by R. J. Jagger
“So she left with someone,” Sydney offered.
The woman sipped coffee and nodded.
“It appears that way, which of course suggests that she knew the person,” Torres said. “Maybe she shut down for lunch but never made it back for some reason. We just don’t know.”
Teffinger frowned.
“Did she keep an appointment book?” he asked.
“We didn’t find one.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You think she’d have one to schedule tattoos,” he said.
Torres agreed and said, “That’s one of the things so far that doesn’t fit.”
“Maybe someone knew he wasn’t going to bring her back, and also knew he was in her appointment book, so he took that too,” Teffinger suggested.
“Possibly, and maybe even likely,” Torres said. “But we haven’t been able to come up with a brilliant plan to recreate it.”
Teffinger nodded and couldn’t shine any bright ideas on the subject either.
“Can we have a look at the place, after breakfast?”
“Absolutely. I brought the key with me.”
Teffinger took a swallow of coffee.
“Good stuff.”
Sydney smiled. “As if you’ve ever seen a cup of coffee you didn’t like.”
Inside the missing woman’s tattoo shop, following a thorough walk around, Teffinger agreed that there was no indication of foul play.
In the back room he spotted a safe.
“Have you opened that yet?” he asked.
Torres shook her head. “Not yet.”
Teffinger cocked his head, wondered if there was any reason why the shop’s appointment book would be inside, and decided that there wasn’t.
“We lifted some prints off the front door and matched a few of them to names,” Torres added. “We interviewed those people but didn’t find anything that got us excited. It’s all in the file.”
Teffinger nodded.
He’d read every word of it later.
Okay.
Now what?
The scene at the railroad spur jumped into his thoughts—four women in two graves. Assuming that Chase and Mia Avila were somehow connected, that still only made two women.
“Have any other women in Pueblo shown up missing?” he asked.
The young detective retreated in thought.
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said.
They stepped outside and locked the door behind them. Three Harleys rumbled up the street and then disappeared in the other direction.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Torres said, “there is one other woman who has technically dropped off the radar screen, but we’re pretty sure why.”
Teffinger spotted a twig on the ground, picked it up and snapped it.
“Who’s that?”
“A local prostitute named Gretchen Smith.”
Teffinger looked her straight in the eyes, because Chase had been a prostitute in a way, and in fact disappeared the day she went to meet a client.
“Tell me about Gretchen Smith.”
“We’re working another case involving a biker who got beat to death on his driveway,” Torres said. “First he got his face punched in, almost beyond recognition, and then got his head smashed in—we think with a rock, although we never found it. Anyway, it turns out that he had a fairly serious altercation with an Indian in a bar a couple of nights before that.”
“An Indian?”
“Well,” she said, “maybe I spoke too fast because we don’t know that for sure. What we do know is dark skin and a long black ponytail, and half the people we talked to thought he was an Indian. Anyway, he’s a person of interest.”
“Okay.”
“He’s apparently big enough and strong enough to do what got done,” she added.
“Got it.”
“But there’s a side issue,” she said. “The victim and a couple of his friends reportedly raped Gretchen Smith at some point in the past, although nothing ever came of it legally. It was pretty common knowledge that she’d take her revenge if she ever got a chance. So, some of the victim’s biker friends were looking to ‘interview’ her to find out if she was behind it somehow. When we found that out, we contacted her and told her she’d probably be safer if she got out of town until the whole thing blew over. As far as we can tell, she took our advice, because she checked out of the hotel she was staying at and no one’s seen her since.”
“Maybe the bikers found her,” Teffinger suggested.
Torres shrugged.
“I doubt it,” she said. “There’s no buzz around town to that effect.”
79
Day Twelve—September 16
Friday Morning
On the way to work Friday morning, Aspen noticed that the Accord’s gas gauge was on empty, below empty in fact. Luckily she had enough fumes left to get her to a station where she prepaid $20 cash and filled up while “Sweet Child of Mine” played on the radio. She was wearing dark green Dockers and a white cotton blouse, after learning last week that Fridays were casual dress at the firm. When she got to the parking lot twenty minutes later she discovered she was a dollar short. So she drove over to the side streets on the far side of Broadway until she found a 2-hour parking spot and then hoofed it double-time to the firm.
When she got there, she didn’t go up to the office.
Instead, she went to Parking Level 3, where the firm had several reserved spots, and hid behind a van in the corner. She stayed there for over an hour, feeling a lot more like a thief than a lawyer.
But she eventually got what she wanted; namely, a look at the faces of the people who drove the law firm’s silver BMWs.
When she finally arrived at her office, an envelope was on her chair. Inside, as before, she found a computer-printed piece of paper warning her that Christina Tam was a spy. This time, however, instead of shredding it she marched into Christina’s office, shut the door, and handed it to her.
“This is the second one of these that someone left on my chair,” she said.
Christina had no idea what the letter meant. She did know, however, that she wasn’t a spy and that the whole thing was a lie.
In fact it wasn’t just a lie, it was vicious lie, totally preposterous, obviously spread by someone with an agenda—Derek Bennett, no doubt, since he was the one with something to gain by driving a wedge between Aspen and Christina.
“That means he knows what we’re up to,” Aspen said.
“Agreed. But how much? And how does he know?”
Aspen had no idea, unless he had a camera in his office, or something like that.
Then she changed subjects.
She told Christina about her meeting yesterday with Sarah Ringer at CU, who reported that her sister Rachel had been sexually attacked in her office.
“I know in my heart that Derek Bennett was the one who did it,” Aspen said. “My guess is that he threatened her life to keep her quiet.”
Christina frowned.
“Agreed,” she said. “But it will be impossible to prove it, now that Rachel’s dead and we no longer have her testimony.”
“Fine. We get him for her murder, then.”
Later that morning, Aspen shut her office door, dialed Teffinger, and told him everything she knew, including her theory that Derek Bennett sexually assaulted Rachel one night in her office, and then later cut her head off when she started to leave the firm, just to be absolutely sure that she didn’t change her mind about going to the police.
Teffinger asked her a lot of questions.
He was all over the board as if struggling with a way to fit it into a bigger picture.
He was almost about to hang up when he said, “What about the BMWs?”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot. Derek Bennett definitely has one of them, the one with Colorado plate number BMW 4.”
“Hold on, I’m writing it down . . .”
“By the way,” she added. “You can’t tell anybody about any of this
.”
80
Day Twelve—September 16
Friday Morning
Draven slowly muscled his way out of bed, the victim of too much alcohol last night. At first he couldn’t get his bearings, then recognized the farmhouse. Gretchen was already awake and making noise in the kitchen.
He couldn’t remember his mouth ever being this dry. He drank a full glass of water, then another. It tasted like crap, but already his tongue didn’t feel quite so much like sandpaper.
He took a hot shower and then Gretchen filled his stomach with pancakes and coffee, after which he started to feel like a human being again.
To top it off, she led him into the bedroom and gave him a really deep blowjob.
Yesterday had been a bitch, but someone must like him because everything turned out okay in the end. He managed to catch the woman, Mia Avila, before she made it down to Highway 119. Then he dragged her ass back to the cabin, beat the shit out of her and tied her to the bed.
With some effort, he finally managed to pry the hood of the car up and got the radiator filled with water. Then he put the bitch in the trunk, drove her to the farmhouse, pumped her full of drugs, and chained her securely in the cab of the tow truck in the barn.
He limped the Nissan back to Avis, explained what had happened with the deer, and learned that the damage was covered under rental insurance that they’d tacked on without him knowing it. He rented another car, this time a green VW Jetta, and picked Gretchen up downtown as if nothing had happened.
He’d celebrated by getting drunk with Gretchen last night.
She didn’t know they were celebrating.
She thought they were just having a good time.
That was yesterday. Now, today, he had all that behind him and was the owner of a happy gut and an even happier dick.
“So what’s the plan?” Gretchen asked.
He smiled and slapped her ass.
“Get in the car and you’ll find out.”
She wrestled him to the floor and pinned his arms above his head. “Why? Where we going?”
“Nowhere, if you don’t get off.”
“Not till you tell me.”
“Someplace you’re going to like.”
She rubbed her crotch on his chin.
“I’m already someplace I like.”
They took Highway 93 south into downtown Golden, where the air smelled like hops and barley. Draven found a liquor store—one with a sign in the window that said No Fresher Coors Sold Anywhere—and bought enough Jack to get them through the next few days. Then they took Old Golden Road east and ended up at a Lexus dealership across the street from the Colorado Mills Mall.
“What’s going on?” Gretchen asked as they pulled in.
Draven put a confused look on his face.
“I don’t know, but as long as we’re here why don’t we have a look around?”
He wore tattered jeans and a black muscle shirt that showed off his tattoo. Throw in the ponytail and the scar and he looked like the last person on the face of the earth who would want, or could afford, a Lexus. He chatted it up with the salesman and the manager, took a long test drive, and waited for a derogatory insinuation that he couldn’t afford it.
When he didn’t get it, he closed the deal, titled the car in Gretchen’s name, had funds wired in from one of his California bank accounts, and then strolled outside with his woman to drink coffee and wait while the dealership detailed the vehicle and gave it a final prep.
Gretchen’s face made it all worthwhile.
No one had ever done anything like this for her before, not once in her whole life, not even close.
“God are you going to get some rewarding tonight,” she said. “Be advised.” Then she hugged him tight and cried. He ran his fingers through her hair.
“I love you,” she said. “And not just because of the car.”
She kept her eyes down, as if afraid she might see a reaction on his face that she didn’t want to see.
He looked into her eyes.
“Me too,” he said.
“Really?”
He nodded. “I think I have from the start, to tell you the truth.”
She buried her head in his chest.
“Of course, I did have a second thought when you bashed that guy’s head in with a rock. But that was only for a moment.”
She punched him on the arm and said, “Not funny.” Then she looked into his eyes and said, “Till death do us part?”
He squeezed her.
“Sounds good to me.”
81
Day Twelve—September 16
Friday Morning
While heading back to Denver from Pueblo, Teffinger couldn’t get away from maniac drivers to save his life. No matter what lane he was in, or how fast or slow he was going, the rearview mirror always showed some idiot riding his ass. An 18-wheeler looked like it was actually trying to get into the bed of Teffinger’s truck just as Katie Baxter called to report on her investigation of Chase’s apartment.
“We found an appointment book,” she said. “Unfortunately, nothing was written in it for the day she disappeared.”
“Figures.”
Teffinger swung into the high-speed lane.
The trucker followed.
Goddamn it.
“If I’m reading it right,” Katie said, “she did some freelance hooking on the side, but I wouldn’t say a lot. When she wrote those appointments down, she only used first names. Some had phone numbers and we’re checking them out. There are also some appointments for something called T&B, where time is blocked out, anywhere from four to eight hours.”
“T&B?” he asked.
“Right.”
For some reason that resonated in his brain.
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know. Tim and Bob?”
He smiled. “That’s not giving me a good visual,” he said. “Let’s make it Tina and Brenda.”
They hung up.
Katie called again thirty minutes later, just as Teffinger passed Castle Rock.
“Hey,” she said. “We found a scrap piece of paper that had a phone number for T&B. It turns out to be a place called Tops & Bottoms.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You just gave us another tie to our lawyer friend, Derek Bennett.”
Instead of going to the office, Teffinger and Sydney went straight to Tops & Bottoms and ended up meeting with a curvy, feminine woman with a soft voice and liquid blue eyes named Rose Abbott. They left an hour later with more than they hoped for. Teffinger also had a standing invitation for a free session with the lovely Ms. Abbott any time he wanted.
“We all have fantasies,” she said. “Even you.”
“Me?”
“Right.”
“What are my fantasies?”
She ran her fingers through his hair.
“You call me when you’re ready.”
Half an hour later, they sat in the reception area of Hogan, Slate & Dover, LLC, sipping coffee and waiting.
Teffinger wasn’t sure that this was the smartest thing to do.
His gut told him to slow down, stay hidden, get more evidence, maybe even enough to bring charges. His other gut told him to ignore his first gut, and to stomp on the guy now with the hope that he’d crawl under a rock and at least not hurt anyone else in the immediate future.
A contemporary abstract oil painting on the opposite side of the room kept drawing his eye, so he wandered over past the leather chairs, the coffee tables, and the fresh flower arrangements to take a look at it. The signature said RABBY. The paint was scooped on with a pallet knife, a half-inch thick in some places. Most of the canvas was fairly smooth and earth toned, a backdrop for the strategically placed pops and rivers of thick bright colors.
A lot of thought had gone into it, and passion.
It was the kind of piece where the average Joe Blow on the street would look at it and say, I could do that.
It was that deceptively good.
Sydney walked over and checked out the signature.
“Rabby,” she said. “I’ve heard of that guy. I think his first name’s Jim.”
“I couldn’t paint like that,” Teffinger said. “Not because it’s abstract but because you can tell that he had to set it down and let some parts of it dry before going on. I need to get it done in one sitting and see if I have a dud or a keeper.”
“Men,” she said. “Instant gratification.”
He sipped coffee and said, “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“No, it’s okay, except when you’re in the bedroom.”
He smiled, picturing it. “You don’t want it there.”
“No. Not even close.”
They finally ended up in Derek Bennett’s office with the door closed, sitting in expensive leather chairs. The man was Teffinger’s size, six-two, maybe even bigger. His suit was loose, but not so loose as to totally hide the troll-like muscles underneath. His shirt was white and stiff. His eyes protruded too far, as if someone tried to suck them out with a vacuum tube.
Paint his head green and he’d be a frog.
“Thanks for seeing us without an appointment,” Teffinger said. “I’m going to get right to the point. We’re investigating two homicides and we noticed that you have connections to both of the victims.”
Bennett looked insulted. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“No, nothing like that,” Teffinger said. “We just have a few questions.”
The stress lines on Bennett’s face didn’t lighten.
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, one of the victims is Rachel Ringer, and you know her of course,” Teffinger said.
“Everyone who works here knows her,” Bennett said.
“I appreciate that.”
“Meaning I’m one person of about a hundred and fifty.”
Teffinger nodded and fought the urge to bring up the other connectors—someone, probably Bennett, half raped Rachel one night; Bennett drove a silver BMW, the same kind of car in the photograph from Brad Ripley’s safe, the photograph of the building where the four women were killed; and the conversation between Bennett and Jacqueline Moore about a killing, overheard by Aspen Wilde. As fun as it would be to whip those little facts out and slap the smugness off Bennett’s face, Teffinger couldn’t do it without fear of implicating the help he’d received from Aspen. So he smiled instead and changed subjects.
