by R. J. Jagger
“The wall’s not evidence.”
“He’d have a hard time explaining it,” Teffinger said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Jinka said. “The newspaper clippings relate to his cases. He could just say they were there to remind him they were still open. In fact, maybe that’s why he doesn’t have an article of Aspen Leigh up there, because she’s not his case, she’s mine.”
“What about your picture?”
“He could say he had a crush on me,” Jinka said. “Same for the other woman, whoever she is.”
Kanjana, Teffinger thought.
And said, “Right, whoever she is.”
“So, what do we do?”
He studied her.
“Are you still going to take me down if I kill him?”
Jinka put her arms around him, pulled him close and rested her head on his chest. Then she looked into his eyes and said, “I’ll probably rot in hell for this but No, I won’t. Not after finding out he’s got two more targets.”
“One of which is you.”
“Right, one of which is me,” she said. “It’s time that he comes to an end.”
TEFFINGER THOUGHT IT THROUGH.
Kill Petchpon.
Then get the hell back to Denver.
Until now, he’d never thought further than that. But this time he realized something else, a new factor—he didn’t want Jinka out of his life.
“Is there any way we could stop him without killing him?”
“You mean, using the legal system?”
Right.
That.
“He has too much power,” she said. “He’s spent his whole career getting dirt on people. I’m not talking about criminals, I’m talking about people of influence. He has markers he could call in that we couldn’t even dream of. This town can’t afford to see him go down. There’s too big a risk he’ll turn into a black hole that will suck everyone in.”
Teffinger tilted his head.
“That could be a good thing,” he said. “We file charges against him, tons of people see their own lives at risk and someone will take him out.”
Jinka frowned.
“It won’t get that far,” she said. “If I filed charges, I’d be the one running, not him. Even if I took pictures of his bedroom wall, it wouldn’t necessarily be incriminating. More importantly, people would want to know what I was doing in his house. I’d be the rouge cop. He’d have me arrested for filing a false report and maybe even for breaking and entering. Then he’d spend his every waking hour making sure that the system suffocated me until I was dead beyond belief. In fact, he’d probably have me killed while I was in lockup.”
Teffinger looked at the sky.
Then back at Jinka.
“We’ll kill him,” he said. “We don’t have a choice. Afterwards, I want you come to Denver.”
She hugged him.
Tight.
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” she said.
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “I mean it more than anything I’ve ever said in my entire 34-year-old life.”
Okay, then.
Done.
Yeah?
Yeah.
TEFFINGER PULLED UP A VISION of Aspen Leigh’s body underwater, caught in a root system and being nibbled away. Then he pictured his hands around Petchpon’s neck, squeezing his thumbs into the man’s throat with all his might and watching his eyes roll back into his skull.
It fit.
It fit perfectly.
“I’m going to do it with my bare hands,” he said. “When I do it, I want you to be someplace public with an ironclad alibi.”
“No way,” she said. “We’re in this together. We do it together.” Before Teffinger could respond, Jinka added, “End of discussion.”
THEY ROUNDED A BOXCAR and walked straight into one of the railroad workers. He said something animated to them in Thai. Jinka said something back. Teffinger didn’t understand the words but knew what the conversation was about.
The man was telling them they shouldn’t be there, it was private property, it was dangerous.
Jinka was apologizing.
“That wasn’t good,” Teffinger said.
He didn’t need to say more.
Jinka knew what he meant.
If Petchpon ended up dead, the railroad guy was someone who saw them near the victim’s house.
75
Day 4—August 16
Thursday Afternoon
ONE MINUTE after Teffinger and the woman passed the gondola where Wing and Jamaica were hiding, Wing’s phone rang and the voice of Tookta’s father, Jack Vutipakdee, came through from Hong Kong.
“Where we at?”
The voice was serious.
No-nonsense.
Wing stiffened.
“There’s been a development,” he said.
A beat.
Wing pictured the man’s face.
It wasn’t pretty.
“What kind of development?”
“The investigator I hired had to drop out of the case,” he said. “She developed a conflict of interest.”
Silence.
“What did she say about this supposed conflict?”
“Nothing, really, other than she’d return the retainer in full.”
“I don’t give a crap about the money.”
“I know that,” Wing said. “I only mentioned it because you asked me what else she said and that’s what she said. I’ll get it back and hire another investigator this afternoon.”
“Do you know another one? Someone good?”
No.
He didn’t.
But he knew people who would.
“Well, get it in motion,” Vutipakdee said. “We’ve already wasted enough time.”
The line went dead.
Wing looked at Jamaica and said, “My life’s getting too complicated. My veins are going to swell up and explode.”
They waited until Teffinger and the woman got to a car that was, ironically, parked next to Wing’s. When the two drove away, Wing and Jamaica slipped out from behind the gondola and headed for Petchpon’s house.
On the way his phone rang.
It was Vutipakdee again.
Wing didn’t answer.
His concentration was on getting into Petchpon's house.
INSIDE, HE DIALED VUTIPAKDEE back while Jamaica started to sniff around.
“This is actually a good thing,” Vutipakdee said. “When you think about it, she wouldn't know she has a conflict unless she knew who killed Tookta. There’s only two ways she can have a conflict, first if the killer was a friend of hers, and second if he was a current or former client of hers. Talking to her, which one would you think it was?”
Wing ran his fingers through his hair.
“She sounded more business than personal,” he said. “I’d put my money on client rather than friend.”
“Do you know where her office is?”
Yes.
He did.
“Get in there and find out who her clients are,” Vutipakdee said.
“How?”
“Break in.”
Wing pictured it.
He almost declined but pictured Vutipakdee opening doors.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“You do that. I’m hopping on the first plane to Bangkok. See you soon.”
As soon as Wing hung up, Jamaica’s voice came from the bedroom.
“Get in here and take a look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Just get in here.”
76
Day 4—August 16
Thursday Afternoon
WHILE KANJANA WORKED ON A CASE in her office, Prarie headed outside into the humidity and stickiness of Bangkok to stretch her legs and clear her head. The city smelled like diesel, French fries and bar carpet. She didn’t mind. In a way, it reminded her of Paris, a dirtier and more insane Paris, but Paris.
Sophie was dead.
&
nbsp; Murdered.
It was Prarie’s fault.
She should have followed Michelle Lecan’s instructions and not contacted anyone. The police would discover that Prarie was Sophie’s friend. They’d want to talk to her and see if she knew anything.
She dialed Michelle Lecan and said, “Do the police know yet that Sophie’s been killed?”
Yes.
There was a short article the paper this morning
“Can you do me a favor? Give them a call and tell them about how I escaped from my husband and how he’s the one who killed her, trying to find out where I went. Don’t give them any particulars, though. Don’t tell them where I am or what name I’m using.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Because they’ll pressure me to come back,” she said. “Just be anonymous. Call from a public phone and give them the story. Once they’re pointed in the right direction they’ll figure out how to get him.”
“You know what?”
No.
What?
“You’re turning out to be a major pain in the ass.”
Prarie chuckled.
“Will you do it?”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Michelle called back and said, “I called and spoke to the detective in charge, who’s a guy named Guilliam Tibadeau. I told him about your husband, anonymously. He was very appreciative and is going to get right on it.”
Prarie exhaled.
“I owe you one.”
“One?”
“Okay, ten.”
“Something weird happened,” Michelle said.
A beat.
“Like what?”
“Do you remember that professor I told you about, Claude Morel, the one who got murdered?”
“The gay sex guy?”
Right.
Him.
“This detective, Guilliam, said he’s been trying to get in touch with you on that case.”
Prarie stopped walking.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“He must have the wrong person.”
“He said you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Michelle said. “He wouldn’t say.”
“What would I possibly have to tell him?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did the professor get killed again?”
A pause.
“Tuesday.”
“I was in Bangkok,” Prarie said. “You know that. I never heard of the guy in my life. How would I possibly know anything?”
“I don’t know,” Michelle said. “All I know is that he wants you to call him.”
“I don’t know anything,” Prarie said. “What’d you say his name was?”
“Guilliam Tibadeau.”
Guilliam Tibadeau.
Guilliam Tibadeau.
Guilliam Tibadeau.
“You know what, I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” Prarie said. She wrinkled her forehead. “I think my husband might know him. Something’s up.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Prarie said. “You called anonymously, right? You didn’t give him your name or anything?”
Right.
Anonymously.
“Do me a favor and go underground for a couple of days,” Prarie said. “I want to be absolutely sure nothing happens to you.”
77
Day 4—August 16
Thursday Afternoon
BESIDES TOOKTA, TEFFINGER HAD ONLY KILLED two people in his life, both from the right side of the line, and even then the memories occasionally twitched in the middle of the night. The more he thought about crossing that line and taking Petchpon out in cold blood, the more it gnawed at him. It was easy to visualize the act when the frustration of Aspen Leigh’s murder filled his head.
The execution would be a very different thing.
It would take Teffinger to a place he had never been before.
It would define him.
Petchpon had it coming.
No question.
The world would be a better place with him gone.
Still, crossing the line was a serious matter.
There was also one more thing to consider.
What if Petchpon wasn’t actually guilty?
What if Teffinger’s take on the evidence was wrong?
Jinka tugged on his sleeve.
“Hello, earth to Teffinger.”
He focused.
“Sometimes you drift away,” she said. “Do you know that?”
He nodded.
“One of my many flaws,” he said. “I want to find the souvenirs. I want that one, concrete link that ties Petchpon without question to Aspen Leigh.”
Jinka frowned.
“Are you having second thoughts about what we talked about? Because if you are, no problem. I’ll do it. You don’t even have to be involved.”
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “No second thoughts. It’s just that I’ll be able to sleep better afterwards if I’m a hundred percent sure.”
Two minutes later Jinka did something unexpected.
She made a call, talked in Thai for a minute, then hung up and turned the car around.
“Where we going?”
“Petchpon’s out of the office for the next couple of hours,” she said. “Maybe that’s where he’s keeping the souvenirs. At work.”
Teffinger grinned.
They headed to District 8 and drank coffee in Jinka’s office for five minutes, ostensibly working
THEN THEY CHECKED THE HALLWAY, saw no one, and headed down to Petchpon’s office which was at the end. Jinka carried the Tookta file in her hand, delivering it to her boss for review in case anyone asked.
The door was closed.
Jinka knocked.
No answer.
They checked the hallway one more time, saw no one, then ducked inside and shut the door behind them.
The office was big.
The desk and credenzas were expensive.
Nicely-framed photographs decorated the wall, mostly of Petchpon with people, no doubt people of influence and prominence.
The man was connected.
No question.
Lots of cases and files were on the desk.
On the corner was a copy of today’s newspaper.
It was folded open to a middle section. An article in that middle section had been cut out.
THEY CHECKED THE DRAWERS and found nothing. Then something weird happened. In a small coat closet, they found a thick safe bolted to the wall.
“What’s this for?” Teffinger asked.
Jinka didn’t know.
“It’s news to me.”
Teffinger tried the handle.
It was locked.
The mechanism was elaborate.
“The souvenirs are in there,” he said. “I can smell them.”
Jinka shuffled her feet.
“We should go.”
NO ONE SAW THEM LEAVE. They drank coffee in Jinka’s office for ten minutes, then headed into Bangkok and got a copy of today’s newspaper.
They opened it to the page on Petchpon’s desk.
Teffinger’s chest tightened.
On that page was a photograph of Aspen Leigh.
He tapped his finger on it and said, “Aspen.”
Right.
Aspen.
“What’s the article say?”
“Let me see. Okay, it’s a short announcement that the woman in the photograph, an American woman named Aspen Leigh, went missing Thursday. Anyone with information should contact Petchpon.” A pause, then, “I had no idea this was being done.”
“Shouldn’t you? Being the lead detective?”
She nodded.
“I think it’s just for show,” she said. “Like he told me before, he’s getting pressure from above to find Tookta’s killer, on account of her father being a famous movie producer. This is his way of saying, See, we’re working on it.”
Teffinger tossed his hair.
“He’s a clever guy, you got to hand him that.”
“Do you know why he clipped the article?”
He did.
He did indeed.
“It’s going to go on his bedroom wall.”
78
Day 4—August 16
Thursday Afternoon
WING WAS SURPRISED by the shrine on Petchpon’s bedroom wall, but he was a lot more concerned with finding the original four photos, if it was true that Petchpon was the one blackmailing him into killing Teffinger. With Jamaica’s help, he searched every possible hiding place and got nothing.
Nada.
Zero.
The door to the basement was locked and they couldn’t locate a key. “Should we break it down?” Jamaica asked.
Wing tilted his head.
He didn’t like being here.
It was too dangerous.
“Let’s just get out of here,” he said. “We’ve already pressed our luck.”
“Fine by me.”
Five minutes later they were back at the car.
“Now what?” Jamaica asked.
Wing looked at his watch—3:58 p.m.
“Now we head over to Kanjana’s office and see if we can find out who her clients are.”
“To appease Vutipakdee?”
Right.
That.
Jamaica shook her head disapprovingly and said, “We don’t have time for him right now. We need to focus on this Teffinger thing.”
“Nice in theory,” Wing said, “but remember that Vutipakdee is headed to Bangkok even as we speak.”
“Let him figure out for himself who killed his daughter. What was her name again?”
“Tookta.”
Right.
Tookta.
Wing shook his head.
“This won’t take long,” he said. “With any luck, Kanjana won’t be at her office. We’ll break in, figure out who her clients are and hand the list to Vutipakdee tonight. He can take it from there.”
“Nothing’s that easy.”
KANJANA’S OFFICE DOOR was closed and when Wing gently turned the handle, it was locked.
Good.
She wasn’t there.
Unfortunately, though, the door was solid wood and the locks were heavy-duty. It would take fifty kicks to break it in. Faces would show up after five. The office had windows, but they were on the second floor and faced the street. Right now, fifty thousand people were marching up and down that street.
