Nick Teffinger Thrillers - Box Set 1 (Specter of Guilt, Black Out, Confidential Prey)

by R. J. Jagger

  This is where the power was.

  The money.

  The movers and shakers.

  The oversized, contemporary offices.

  The skyscraper views.

  The fountains.

  She walked all the way through the district and didn’t stop until she got to the Ferry Plaza Farmer’s Market, where she strolled around in the crowds and bought a plate of sushi.

  Shaden Jade was her first big case.

  She wasn’t going to blow it.

  NUWA’S ACCIDENTAL MEETING CONCEPT, while potentially viable, was fraught with too many problems, the biggest of which is that an opportunity might not materialize for weeks or even months. The more Song thought about it, the more she liked the client concept.

  Okay.

  Think.

  Turn Nuwa into a damsel in distress.

  Seagulls flew.

  Sailboats sailed.

  She hardly paid attention.

  Twenty minutes later she got to her feet, surprised at what she’d come up with.

  SHE WAS HALFWAY BACK to the office when she turned to check for cars before crossing California. Thirty steps behind was a long-haired man with a blue bandana.

  She’d seen him before.

  Earlier today.

  She remembered, partly because his face was rough and manly, but more because it was tanned, as if he wasn’t from around here.

  He wore dark sunglasses.

  The sleeves of his T-shirt were rolled up.

  Muscular arms stuck out.

  Right now, his face was pointed at the ass of a woman walking in front of him. When he turned to Song and saw her looking at him, his step slowed, not much but definitely some. Then he cut to the right and disappeared into the crowd.

  27

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Afternoon

  NORMALLY TEFFINGER WOULD HAVE JUMPED head first into Zoogie’s murder and, to give him credit, he did get a BOLO out for the blond Chinese guy with the scar and his African American companion. His head, however, was filled with Condor.

  Condor.

  Condor.

  Condor.

  Teffinger needed to get back into the man’s house and find the souvenirs. Then his certainty would go from 99 percent to a hundred. He pointed Bertha that way, just to swing by and take a look.

  Traffic was snarled.

  Fender-benders were everywhere.

  It took him more than half an hour to get to Condor’s and, when he did, he saw something he didn’t expect, namely the man’s six-four frame walking down the front steps. He stopped at street level and looked around as if expecting someone to pick him up.

  He wasn’t bad looking, better than average actually, with a hefty resemblance to the look Nicholas Cage had in Bangkok Dangerous, except Condor was stronger. Teffinger was in better shape and could take him in a bare-knuckles fistfight if it ever came to it, but it would take some time and wouldn’t come easy. If Condor had a weapon, even something as simple as a baseball bat, the end result might not be good.

  Teffinger’s chest tightened.

  He was going to drive right past the man.

  There was no way to avoid it.

  He stared straight out the windshield, as if oblivious to the fact that he was anywhere near the man’s house. Just as he passed, Condor slapped the passenger door.

  Teffinger turned.

  What he saw he could hardly believe.

  Condor was waving for him to stop.

  The man wanted to talk.

  There were no parking spots on the street.

  There never were.

  Teffinger pulled into a private driveway two doors down, shifted into park and waited.

  TEN SECONDS LATER, Condor leaned his head in the window and said, “Teffinger, I told you before, this is not a good surveillance vehicle. What do you call this thing again?”

  “Bertha.”

  “Right, Bertha,” Condor said. “That’s the good thing about the old classics, you can give them a name and no one bats an eye. Try doing that with your two-year-old Honda Accord.”

  “That’s a valid point.”

  “Bertha,” Condor said. “I like it. It fits.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Teffinger said.

  “Hey, I’m actually glad I caught you driving past, because it will save me a trip down to the station,” Condor said. “I need to make a report about someone breaking into my house last night.”

  “Really?”

  Condor nodded.

  “I wouldn’t have even known about it except for one small thing,” Condor said. “There’s a sliding glass door in my bedroom that leads to an outside deck. That door was locked before I left last night. When I came home, it was unlocked, as if someone had been in the house and left that way.”

  Teffinger cocked his head.

  “Were you drinking?”

  Condor nodded.

  “Maybe you’re not remembering things clearly. That happens sometimes.”

  “Right, I agree,” Condor said. “Except this time, there was something else funny. It was raining last night. The bedroom carpet was wet by the door.”

  “Maybe you have a leak.”

  Condor tilted his head.

  “Maybe.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Teffinger shrugged.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “It’s not a big deal, I just thought I’d mention it when I saw you driving past,” Condor said. “Maybe you could clarify something for me. If someone breaks into my house, I have the right to shoot them, don’t I?”

  Teffinger flicked hair out of his face.

  “You do, but only if a reasonable man would view the situation as a threat to their life. So if they’re running away, you can’t shoot them. If they’re coming at you, or even just standing there and not backing down, you can.”

  “So I need to be careful to not shoot them in the back.”

  Teffinger nodded.

  “Right. Shoot them in the chest. Or better yet, the face.”

  “Why the face?”

  “Because they don’t wear bulletproof vests over the face.”

  Condor smiled and said, “Thanks. I knew you’d be able to help.”

  THE MAN WALKED AWAY.

  Teffinger tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Then he opened the door and stepped out. “Hey, Condor, wait a minute.”

  The man stopped and turned.

  Teffinger walked over to him.

  “SJK will be coming around pretty soon.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Maybe you should come down to the station that night, just hang around in sight, that way we can cross you off the list once and for all.”

  Condor smiled.

  “I’d like to, but I already have plans,” he said. “Thanks for the invite, though.”

  28

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Afternoon

  JONK DYED HIS HAIR BLACK and wondered if it would be best to split with Tag at this point. Separately, they’d be almost invisible. Together, not even close. On the other hand, she knew the geography and had nice eyes.

  “Got something,” she shouted.

  “What?”

  “Something good.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like something you need to see.”

  He headed for the bedroom and found her on the mattress wearing only a pair of white cotton panties and a lacy white bra. Zoogie’s monthly bank statements were on the sheets to her side. She was on her stomach, propped on her elbows, studying Zoogie’s checkbook.

  Her ass stuck up.

  Incredible.

  “It looks like someone got comfortable,” he said.

  She sat up and said, “Focus, Cowboy. Look right here.”

  He looked.

  She was pointing to a line entry where Zoogie wrote a check to MCM in the amount of $113.32.


  “He writes the same check every month,” Tag said. “It’s the only monthly check that isn’t a phone bill or water bill or something explainable. This has to be for rental space.”

  Jonk nodded.

  Impressed.

  “What’s it stand for?”

  She flipped back even further and found an entry in the same amount, $113.32, for Marina. “It’s either Marina CM or MC Marina.”

  “Google ’em,” Jonk said.

  She did, then smiled.

  “Mission Creek Marina,” she said. “It’s on the bay side of the city, just south of South Beach Harbor.”

  She wiggled into jeans.

  “Pure poetry,” Jonk said.

  AS TAG DROVE and an old Van Morrison song, “Brown Eyed Girl,” spilled out of the radio, Jonk worked the Internet with his handheld, checking out what might be available to rent at the Mission Creek Marina. “You can’t get a slip for $113 a month, not even close,” he said. “They’re a lot more. This has to be for dry dock.”

  “You mean like a boatyard?”

  “Right,” he said. “The rates vary depending on the length of the boat but the fee’s going to be right around what he’s paying, give or take. The question is, how do we find out which one’s his?”

  Tag tilted her head.

  “Easy, we ask.”

  “We ask?”

  Right.

  “And by we, I mean me,” she said. “You stay in the car.”

  THERE WAS NO SEPARATE OFFICE for the marina. Everything from slips to boat rentals to gas to hot dogs was run out of one main building. Four or five employees bustled behind the counter. Tag waited until one got free, a tall skinny girl with a nametag that said Carly, and asked, “Do you know Zoogie?”

  Yes.

  She did.

  “His boat’s for sale and I’m here to look at it,” Tag said. “Can you tell me where it is?”

  “Dry dock.”

  “Right, I know, I just don’t know where in dry dock.”

  Carly looked it up.

  “One oh one.”

  “One oh one?”

  “Right, the spaces are numbered. His is one oh one.”

  Tag smiled and headed for the door.

  “Thanks.”

  Over her shoulder she heard, “Do you want the code to the gate or do you already have it?”

  She stepped back and said, “I have it, but you may as well give it to me again, just to be on the safe side.”

  DRY DOCK was just south of the loading ramp, enclosed in a chain-link fence, home to hundreds of boats on trailers. Most were sailboats, midsized, twenty to thirty feet, but there were plenty of larger vessels too, including several on stands that looked like they’d been there since the dawn of time. Tag pulled up to the key box and brought the car to a stop.

  She couldn’t reach the pad from her window and Jonk opened the door to get out.

  Just as he did, a loud chain rattled and the gate pulled to the right.

  A black van was on the other side.

  Waiting to come out.

  Behind the wheel was a woman.

  Her head was bandaged.

  She looked familiar.

  Tag was punching the radio buttons, stopped on an old Rhiana song, “SOS,” and cranked it up.

  The gate opened far enough for a car to pass.

  The van sped out.

  “Shit!” Jonk said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That was Zoogie’s girlfriend—”

  Go!

  Go!

  Go!

  29

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Afternoon

  SONG TURNED ABRUPTLY SEVERAL TIMES on the walk back to her office and never saw the blue bandana again, but it didn’t matter because she could still feel him. A private investigator, or muscleman, or hitman, or whatever he was didn’t come free. Rekker was shelling out money. That meant Shaden posed a very real threat to him—so much so that he was not only tailing Shaden but her lawyer as well—which in turn meant he was dirty.

  How dirty was the question.

  And in what way, that was the other question.

  Maybe the incident at Rekker’s house Sunday night was an actual killing, but Rekker couldn't report it because the gun the woman had in her hand was dirty—previously used in another crime, or unregistered, or something like that.

  Maybe the woman herself was dirty.

  Maybe she was a fugitive being harbored by Rekker, or something like that.

  Something was going on.

  Something big.

  That much was clear.

  BACK AT THE LAW OFFICE, the door wouldn’t open, which made sense because Song was using a four-year-old key in a three-hour-old lock. She eventually got inside to find everything as she’d left it.

  Good.

  She locked up and headed upstairs.

  Nuwa was in the bathroom, blow-drying her hair that was now blond instead of black. She saw Song’s reflection, grinned and said, “Pretty sexy, huh?”

  Actually it was.

  “I talked to Shaden about the fake-case idea,” Song said. “She thinks it’s brilliant and has told me to go forward and spare no expenses. There’s a new problem, though. I went for a walk and was pretty sure someone was tailing me, a guy with a blue bandana.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know exactly, I only know it’s not necessarily a good thing.”

  Nuwa smiled.

  “Not necessarily a good thing. I love the way you talk sometimes.”

  Song ignored it.

  “The problem is, I don’t know how much surveillance they’ve done without us even knowing it,” she said. “You might already be on their radar screen.”

  Nuwa shrugged.

  “Doubtful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we haven’t been outside together.”

  Song chewed on it.

  Maybe she was right.

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  “If we go forward, we’re going to need to get you out of my apartment and set you up somewhere,” she said. “You’ll need a cell phone, a name, a wardrobe, spending money, the works.”

  “Rain,” Nuwa said.

  Song heard the word, but it didn’t make sense.

  “Come again?”

  “Rain,” she said. “That’s what I want my new name to be.”

  “First or last?”

  “First.”

  “It sounds too hippie.”

  “I don’t care, it’s my name and that’s what I want.”

  Song considered it.

  “What do you want for a last name?”

  “I don’t care, it just has to go with Rain.”

  “How about Cloud?”

  Nuwa punched her on the arm.

  “Not funny.”

  “It goes.”

  “Yeah, too good,” Nuwa said.

  “Okay, then, Shower.”

  “What’d you do, take an evil pill this morning?” A pause, then, “Did you come up with a fake case yet?”

  “Actually I did.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Soon,” she said. “First let me finish working out the details.”

  30

  Day 2—September 22

  Tuesday Afternoon

  TEFFINGER JUST GOT BERTHA back into traffic when his phone rang and the voice of the chief, Triple-C, came through. “We need to talk.” Twenty minutes later, in the chief’s office, the man lit a cigarette next to the windows, took a long drag, blew the smoke outside and got right to the point. “I never took you for a quitter.”

  Teffinger tossed hair out of his face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what the hell I’m talking about,” Triple-C said. “We can’t have you dropping out of this SJK mess just because of some bruised ego. Yeah, we brought Northstone in. And, yeah, we should have told you about it beforehand. But you need to stay on the team, whether yo
u like him or not.”

  “I don’t have a problem with him.”

  “Bullshit,” Triple-C said. “You dropped out. You handed the reins to him and dropped out. You didn’t even stay for the whole meeting.”

  “I went to the restroom,” Teffinger said. “A homicide call came in. I was the only one there. I took it.”

  Triple-C frowned.

  “Play games if you want, but what I need is for you to be on the team,” he said. “I’m not going to belabor it. Make up your mind whether you want to be around here for the long term or not.”

  A knock came at the door.

  Lance Northstone walked in, looking intense. He saw Teffinger and said, “Sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

  Triple-C shook his head.

  “No. Come in.”

  Northstone sank into a chair and said, “We know he’s going to put a yellow rose in her mouth. Maybe he clips them from somewhere or maybe he buys them from a florist. We can’t track clippings but we can track purchases.”

  Triple-C nodded.

  “Okay.”

  “What I propose is that we cut off every yellow rose growing anywhere in the city to make sure he has to buy it,” Northstone said. “We’ll get in touch with all the florists in the city except a half dozen and get them to not stock yellow roses. That will force him to go to one of our finite sources—again, five or six stores. For those stores, we’ll set up surveillance and monitor every purchase.”

  The chief cast an eye on Teffinger for his reaction.

  “There are a lot of roses in Golden Gate Park,” he said.

  Northstone showed no expression.

  “Then we’ll need a lot of clippers,” he said.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Teffinger spotted Neva at the coffee pot and headed over. “What was the big meeting with the chief all about?”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “He’s totally stressed. I got the feeling he thinks his job is on the line,” he said. “He’s ready to follow this Northstone guy wherever he leads him. Now they’re on a gardening adventure.”

  She wrinkled her forehead, confused.

  “Come on, I need you,” Teffinger said.

  “Why? What’s up?”