by R. J. Jagger
She shook her head in disbelief.
“None of the rest of the universe moves as fast as you do, Teffinger,” she said. “Did you ever stop and think that maybe there’s a reason for that?”
He shrugged.
“Their loss.”
“What are you going to do in a month when you two have a fight?” she questioned. “What are you going to say? Oops, I made a mistake, go ahead and move back out now.”
“Here’s the thing,” Teffinger said. “There aren’t any guarantees no matter how you do it. Right now, I want to see her every day, every minute, every chance I get. You only get so much life. You got to live it.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Teffinger, you fall in love way too easily and it always comes back to bite you in the ass,” she said. “What I don’t understand is why you can’t figure that out and just slow down for once in your life.”
He shrugged.
“Just because I don’t know what I’m doing doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he said.
She laughed.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Yeah, well, just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”
THEY HEADED DOWN TO THE OLD ORLEANS, expecting the place to be locked, especially since Teffinger used up all his good luck for the morning by getting the Stone’s “The Last Time” on the ride over. Surprisingly, however, the back door was open and someone was inside, waiting for the morning beer trucks.
They asked if the club had any surveillance cameras.
Thirty minutes later they were back at headquarters.
Sliding the first tape from Tuesday night into a VCR player.
As soon as it kicked up on the monitor, Teffinger hit pause and said, “I’ll be right back,” and headed towards the door.
He returned with two cups of coffee.
And handed one to Sydney.
Then he noticed that hers didn’t have cream.
So he switched.
Then punched play.
Chapter Thirty
Day Four—April 15
Friday Morning
______________
TRIPP CRAWLED OUT OF THE SEEDY hotel bed mid-morning, took a long piss and then studied his face in the bathroom mirror as the shower warmed up. The swelling—compliments of Lauren Long’s bodyguards—had almost completely subsided and the color was closer to normal.
Good.
At least he wouldn’t be walking around today looking like Frankenstein.
Last night had been interesting.
Dressed in all things black, at two in the morning, he hugged the deepest shadows of a Ponderosa Pine in Rave Lafelle’s backyard, waiting for the vampire to return. Then something unexpected happened. Someone came out of the neighbor’s yard, jogged past Tripp—not more than ten feet away—and used a key to enter the vampire’s back door. Ten seconds later headlights came down the street and pulled into the driveway. Shortly after that, the vampire went into the house.
Tripp crept on cat feet to a back window.
And saw nothing.
Then moved to a side window.
And saw two shapes making love on the couch in the dark.
Heated love.
Ordinarily, he would have busted in. But if he got hit in the face again, in the same place, the pain might disable him.
They might get the upper edge.
Plus, he had to assume they had guns.
In fact, the whole sex-on-the-couch thing could be a setup to get him to come in thinking he had the upper edge. Then they’d both turn, with guns in hand, and fill him full of holes.
Something he wasn’t found of.
So he decided to not go in.
Instead, he watched.
The vampire had a doable body.
Ample tits.
A nice ass.
A flat stomach.
The man was built like a lifeguard, totally ripped, so strong in fact that Tripp wasn’t sure that he’d be able to take him in a fair fight, even though Tripp was a good two or three inches taller.
He watched for as long as he dared.
Then crept back into the shadows.
And headed down the street to check out a hunch.
Sure enough, a silver Volvo was parked about six houses down.
Exhausted, he went back to the motel and jerked off.
That was last night.
Now it was morning.
BREAKFAST WAS A BAGEL and three cups of coffee at Einstein Bros. Then he drove around the fringes of the city, in the old warehouse districts on the north side of LoDo, and looked for an abandoned building. Some of them had been converted into lofts but there were still a number of vacant structures hanging FOR SALE signs.
One in particular looked interesting.
A six-story brick building with plywood behind the glass.
He parked in the alley behind it, muscled up to the bottom of a rusty fire escape, and walked up. The door at every landing was locked.
Good.
Street people hadn’t infiltrated it.
From the top of the fire escape, Tripp muscled his way onto the roof, and found the access door unlocked. He entered the building and checked every floor.
It was definitely abandoned.
And would do nicely.
Chapter Thirty-One
Day Four—April 15
Friday Morning
______________
FOLLOWING A GIG, Rave usually slept until at least noon the next day. But Friday she woke mid-morning with a disturbing mix of Vegas, Parker and vampire slayers bouncing in her head. Parker was already up and reading the paper when she walked into the kitchen. The coffee pot was half full.
“Good news,” he said. “We have a reinforcement coming in.”
“We do?”
He nodded.
“Forrest. You’re going to like him.”
She poured coffee in a cup, took a heaven-sent slurp and said, “When?”
Parker looked at his watch.
“A little over two hours,” he said.
“Is he flying in?”
Parker nodded.
“Are you going to pick him up?”
“We’re going to pick him up,” he said. “I have something I want to tell you on the way.”
“Tell me now.”
He grinned and went back to reading the paper.
“What, you’re not going to tell me?” she asked.
He kept reading the paper and said, “Apparently not.”
She set the coffee down, stood in front of him, straddled his lap and brought her mouth down to his, an inch away. “Now are you going to tell me?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Then she kissed him.
“How about now?”
“Nope.”
“You’re so mean,” she said.
He kissed her and said, “That was in the fine print when you signed up.”
She stood and said, “Who said I signed up?”
THEY WERE HALFWAY TO DIA, driving east on I-70 under a strong Colorado sun, when Parker finally told her what he had to tell her.
“I mentioned before about the woman we have in Montreal who does our genealogy research,” he said.
True.
Rave remembered.
“She called me this morning,” Parker said. “She came across a rather remarkable discovery.”
“Like what?”
“It turns out that you’re a descendent of two separate and distinct vampires,” Parker said. “Their bloodlines intersected, or crossed, or merged, or whatever you want to call it. So far, you’re the only person in the world that we know about with that kind of pedigree.”
Rave chuckled.
Nervously.
“You’re messing with me, right?”
He shook his head.
“I’m actually jealous,” he said. “This makes you a queen or something.”
“I don’t want to be a queen or someth
ing.”
Parker laughed.
“This doesn’t mean I’m going to start being nice to you,” he said. “Just because you’re royalty.”
She punched him in the arm.
Then got serious.
“Do me a favor, will you?” she asked.
He nodded.
Sure.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said. “I need to get this whole part of my life gone, not get further in.”
Okay.
No problem.
But he added, “Not many people in this world get to be queen of something, you know.”
“Well, if it actually was in this world—that would be a different story.”
He chuckled.
“Understood.”
FORREST WAS STANDING OUTSIDE at passenger pickup, two steps in from the curb where maniac drivers couldn’t run him over, when Parker pulled up, killed the engine and told Rave, “That’s him in the blue shirt.” Rave liked the man immediately. He was older than Parker—about forty—and had an Indiana Jones aura to him. She half expected him to pull out a bullwhip and snatch a handbag out of someone’s grip just for the hell of it.
“Be careful of this guy,” Forrest told her, nodding towards Parker. “He doesn’t drink beer. He only drinks those mixed drinks. I even saw him get something once that had one of those little umbrellas in it. It was embarrassing to be in the same state.”
“So what do you drink?”
“Me?”
She nodded.
“Milk,” he said.
She laughed
“In a dirty glass, like a man.” Then he got serious and looked at Parker. “She’s too pretty to let anything happen to her. Good thing you called me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Day Four—April 15
Friday Morning
______________
THE SURVEILLANCE TAPES from the Old Orleans didn’t help. Teffinger had been with Jena most of the evening. The few times he left her alone, no one came over and put a move on her. Nor did the tapes show anyone stalking or studying her. When the monitor turned blue, Teffinger broke a pencil in half.
And frowned.
“Now what?” Sydney asked.
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly the chief—F. F. Tanker aka Double-F—walked into the room with every wrinkle in his 60-year-old face creased. Teffinger sensed trouble. Tanker politely scooted Sydney out, closed the door and said, “This Jena Vellone thing is getting huge press. And I’m not just talking about her own TV station, I’m talking about all of them.”
Teffinger hadn’t been following the news.
But it didn’t surprise him.
“Questions are being raised as to why you’re on the case,” the chief said.
“Screw ’em.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Tanker said. “But here’s the problem. A Denver detective spends the evening with the victim. He takes her home, drunk. She then disappears. Instead of being the prime suspect, he’s the prime investigator on the case. That’s a conflict of interest, at the least, and maybe something worse.”
Teffinger nodded.
Understanding the talk.
But he said, “There’s nobody in this world as motivated to find her as I am.”
Tanker nodded and said, “Or as capable.”
Teffinger grunted.
“Let me get right to the bottom line,” Tanker said. “The mayor doesn’t want an appearance of impropriety and has asked me to take you off the case.”
TEFFINGER SMACKED HIS HAND ON THE TABLE.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Hold on,” Tanker said. “I’m in a delicate situation here. I need to do what the mayor says. But I’m not going to put Jena Vellone at further risk by doing something stupid, either. So here’s the deal. Officially and publicly, you’re off the case. Between you and me, you’re still on it. You just can’t let anyone know.”
Teffinger stood and paced.
“That’s going to slow me down,” he said. “I can’t spend my time worrying about staying out of sight just because some dumb reporters are asking stupid questions.”
Tanker nodded and said, “It sucks. But that’s the best we can do.”
Teffinger headed for the door.
Tanker said, “I’m putting myself out on a limb for you.”
Teffinger turned and said, “I appreciate that. I’m just pissed. This is the last thing I need right now.”
“Understood.”
Teffinger turned the doorknob and almost opened the door, but paused and said, “Between you and me, if you had taken me off the case completely, I would have quit and kept going on my own.”
Tanker cocked his head.
“There you go again,” he said.
“What?”
“Telling me stuff I already know.”
Teffinger knew that was a compliment.
And that he should acknowledge it as such.
But all he could say was, “It’s my fault she’s gone.” Then he raked his fingers through his hair and said, “I’m going to need Sydney.”
“Can she keep her mouth shut?”
“Yes.”
“Your call, then. Just be sure that all this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.”
“It won’t.”
“I have enough bite marks back there already.”
Teffinger chuckled.
Then headed out of the room.
TEFFINGER NEEDED TO STRETCH HIS LEGS and blow off steam, so he took Sydney for a walk to the 16th Street Mall, explained the situation and bought her a hotdog and diet Pepsi from a street vendor.
They were on a bench in the sun, chewing, when Teffinger’s phone rang. It turned out to be Jean-Paul Quisanatte, the Paris detective in charge of the case of the model who got a wooden stake pounded into her heart. Teffinger brought him up to speed on the Cameron Leigh case.
“I looked at the picture of the guy you emailed,” Jean-Paul said. “How tall would you say he is?”
Teffinger reflected back to the warehouse tapes.
“Five-ten.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jean-Paul said. “I don’t think he’s our guy. Diamanda’s bodyguard was six-three and built. Someone beat him to death with their bare hands. I don’t think your man could have done that.”
“I didn’t know the guy was so big,” Teffinger said.
“Well he is. A black belt, too.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Day Four—April 15
Friday Afternoon
______________
TRIPP DECIDED TO CAPTURE Rave Lafelle alive and do it tonight, after her gig, if possible. In preparation, he pushed a cart through the Lakewood King Soopers and filled it with non-perishable items that didn’t need to be refrigerated or cooked.
Fruit.
Granola bars.
Canned soup.
Bread.
Tuna fish.
Cookies.
Bottled water.
Juice.
The food went into the trunk of the Dodge. For a brief moment he thought about moving it into the old brick warehouse now, but decided it would be safer to wait until after dark. Then he stopped at Ace Hardware and bought some more necessities.
Rope.
Flashlights.
Chain.
Locks.
HE SWUNG BY RAVE LAFELLE’S HOUSE mid-afternoon and saw something he didn’t expect, namely a dark-blue Camry backing out of the driveway, with a raven haired beauty behind the wheel.
A black woman who looked like an island girl.
Very sexy.
She led him to the base of Green Mountain and then wove up twisty streets until the asphalt didn’t go much higher. She disappeared up a street called South DeFrame Way that snaked up a draw and looked like a dead-end. Tripp hung back and waited. When the vehicle didn’t come back after ten minutes, he turned the radio off and drove
up.
The Camry was parked in the driveway of a green split-level ranch, third house from the end, on the left, backing to the side of the mountain.
Tripp drove past, used the turnaround at the end, and then headed back down.
He shielded his face with his hand.
And kept his nose pointed straight.
At the stop sign, he turned right and then right again at the next one, and found himself heading up another draw, but one with no houses built yet. He parked the Dodge on the shoulder and walked up the side of the mountain about a hundred yards to a ridge that looked down on the split-level.
He smiled.
If it was dark, he could walk straight down to the house.
No one inside would have a clue he was coming.
Suddenly his cell phone rang.
He checked the incoming number.
And decided he better answer.
“WHAT’S GOING ON AT YOUR END?” Jake VanDeventer asked.
“No opportunities have come up yet,” Tripp said. “She had a singing gig last night and then a boyfriend stayed over.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe tonight.”
“Play it safe,” VanDeventer said. “I don’t want another Abbott on my hands.”
Tripp chuckled.
As if there was any comparison.
“How are things going at the mine?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Day Four—April 15
Friday Afternoon
______________
FORREST HAD A LAST NAME—JONES—WHICH was ironic, given his resemblance to Indiana. He took the backseat of the Volvo and was already spitting out ideas before DIA got in their rearview mirror.
He wore jeans, tennis shoes and a blue T-shirt.
Strong arms stuck out.
“We need to set a trap,” Forrest said. “No offense, Parker, but hiding in the house while Rave walks around pretending to be alone isn’t going to cut it. The problem is, that’s a normal routine. We need to assume that they’ve already spotted you and they know that you’ll be guarding all her normal routines. What we need to do is stage an upset condition, preferably something that takes you out of the loop. They’ll figure that Rave’s alone and that this is their chance. What they don’t know, however, is that I’ll be hiding in the wings.”
