by R. J. Jagger
“Please.”
Blake turned to Aspen and said, “This is where I had my first law office, right out of law school. I had a desk over there, a table there, and a small bookshelf over there. I lived in the back room, illegally. I used to hang out in the front door and pass my card out to people walking by. I didn’t get my first client for six weeks and he stiffed me on the bill. That’s the check I have framed in my office, by the way.”
Blake bought a $50.00 comic, an old Tarzan classic, and they left.
Then they walked down Colfax.
“I love this part of town,” he said. “It has an edge to it, it’s real. I know every step of the way from the office I just showed you to the one I have now. And I know it’s a two-way street. It’s my job to be sure the firm doesn’t end up back here.”
A couple of elderly women walked toward them.
They gave Blake the evil eye.
He chuckled.
“They think you’re a hooker and I’m down here picking you up,” he said. “Anyway, to get back on track, the meeting last night was my idea. It’s still important for us to know how you’re connected to all these murders.”
Aspen felt he deserved to know that much and told him how she connected the fact that Rachel had disappeared right around the same time as the two women who were found buried at the old railroad spur. She concluded that Rachel was a third victim and was probably buried around there as well, so she went down to look.
She told him how she’d found a head in one of the graves.
“I called the police anonymously,” she said, “because I had nothing else to tell them that would be of any help, and I didn’t want to get involved because Jacqueline Moore had already warned me to back off.”
They walked and talked until Blake understood the events to his satisfaction.
“Here’s what we need to do,” he said. “First, you come back to work, okay?”
She hesitated, then gave in.
“Okay.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll call that detective and invite him to come down to the firm and talk to you this afternoon. Would that be okay?”
“Sure.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You know,” he said, “big law firms are just a slice of life, meaning that things don’t always go perfect. We all get our bumps and bruises as time goes on. What I look for in a lawyer is someone who can keep things in perspective and stay in it for the long haul. You’re already showing me that you have that quality.”
She cocked her head.
“You can stop feeding me bullshit now,” she said. “I already said I’m coming back.”
He laughed.
“I would,” he said, “except I’m not.”
Back at his truck she commented, “I always pictured you in a Mercedes.”
He patted the hood as they walked past.
“Never forget your roots,” he said. “This guy here’s my daily reminder. By the way, no one knows what happened last night, except the people who were in the room. It’s probably best if it stayed that way.”
“I agree.”
27
Day Five—September 9
Friday Morning
Morning at the cabin broke with a chilly dawn, hinting of colder days ahead. Draven removed every last stitch of his lovely captive’s clothing, rolled her unconscious body around so he could study her tattoos, and then made sure she was securely chained to the bed. She had a killer physique, he had to admit, in fact sweet enough to make his cock stand up. But he didn’t screw her. Instead, he covered her with a blanket, gave her a shot that would keep her out until at least noon, and then checked the equipment.
All was in order.
Then he got in the van and headed down the twisty mountain roads until the flatlands appeared. He worked his way into the Denver skyline and ended up at a Starbucks near Washington Park—the designated place.
He drank coffee and read the Westword until his phone rang.
It was the person he only knew by voice.
Swofford.
“Is everything set?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Come out the front door and walk west,” Swofford said.
Draven stood up, threw the coffee away and pushed through the front door. The day had warmed up considerably. He walked west, holding the phone to his ear.
“I’m walking west,” he said.
“I know.”
He almost looked around, to find the face behind the mystery voice, but knew better.
“Okay, stop. There’s a black trash bag under the blue car to your right.”
He bent down and looked.
There it was.
He pulled it out and walked back towards Starbucks.
“I’ll let the client know it’s a go,” Swofford said. “He’ll be there about noon, so don’t go back.”
“Noon?”
“He had to move it up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Swofford said. “Make yourself scarce until I call you. That’ll be sometime tomorrow.”
“You’re kidding,” Draven said. “He’s going to take that long?”
“Apparently so,” Swofford said. “Is that a problem?”
Draven felt the weight of the bag in his hand.
Inside was $75,000 in cash, his cut.
“No, that’s cool,” he said. “I’ve got about four thousand in expenses, by the way. I gave the woman two grand to get her to come to Denver. That was easier than abducting her. Then I got the cabin rental, a van rental, and a bunch of miscellaneous stuff.”
“Not a problem,” Swofford said. “We have another one in the works, by the way. He has someone specific in mind.”
Draven smiled.
A specific target meant more money than a generic one; $100,000 instead of $75,000.
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
With the rest of the day to kill, Draven stopped in a small Mexican mom-and-pop restaurant, sat in a red-vinyl booth with his back against the wall where he could see everyone who came and went, and ate a smothered burrito.
The waitress was cute so he hung around and drank three or four cups of coffee after she took his plate.
“How’d you get that scar?” she asked.
“Eating an ice cream cone,” he said. “It went horribly wrong.”
She laughed and said, “Remind me to stay away from ice cream cones.”
“Lot’s of people don’t appreciate how dangerous they are,” he said. “Especially those hard sugar cones.”
He paid in cash and tipped her a twenty.
Out in the parking lot he heard someone shout behind him.
It was her, running to him, with her white waitress apron flopping up and down.
“You forgot this,” she said, handing him a piece of paper.
He looked at it as she turned and ran back.
It had a phone number on it, under her name—Janessa.
He waved to her and shoved it in his pants pocket. Then he drove over to Avis, traded the van for a 4-door Nissan sedan, and headed south on I-25. Two hours later, he arrived in Pueblo.
He swung past the dead biker’s house just to see if anything had changed. It hadn’t. Then he drove past Mia Avila’s tattoo shop. There was no activity there either. Everything was exactly as it had been yesterday.
The Closed sign still hung in the door.
The lights were off.
From there he headed over to the hotel, drank a swig of Jack in the parking lot, and walked up the stairs two at a time to surprise Gretchen. Music came from inside the room. The drapes were drawn but he found a slit big enough to peek in, just to be sure she wasn’t on her knees giving some asshole a blowjob.
Shit!
Gretchen was sitting on the bed.
Two cops stood in front of her, talking intently, a male and a female.
Draven quietly walked down the stars, jumped in
the car, and got the hell out of there.
After the cops left, he parked a block down the road and doubled back on foot. A peek through the curtains showed Gretchen lying face-down on the bed, alone.
He found the door unlocked and walked in.
She ran to him and he held her tight. “The cops were here,” she said.
“I know,” Draven said. “What’d they want?”
“They partly wanted to see if I had anything to do with the asshole biker’s death,” she said. “It’s no secret around town, about what they did to me—and what I’d do back, if I ever got the chance. But I played dumb and said I was here turning tricks all night. They believed me, I could tell.”
Draven felt the stress melt.
“Good job.”
“But they also came to warn me,” she said. “Apparently the word’s spreading around town that the bikers think I had something to do with it. There’s talk that they’re going to interrogate me.”
“Not on my watch,” Draven said.
She hugged him tight.
“Thank God for you,” she said. “The cops said I’d probably be better off getting out of town until the whole thing blew over.”
Draven agreed, and kissed her to prove it.
“Pack your suitcase,” he said. “I’m taking you to Denver.”
She studied his eyes.
“You mean it?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “I have money. You won’t need to work.”
She pulled a suitcase out from under the bed.
Then she hesitated.
“The cops asked about you,” she said. “Not you by name, but about a tall Indian with a scar on his face.”
Draven pulled the curtain an inch to the side and peered out.
No one was there that shouldn’t be.
“The bikers figure I did it,” he said. “Their buzz has already been picked up by the cops. It’s time to get out of this screwed-up town once and for all.”
She agreed.
“And I’m not ever coming back,” she added. “Even if you dump me.”
He smiled.
“That’s not going to happen.”
28
Day Five—September 9
Friday Morning
Teffinger woke from a deep sleep when someone straddled him. He opened his eyes to a dim room and found Davica on top, wearing only a thong. “Come on, sleepyhead,” she said. He stretched, remembering their conversation last night about getting up early for a jog. It had seemed like a good idea then; now, not so much. Davica bounced up and down.
“Come on. You can do it.”
He rolled her over and lay on top, pretending to fall back asleep while she struggled under his weight. He almost took her right then and there, but knew he couldn’t, not quite yet.
Five minutes later, a yellow ochre sun rose as they headed out the front door. The grass smelled like dew and a mild chill hung in the air. They ran in the street, with Davica setting a faster pace than Teffinger was used to.
“No problem,” he said. “We’ll go slow if you want.”
She sped up.
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “We can go faster.”
He struggled to keep up, concentrating on his breathing.
“That’s better,” he said.
She took him on a three-mile course and hardly broke a sweat. When they got back, he showered, inhaled coffee, slapped her on the ass, and headed for the door.
She caught up with him, slapped his ass back, and said, “Don’t forget, you’re coming over tonight.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I am?”
“Yep. I’m going to cook for you.”
Teffinger smiled.
“You know how to cook?”
She laughed.
“I have talents in more than just one room of the house, Teffinger.”
He turned out to be the first one to work, as usual, and got the coffee pot gurgling. One of the fluorescent lights over his desk hummed like a madman, so he took it out and swapped it with one from the chief’s office.
That was much better.
He dumped a cold half-cup of yesterday’s coffee in the snake plant, filled the cup with fresh stuff without rinsing, and then sipped it as he listened to his voice mails. One of them was from CNN, who wanted to interview him today on the four-body case. That was fine. The public had a right to know what was going on. He just needed to be careful to not give any secrets away.
Plus, Davica would be impressed, seeing him on the news.
Sydney showed up around 7:30, wearing a dark-blue skirt with a matching jacket, and walked to the coffee pot. Teffinger met her there and held out his cup while she still had the pot in her hand. She filled him up.
“I checked my messages driving in,” she said. “If we received any tips on who the 911 caller is, they didn’t come to me.”
“Me either,” Teffinger said.
“We got her face in the paper this morning,” she added. “Someone will call with her name today, guaranteed. I just hope she doesn’t play hide-and-seek.”
They ended up at his desk, he with his feet propped up but pointed away from her so she wouldn’t have to look at the bottom of his shoes.
“Okay,” he said, thinking out loud. “Let’s see where we’re at on this. The biggest thing we need to do is find out who victim number four is. She’s been haunting me because she’s so young, that and the fact that she had her eyes gouged out.”
Sydney frowned.
“Any word yet on whether that happened pre or post-mortem?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “But if it was pre, I’m going to personally rip the guy’s head off and pee in the hole.” He wove a pencil in his fingers and snapped it in two. “Same thing goes for Rachel Ringer’s killer. If he took her head off while she was still alive, he’s going to wish he hadn’t.”
She studied him.
“So you’re thinking we’re dealing with different killers.”
That was true.
“Three of the killings are violent,” he said, “but in different ways. As to the fourth woman—the one with no obvious signs of trauma—we’re still waiting on the cause of death. I already know it’s going to be suffocation or poison. Either way, I think we have four different killers.”
Sydney had a serious expression.
“Theoretically, then, Davica is still a suspect as to Angela Pfeiffer.”
Teffinger dismissed the concept with a facial expression.
“Not really,” he said. “She’d never be connected in any way to other killers. She’s basically a decent person who just happened to get tangled up in a love life that went south.”
“She’s partying her way through life, the way I hear it,” Sydney said.
Teffinger nodded.
“True to a point,” he said. “But there’s a lot more to her than that.”
“So have you joined the party yet? Fully, I mean?”
“No, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to hold out, if you want to know the truth,” he said. “You’re the only one who knows that, by the way.”
She shook her head in disapproval.
“Nick, I’m honestly starting to worry about you,” she said. “You never played this fast and loose with the rules before.”
That was true.
“Why jeopardize your job or your reputation, is all I’m saying,” Sydney added.
He knew she was right but she didn’t understand Davica’s power.
It was time to change the subject.
“We need to find out who the fourth woman is. My guess is that she disappeared right around the time of the other three victims, which is the beginning of April. I think if we do a state-wide search of missing persons from that timeframe, she’s going to pop up.”
Sydney agreed.
“I can do that, if you want.”
“I want,” he said. “You should probably get right on it.
We’re going to look pretty stupid if CNN figures it out first.”
An hour later, Teffinger received a telephone call from an attorney named Blake Gray. As soon as he hung up, he walked over to Sydney and grabbed her by the arm.
“We’re taking a field trip,” he said.
She stood up and fell into step.
“Where?”
“To interview our 911 caller.”
“You found her?”
“More like she found us,” he said.
29
Day Five—September 9
Friday Morning
Aspen found two new files on her desk when she arrived at her office—more dogs for the doghouse. She didn’t care. The worst day at work was still better than the best day in the unemployment line. She touched base with the lawyers who had dropped them off, calendared the due dates, and then concentrated as much as she could on pounding out assignments.
She hadn’t slept much last night.
That forced her to shore up with too much coffee this morning.
Plus Rachel’s death wouldn’t leave her alone. She kept getting a mental picture of someone sawing Rachel’s head off. On top of that, Jacqueline Moore hadn’t shown up yet to apologize in person.
She jumped when her phone rang.
Blake Gray’s voice came through.
“The cops are on their way over to interview you,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You sound stressed.”
She probably did but said, “I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you come up to my office? We’ll get organized.”
When she got to his office, Blake was standing in the doorway talking to Jacqueline Moore. The woman saw her and said, “Sorry about last night. I have some personal stuff going on. I was wrong to unload on you.”
Aspen said, “No problem.”
Jacqueline hugged her around the shoulders and said, “I’m a bitch, but most of the time I’m a nice bitch. Yesterday things got away from me.”
“I understand.”
“We’ll do lunch and I’ll tell you some gossip to make up for it,” Jacqueline said.
Blake jumped in.
“Not about me, I hope.”
Jacqueline rolled her eyes. “Mostly about you.”
The talk continued, but Aspen paid only enough attention to react when she needed to. Instead, she savored the fact that everything had actually returned to normal. Maybe she really did have a long-term place with the firm after all.
