License to Die (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  From what Teffinger could tell, each woman was brought into the murder room separately. After each killing the sheets were changed and the space was cleaned up, at least cosmetically, in preparation for the next session.

  It was all very well organized.

  By who?

  With too much pizza in the gut, Teffinger walked over to the Tundra and brushed his teeth. Sydney joined him just as he spit toothpaste onto the ground.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s going on with that Pueblo woman? Has she shown up yet or anything?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t touched base down there for a couple of days.” He must have had an unhappy look on his face, because she added, “I’ll put it on my to-do list. Which reminds me, by the way, we might have someone else missing too.”

  Teffinger didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Who?”

  “Emphasis on the might. A woman by the name of Samantha Stamp,” she said. “She’s a stripper at some place out north on Federal called Cheeks. One of the other dancers reported her missing this afternoon. Supposedly she hasn’t shown up for work for the last couple of evenings and isn’t answering her cell phone.”

  “Probably strung out somewhere,” Teffinger said. “But keep it on your radar screen, just in case.”

  They worked the scene until the streetlights came on and the rain plummeted down, and then called it a night. Teffinger drove straight to Davica’s. She was waiting for him with dimmed lights, cold white wine, a stomach-to-stomach body hug, and a long, deep kiss.

  “I’m your slave,” she said. “Command me.”

  She wore a long-sleeve white shirt. She must have sensed his question—whether she wore anything underneath—and pulled the ends up and tied them together, just under her breasts; question answered, in the affirmative—a white thong.

  He raised an eyebrow and sipped the wine.

  “My slave, huh.”

  “Utterly and completely.”

  “What are the boundaries?”

  “Only your imagination.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Okay,” he said. “But no turning back.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Lightning crackled. He grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses, and then led her out the front door, into the back seat of the Tundra. The rain pelted the roof and, in the dark, seemed louder than it probably was. He filled their glasses, put his arm around her shoulders and leaned back.

  “Now this is perfect.”

  She stayed quiet and snuggled in.

  “You’re always full of surprises.”

  They talked about whatever came to mind, with no subject too big or too small. The rain didn’t let up. Not a bit. In fact, if anything, it got stronger.

  “Tell me about Sydney Heatherwood,” Davica said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know. Just something.”

  “Something, huh?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “She said you were testing me this morning, to see if I’d put you above me,” he said. “Was she right?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “But she wouldn’t help me figure out the answer,” he said. “She said that would be cheating.”

  Davica smiled.

  “I’m starting to like this woman,” she said.

  “There’s a lot to like.”

  “But you never screwed her?”

  He shook his head. “I bounced a quarter off her ass a couple of times at a bar once when we were all drunk,” he said. “But that’s about it.”

  “How high did it go?”

  “What?”

  “The quarter.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know. I think it knocked down a chandelier or something. All I remember is, there was a lot of damage.”

  She punched him in the arm.

  “Actually, I handpicked her out of vice last year and brought her over to homicide. There are still a few people over in vice who won’t talk to me because of that. Anyway, it started out that I was going to take her under my wing and show her the ropes. Now she’s showing them to me.”

  “She seems competent.”

  “Take a good look,” he said. “She’s the first female chief.”

  Then his cell phone rang. He reached for it but she grabbed his hand. He pulled it out anyway and looked at the incoming number. It was Aspen Wilde. “This is the attorney whose face I put on the news and turned into a target,” he said. “The one whose apartment got ransacked. I better see what she wants.”

  67

  Day Ten—September 14

  Wednesday Night

  The lights at the Old Town tavern never did come back on, not after a minute, or ten or even fifteen. Incredibly, almost no one left, apparently determined to drink the beer they’d paid for. Lighters ignited everywhere, reminding Aspen of the final scene of Frankenstein. The band pulled out acoustical guitars and sang without mics. Aspen and Christina stayed in the booth until their beer was gone and then muscled through the crowd to the front door, alive and without incident, except for a few invisible hands that managed to grope them pretty good. The umbrella, of course, was long gone, and the storm outside now plummeted down even more intensely than before.

  They ran through the weather, cold, tipsy and incredibly alive, feeling like wild animals.

  Thirty minutes later, in dry clothes and sipping hot chocolate, they settled in on the couch to watch TV for a half hour before heading to bed, flicking the channels until they eventually landed on A Perfect Murder. Michael Douglas was in the process of pressuring his wife’s boyfriend to kill her.

  “See, never get married,” Christina said.

  “Gee, I better remember that,” Aspen said. “I get asked so often.”

  A half hour later, while Christina was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, a mental picture of Derek Bennett sticking pins into women jumped into Aspen’s brain. It was so vivid and unsettling that she called Nick Teffinger, who had earlier said he’d do a background check on Bennett. When he answered he didn’t seem eager to talk, almost as if she was interrupting him. She heard rain in the background, as if he was in a car.

  “It’s me, Aspen Wilde,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”

  No.

  No problem.

  She thought she heard a woman’s voice in the background but couldn’t be sure.

  “I just wondered if you found out anything on Derek Bennett yet.”

  A pause, then, “We haven’t had a chance yet. Why?”

  “Nothing, really. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “He’s on the to-do list,” Teffinger said.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  They said goodbye, and she almost hung up, when his voice came back again. “Are you still there?” She was. “Let me ask you something. Apparently your law firm owns several BMWs. Do you know who in the firm uses them? Who they’re assigned to?”

  She didn’t.

  “Can you do me a favor and find out?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do it quietly, though. Don’t let anyone know,” he added.

  He sounded serious.

  “Are they connected to the four murders?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Wait a minute. I just remembered. I’m pretty sure Derek Bennett drives a BMW. Silver, I think.”

  68

  Day Ten—September 14

  Wednesday Night

  Davica Holland, it turned out, lived in a filthy-rich house on a filthy-rich street in a filthy-rich neighborhood southwest of Denver. Draven drove past her place after dark and studied it through windshield wipers that were doing their best to beat back an incredibly heavy rain. A white Toyota Tundra pickup sat in the bend of a long, circular cobblestone driveway in front of the house, half hidden behind a water feature. It almost appeared as if two people were inside it, although he couldn’t be
sure.

  The shadows moved.

  Someone was definitely inside.

  He made only one pass and then got the hell out of there.

  He knew the type of place; security cameras galore, and not just on this house, all of ’em.

  One thing for sure—he’d have to snatch the woman from some place other than her house, unless there was a way to get in from the back, through a field or something. That was a question he could better answer tomorrow by the light of day. Either way, she’d be tricky to get.

  Maybe he should hit Swofford up for an additional twenty-five on account of the complications.

  Yeah.

  That’d be worth a try.

  He unscrewed the flask, took a hit of Jack, and then headed back home to Gretchen.

  She was asleep on the couch when he got there, and the sight made him warm inside. He sat down gently, without waking her, and ran his fingers through her hair. After a while, he moved her up until she was nestled under his arm, and then sat there in the dark and listened to the rain pound on the house.

  If everything was going according to plan, the tattoo woman—Mia Avila—was in the process of dying right about now. Tomorrow Draven would do the cleanup and bring that phase of events to an end.

  Then he’d be able to concentrate all of his attention on the new victim.

  Davica Holland.

  After that, he’d take Gretchen to Malibu.

  69

  Day Eleven—September 15

  Thursday Morning

  Not screwing Davica last night, after they sat in the Tundra in the rain drinking wine for more than two hours, was definitely, without a doubt, the hardest thing Teffinger had ever done in his entire male adult life.

  The morning didn’t turn out to be any easier.

  There in the dark, before the dawn broke, Davica rolled him onto his back, straddled him and pinned his arms above his head before he even knew he was awake.

  Then she ground on him.

  He let her.

  He wouldn’t let her put it in, but he let her grind.

  He let her grind until she screamed and came in a long, rolling orgasm.

  Then she fell off and collapsed on her back. “Damn I needed that,” she said.

  “You’re bad,” he said.

  She propped her head up with one hand and looked at him. “So when do I get the whole deal?”

  “When the case is over.”

  “Which is when? Never?”

  “As soon as I can get it that way, believe me.”

  She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You’re so old-fashioned sometimes,” she said.

  “Not old-fashioned,” he said, “just experienced in how the courts work. I can’t end up catching this guy and then having some sleazy defense attorney muck everything up and get him off by being able to tell the jury that the detective—me—and a person of interest—you—were pulling each other’s socks off.”

  “Simple solution,” she said, “we just don’t tell anyone. It’s called a First Amendment right to privacy.”

  Teffinger shook his head, got out of bed, and headed for the shower. “It’s not that simple,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Why? Don’t you know how to lie?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “Oh, I can lie all right, but that’s not the question,” he said. “The question is, do you feel like going for a jog?”

  She laughed.

  “You just gave me a workout, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Two miles.”

  She got out of bed.

  “I guess I owe you that.”

  “I’ll go slow,” he added.

  She laughed.

  “As if you have any other speed.”

  They actually ended up doing three miles, and showered together afterwards. Then Teffinger ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to headquarters.

  Mid-morning he got a very unexpected and strange phone call. When he hung up, he swung by Sydney’s desk and said, “You got time to take a ride?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Good, come on.”

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “Fresh blood.”

  They took the 6th Avenue freeway west into Golden, then headed north on Highway 93, riding parallel to the Rocky Mountain foothills under a cloudless Colorado sky. Five miles later, in unincorporated Jefferson County, they turned west on a gravel road that rolled toward the mountains through a treeless terrain.

  A mile or so later, they came to where they were headed.

  Six or seven police cars punctuated the spot.

  Teffinger pulled in at the end of the line and killed the engine.

  They checked in with a scribe and then got escorted by a small but serious-looking sheriff by the name of Ben Baxter out to the gravesite, which was about fifty yards off the road.

  “The dumb shit buried her in an arroyo,” Baxter said. “The rain last night uncovered her.”

  Teffinger nodded.

  The gravesite, so far, hadn’t been disturbed.

  The woman still laid in the ravine, her face sticking out, plus one hand and part of an arm. The rest of her still lay under the dirt, which would have been mud last night, but had mostly dried at this point.

  A nail had been pounded into her forehead.

  “Looks like he buried her about eight or twelve inches down, is all,” Teffinger said.

  “Right. Not too deep,” Baxter said, “which is one of the reasons we called you.”

  “This is our guy,” Teffinger said. “No question in my mind.”

  Baxter nodded.

  “It’s your case if you want to take the lead,” Baxter said. “You guys are better equipped for this stuff anyway. We don’t get much of this out here.”

  “Lucky you,” Teffinger said. “Sure, we’ll take it. You want us to process the scene?”

  Baxter shrugged.

  “You may as well. We’ll support you, of course—whatever you want, just holler.”

  “Fine,” Teffinger said. “The first thing I want is everyone back on the road and then move a half mile down, people and vehicles. We’ll need casts of everyone’s boots, so don’t let anyone go anywhere.” He looked at a hawk, circling high, riding a wind current. “The interesting thing will be whether there’s another body stacked underneath.”

  “Or nearby,” Sydney added.

  Paul Kwak came out with a crime unit and processed the scene in that slow, methodical way of his. As near as they could tell, the body had been buried last night before the rain started, meaning that none of the countless boot marks now in the area were likely to be relevant.

  No stacked body was found underneath.

  No other gravesites were found nearby.

  No pop cans, cigarettes, or other such items were discovered in the vicinity.

  The grave had been dug with a shovel.

  The shovel was no longer there.

  With any luck, it got put into the trunk of a car or the back of an SUV after the event, dropping residue. Kwak took several soil samples to use for comparison later if the opportunity ever arose.

  Watching, off to the side, Teffinger told Sydney, “The victim’s got a good body. I wouldn’t doubt it a bit if she’s that stripper you were telling me about.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t remember it off the top of my head, but I have it written down.”

  “Where?”

  She tilted her head, thinking. “In a notepad, on my desk.”

  “Call headquarters and see if someone can find it,” Teffinger said. “Then have them run a background check on her.”

  She wandered off and talked into a cell phone.

  Five minutes later she came back. “The stripper’s name is Samantha Stamp—stage name Chase,” she said. “I called the club to see if she’d shown up for work yet. When I told the guy I was a detective he m
uttered ‘bitch’ under his breath and hung up.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  70

  Day Eleven—September 15

  Thursday Morning

  When Aspen got to work at 7:15 Thursday morning, she found an envelope on her chair. Inside was an unsigned piece of paper that said: Go to the Starbucks on the 16th Street Mall at 9:00 a.m. Come alone and don’t tell anyone.

  She suspected the note came from the same person who accused Christina Tam of being a spy.

  Fine.

  Let’s find out who he was, or she.

  She showed up five minutes early, didn’t see anyone she knew, ordered a latte, and took a table by the wall. A Billie Holiday song dripped down from ceiling speakers, painful and lamenting. A few minutes later, a man walked over and sat down. He looked vaguely familiar and wore an expensive gray pinstriped suit over a red silk power tie. He looked to be in his early thirties, thin set, and balder than he should be.

  “I’m Conrad Conrad,” he said.

  She recognized the name.

  He was an attorney in the firm, in the environmental section.

  “Sorry to be so mysterious,” he said, “but I felt it best that we met somewhere away from the firm. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, this is fine. So what’s going on?”

  The man looked around, apparently saw no one of threat, and refocused on her. “The word’s going around that you’re asking questions about Rachel,” he said. “Maybe even doing an ad hoc investigation of some sort.”

  She didn’t know whether to admit it or not, but did.

  “Of some sort,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “I have some information for you,” he said. “But first you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone that I told you.”

  She considered it.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to tell me. So I’m not sure I can promise that.”

  He frowned.

  “It’s for your own good,” he said.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”

  He slurped the coffee and paused, deciding whether to talk or not.