t seen or talked to him since that one and only meeting on Monday. She half-expected that he would have made up some excuse to call her by now but he hadn’t. Maybe he already had someone in his life—maybe that detective, Sydney Heatherwood. She had Teffinger’s business card in her wallet. Maybe she should make up some excuse and call him—give the man an opportunity to ask her out.

  FALLON SOMERVILLE SHOWED UP AT 11:30, exactly on time, looking like a model who had intentionally dressed down into khakis and a simple blouse, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Every time Kelly saw her she was astonished at how much she looked like Marilyn Monroe, except lighter and firmer.

  They hugged and Fallon’s oversized chest pressed into hers.

  “Fallon, you look great!”

  “You too. God, it’s been so long!”

  “I know.”

  “I’m going to need all the gossip,” Fallon warned.

  “Me? You’re the one suddenly all over the place.”

  Ruffy’s, a landmark restaurant-slash-bar, always filled up and formed a waiting line by a quarter to twelve. Kelly loved it, probably because it was so simple and unpretentious. It still had the old hardwood floors, nicked and scuffed like you couldn’t believe, and the chairs and booths were all red vinyl, a fashion statement from somewhere back in the dinosaur days. When you walk in there’s a bar on the right that runs the entire length of the place, with seating for at least fifty. Lots of the men like to eat right there where they can watch the news and check out the barmaids.

  Some nondescript waiter with a white apron and a lot of smiles ushered them to a booth and then disappeared.

  “So, are you still with what’s-his-name, Brad?” Kelly questioned, sliding in.

  “Blake,” Fallon corrected her. “No, he’s history.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Now I’m dating Mr. Vibrator.”

  Kelly laughed.


  “Buy stock in Eveready,” she added. “I’m serious.”

  They ordered chicken salads and passed names back and forth while the noise of the place washed over them. Fallon Somerville worked at the law firm as Michael Northway’s personal assistant for four years, before leaving six months ago to do that modeling thing, as she called it. If anyone knew what Northway was up to, or had been up to, it would be Fallon.

  “We have a situation at the firm, which is why I needed to talk to you,” Kelly explained. “This is all on the hush-hush, by the way.”

  Fallon put on a mischievous face.

  “Oooh, juicy.”

  Kelly wasn’t exactly sure how to broach the subject, or just how much to disclose. “Have you ever heard anything about a secret group in the firm? A group that Michael Northway’s in?”

  Fallon looked confused.

  “A secret group? What do you mean?”

  Kelly leaned in.

  “A group, I get the sense it’s a small one, that takes special care of important clients, something over and beyond legal services.”

  Fallon shook her head.

  “I never heard of such a thing. Who else is in it, besides Michael?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelly said. “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Huh.”

  “Supposedly most of the partners don’t even know about it.”

  “But you do?”

  Kelly nodded.

  “Michael solicited me to do something.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  Too many details wouldn’t be a good idea at this point. Fallon was a good friend and good person but not the world’s best secret-keeper. “I really can’t get into details.” Then, “Does Rick’s Gas Station mean anything to you?”

  Fallon looked genuinely confused.

  “No, nothing. Should it? Rick’s Gas Station?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, Kelly, what’s going on?” Kelly could see the frustration on her friend’s face and wanted to spill out the story but couldn’t risk having anything get back to Northway at this point, especially details that only she knew.

  She played with her fork.

  “Let’s just say I’ve got a situation that I’m trying to get my arms around. I know that’s vague but it has to be at this point. Bear with me, please. While you were with the firm, was there anything weird or unusual going on that involved Northway?”