by R. J. Jagger
He looked at Yardley.
“How thorough of an investigation are you looking for?”
“As thorough as you can make it.”
He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, tapped two out, lit them from a match and handed one to Yardley.
“You look liked you just got screwed,” he said. “Who do you want investigated?”
“His name’s Peter Smyth. He lives in Miami.”
Cave blew smoke.
“How soon do you want a report?”
“Yesterday.”
He cocked his head.
“I’ll leave tonight.”
16
Day One
July 18
Monday Evening
Pantage’s thoughts were fatigued and losing focus, which wasn’t unusual for this late in the day. On her credenza was a photograph of her and another young woman with their arms around each other, tanned, wearing summer attire, on a beach with crashing surf in the background, smiling and facing whoever it was that was snapping the lens. Wind was blowing their hair. Their eyes twinkled.
Clearly they were good friends.
Pantage was three or four years younger then.
She had no memory of the person she was standing with.
She had no memory of where they were.
She removed the photo from the glass to see if there was an inscription on the back.
There was.
It said, London and Chiara, Big Sur.
It was dated four years ago.
The handwriting wasn’t hers.
The other woman had dark features, possibly Italian. Chiara sounded like an Italian name. That name must refer to the friend, meaning London referred to her. She studied her face to see if it was a twin sister she had no memory of. If the woman was a twin, she was an identical one.
No.
That was Pantage.
It wasn’t someone else, even if identical.
So why did the inscription say London instead of Pantage?
Was London a nickname?
She stuffed the photo in her purse and the frame in the credenza.
The Noblia on her wrist said 5:55.
It was time to meet Teffinger.
Suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway, Renn-Jaa Tan, the Hong Kong flower from next door. She was stylishly dressed in expensive threads tapered to show off a tight little waist. Her hair was thick and black, parted in the middle and cascaded halfway down her back. At five-two she wasn’t big and had a chest to match. Her face had a hypnotically erotic edge. Pantage doubted that there was a guy in the firm who wouldn’t lay down a twenty just to give it a good lick.
“Knock, knock,” she said. “You okay?”
Pantage nodded.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What are you up to tonight?”
“The detective’s going to pick me up.”
“What for?”
“Ostensibly to protect me.”
Renn-Jaa stepped closer and put a devious look on her face. “You better lay him like you own him because if you don’t I will.”
Pantage smiled.
“You’re such a poet.”
“I’m serious.”
“Hey, let me ask you something,” she said. “Does the name London mean anything to you?”
“Yeah, it’s a big city in England.”
Pantage rolled her eyes.
“Get serious for a minute,” she said. “Does anyone around here ever call me that?”
“No, lots of other things, but not that. Why?”
“No reason, I guess.”
She headed for the door.
“Remember what I said about that detective,” Renn-Jaa said.
“Don’t worry. It’s indelibly imprinted in my brain.”
17
Day One
July 18
Monday Night
Monday night after dark a heavy thunderstorm swept out of the mountains and rolled over Denver with an evil intent. Teffinger grabbed a fresh Bud Light from the fridge, topped off Pantage’s wine, and said, “Follow me.” He took her to the garage and rolled up the door. Thick bullets of water shot down on the driveway.
The sound was like music.
The wetness of the air tasted like candy.
Backed into the garage, facing outward, was a 1967 Corvette convertible, red over black, a driver more than a trailer-queen, with one headlight stuck in the up position. There was supposedly a way to manually wind it down but Teffinger hadn’t figured it out yet. Under the hood was the standard 327, not the insane big-block by any means, but not exactly a sleeper either. The numbers matched and the wheels were the original knock-offs.
Teffinger held the passenger door open for Pantage, then scooted behind the wheel and took a long swallow of beer. Watching the storm from this vantage point in the world was the equivalent of a Brian de Palma movie, say “Body Double.”
“This is my favorite thing in the world,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone. It clears your head.”
“So does slamming into a fire hydrant,” Pantage said.
Teffinger smiled.
Pantage exhaled and put her hand on Teffinger’s arm.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
Her voice was serious.
“What?”
“I think I’m the one who killed Jackie,” she said. “I had a memory of doing it. It was just a flash but it was so real.”
Teffinger wasn’t impressed.
“That was just a trick of the brain,” he said.
“No, it was more.”
Lightning flashed.
Thunder rolled over Green Mountain, bounced off Teffinger’s roof and shot towards Denver, fifteen miles to the east.
“I’ll make you a wager,” Teffinger said. “If I can prove to you that you didn’t kill Jackie, you have to be my sex slave for a night.”
She laughed.
“Your sex slave?”
“Right.”
“So what does that job entail, exactly?”
“Whatever I want it to.”
She clinked her glass against his beer can and said, “You’re on, only because there’s no way in the world you could ever prove it.”
“So it’s a deal.”
“Sure.”
He took a swallow of beer.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this so don’t repeat it,” he said. “Jackie Lake was number six. Before her, there were five more just like her, killed exactly the same way across the country over the last three years.”
“No.”
“Yes,” he said. “They were all drop-dead gorgeous, they all got strangled to death while they were being raped, they all had their left ear cut off. Someone has a jar of formaldehyde sitting on a mantelpiece somewhere with six ears in it. I’m assuming you’ve never seen anything like that sitting around your house.”
No she hadn’t.
“That’s my proof,” Teffinger said. “If that’s not good enough then here’s what we can do. I can give you the exact dates and locations where those murders took place. You can compare that to your billing records, which will show you were in Denver when those murders happened. So, there’s only one thing left to determine.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you going to concede to my proof now or are you going to make me wait until tomorrow?”
She ran a finger up the back of his hand.
“I may as well surrender now,” she said.
“Good.”
He clinked his can against her glass.
Then he got serious.
“Jackie Lake was an attractive woman,” he said. “I’m not trying to disparage her or anything, but she wasn’t in the same class as the women who proceeded her. You on the other hand are.”
Pantage wrinkled her forehead.
“Is that a backwards way of saying that I was the intended victim?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“Let’s put
it this way,” he said. “It’s a thought that keeps growing in my mind even though, I have to admit, I can’t quite make it fit. If you were the intended victim, why wouldn’t he just do it to you at your place? Even if we assume that Jackie got dragged into it because the guy was looking for his first two-fur, how would he know that you’d be going over there that night?”
“He couldn’t.”
“That’s what has me hung up,” Teffinger said. “Only you knew you’d be going over.”
“Maybe he followed me,” Pantage said.
“That’s possible. Maybe he’s been tailing you, looking for an opportunity to get you and another woman alone together at the same time. Stranger things have happened. Maybe he made you watch Jackie die so he could see the fear on your face knowing you were next. You don’t remember anything?”
“The only thing I remember is that flashback I told you about,” she said. “I had Jackie’s arms tied. I was raping her with a cucumber that had a rubber on it. Next to me was a box cutter that I was going to use to cut her ear off with.”
Teffinger swallowed.
“Box cutter,” he said.
“Right.”
“That’s what was used,” he said. “That or some other kind of razor. Something sharper than a knife.” He took a swallow of beer and said, “There was no cucumber at the scene.”
“Maybe I flushed it.”
“Look, I already proved you didn’t do it,” he said. “You’re not going to get out of the deal.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Good.”
“I’m actually looking forward to it,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone.”
The storm pummeled down.
Teffinger finished his beer, got another from the fridge and brought it back, together with the wine bottle. He topped off Pantage’s glass.
“I’m thinking of all kinds of nasty things to do to you,” he said.
“I’m sure you are.”
She put her hand on his knee.
She wore white shorts, a pink tank and had tanned legs. Her hair was loose and slightly disheveled from running her fingers through it.
“Have you ever been tied up?” Teffinger asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Then let me refresh your recollection,” he said. “You have.”
“By you?”
He nodded.
“You really don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Follow me.”
He took her to the bedroom but didn’t turn on the lights. The only illumination came from a soft streetlight that wove through the rain and cast a pale glow on the wall. Ropes were tied to the four corners of the bed. “The first time you came here you wanted to be tied up,” he said.
She walked over to one of the ropes and tugged on it.
“You left these here? The whole time?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you used them on anyone else?”
“No.”
She set her glass down.
Then she wiggled her shorts off, pulled the tank over her head, unsnapped her bra and dropped it to the floor. She wore a white thong, nothing more. She laid down on the bed and spread her arms and legs towards the corners, then wiggled her stomach.
“Show me how these work,” she said. “Do to me what did before. Make me remember.”
Teffinger stretched her tight and tested the ropes.
“See if you can escape?”
She wiggled and pulled.
Her body barely moved.
“I can’t.”
“Good.”
“I just had a thought,” she said. “Maybe the guy didn’t follow me to Jackie’s. Maybe he’s the one who sent the text. Maybe he got a hold of her phone somehow and sent the text without her even knowing about it.”
Teffinger ran a fingertip in a circle around her bellybutton.
“The text came while she was in San Francisco,” he said. “He would have had to been there to do it.”
“Maybe he was,” she said. “Maybe he even flew back on the same plane as her.”
Teffinger licked her stomach.
“I’ll check the passenger list tomorrow,” he said. “Right now I don’t want you to think about anything except being my sex slave.”
“Yes master.”
18
Day One
July 18
Monday Night
Miami after dark was smothered under a layer of thick humid clouds. The target—Peter Smyth—lived on the west side of the city, just south of Blue Lagoon, where the houses were five feet apart and jet engines rattled the skies. Sanders Cave drove past Smyth's house in a black Camry rental.
It was 1:30 in the morning.
A few dogs barked, an occasional TV flickered against a smoky wall, otherwise it was dead.
The lights in Smyth's house were off.
Same for the neighbors on each side, plus across the street. An older model Mustang squatted in Smyth's driveway.
Cave parked a block away and killed the engine.
From under the seat he pulled an 8-inch serrated knife that he purchased for cash earlier this evening. He attached the nylon sheath to his belt, unsnapped the snap and pulled the blade out.
He ran the edge over his thumb, just to get a feel for the sharpness, then slipped the weapon back in the sheath.
He stepped out of the car and silently closed the door, leaving it unlocked.
Nothing moved.
No dogs barked.
No lights went on.
He headed up the street towards Smyth's house.
He didn't understand why anyone would want the man dead. The guy hardly existed. He was just someone who lived in a crap house and drove a crap car. In just this one night, Cave was probably getting more to kill the guy than the guy had made in his entire lifetime.
He must have seen something he shouldn't have.
It didn't matter.
Whoever Smyth was, Cave was getting paid.
Unlike Denver where the thin mile-high air turned to a refrigerator at night, here it was still in the 80's and oppressive.
A mosquito bit Cave's arm.
He smashed it and flicked it off.
Lots of windows were open.
He would need to be quiet.
He'd sneak in and kill the man in his sleep.
The only sound would be metal sinking into flesh, possibly followed by an exhale of air from dead lungs.
Cave moved swiftly, a sliver of shadow in the night.
Suddenly a dog barked.
He turned.
A dark silhouette was behind him, closing the gap with a straight silent run, not more than two steps behind. It was a man, a large man, a large man with a nylon mask stretched taut over his face. He raised his arm. In it was a knife. A reflection bounced off the blade, then the reflection disappeared and the weapon swung with a fast fury directly at Cave's face.
19
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Morning
Pantage got dropped off at her house Tuesday morning before sunrise. The storm of last night was gone, leaving smoky remnants of clouds up top and puddles down below. Teffinger checked the house, made sure everything was safe, then asked if he could borrow her lipstick. When she handed it to him, he wrote Thanks on her bathroom mirror, gave her a kiss and said, "I'll call you later."
"Okay."
"Don't have sex with anyone until I get there."
She smiled.
Then she got serious.
"Email me the dates and places of those other murders. I need to be sure."
"You're wasting your time but fine."
Then he was gone.
Pantage pulled the Big Sur photo out of her purse, flipped it over and looked at the subscription on the back.
London.
London.
London.
Who are you?
&
nbsp; There had to be something around here somewhere that would answer the question.
There were only a few boxes in the attic.
They contained things, not papers.
Same for the garage.
She had no photo albums.
On reflection, that was strange.
The master bedroom had a walk-in closet that could best be described as a dumping ground. She went through it for ten minutes before coming to an old shoebox buried on the top shelf in the back.
It was taped shut and covered with dust.
She opened it.
Inside she found a California driver's license with her photo on it and the name London Winger.
Her chest pounded.
There was also a passport in the name of London Winger with her photo on it. It was stamped for England, France and Italy, all in June four years ago.
There were twenty or thirty photos.
She was in a lot of them with friends, others she wasn't in at all. She recognized one of the friends as the same one from the photo on her office credenza. The other friends she didn't recognize at all. She read the backs, looking for names. She found the one she already knew, namely Chiara, except this time there was a last name, Chiara de Correggio. She found a few new names.
Michelle.
Sepia.
Alexis.
There were no men in any of the photos.
She stuck everything back in and put the box on the nightstand next to the bed, then headed for the shower.
The water was hot.
The room was dark.
One thing was clear.
Pantage Phair wasn't her real name.
Her real name was London Winger.
At some point in the last three of four years, it got changed and she relocated from California to Colorado.
Why?
Was she on the run?
Had she done something similar to Jackie Lake back in California?
Was she the serial killer Teffinger was looking for?
Teffinger.
He had his hooks in her, he knew it and she knew it. If she didn't break loose by the end of the day it would be forever too late.
He was a drug.
20
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Morning
