by R. J. Jagger
It was time to get what he needed.
He made his way to the rear of the structure and found to his amazement that one of the windows had been left halfway up.
He silently climbed through and touched down in a conference room.
It was small.
There was a rectangular wooden table and four chairs. A hotplate for a coffee pot sat on top of a credenza.
He was in.
He’d broken and entered.
The dirt was on him.
Surprisingly he didn’t care.
In fact he felt strong.
The sounds of the city trickled through the air—the changing gears of a motorcycle, the wavelike wash of a siren, the drone of cars pulling away at a green light.
Teffinger headed deeper into the structure.
The files would probably be in a filing cabinet.
They’d be arranged alphabetically.
What would they be called?
Van Gogh?
The conference room opened up to a reception area with a desk and a winding stairway to the upper floor. Teffinger walked past the stairway and entered a larger room with a number of plants, a large contemporary desk with a computer monitor on top and a fancy wooden filing cabinet in the corner.
Teffinger pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket.
In the top two drawers of the cabinet was an eclectic mix of non-client files—billing records, bank statements and the like. The bottom two drawers were equally useless. The main filing cabinets must be upstairs.
He silently headed up.
It turned out he was right.
A large room held a number of mismatched metal filing cabinets, brown, gray, tall, short, flea market purchases. They were labeled with magic marker on pieces of paper taped to the top drawer, A-C, D-J, K-P, Q-T, U-Z. Teffinger headed for U-Z. In the second drawer down he found an expandable file labeled Van Gogh.
Inside were several manila folders, each labeled with a date. He flipped one open. Inside were two pieces of paper with handwritten notes.
The others were similar.
He copied every single piece of paper, being careful to keep them in the proper order and in the proper folders, then put the originals back in U-Z exactly where he found them.
He slipped into the night.
No one saw him.
No one knew.
33
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Yardley woke up to find herself in the driver’s seat of a rented Ford parked in a dark neighborhood in the middle of the night. The air was coffin quiet. It was 1:32 a.m., meaning she must have dozed off for at least half an hour. Madison Elmblade’s house, two doors down and across the street, looked the same as before. Yardley stretched, worked a cramp out of her neck and pulled the house in closer with a pair of binoculars. Everything was the same. There were no open doors or windows or anything else to indicate that Cave had struck.
Cave.
Cave.
Cave.
The guy was gifted with that James Dean face but inside he was an oak that had grown hard and twisted. Yardley still wasn’t sure whether he was just screwing with her earlier when he said they’d kill Elmblade together or whether he was serious about it and then changed his mind. All she knew for sure is that two blocks down the street he sent her packing with a warning; “Stay out of everything and keep your mouth shut. If the dust settles the way it’s supposed to you’ll get your precious little Deven back. If it doesn’t then it doesn’t.”
She took the gun out of her purse and weighed it in her hand. The steel was cold and hard. Headlights appeared from around the corner and came slowly up the street. Yardley dropped down as they passed then brought an eye up just far enough to see the taillights move down the street.
It was Cave’s car.
He was making his move on Madison.
Thunder rolled through Yardley’s blood.
The taillights disappeared around a corner.
A few minutes later headlights came back up the street, not passing this time but pulling into a street slot right behind Yardley.
She ducked down.
The car was a Ford rental.
Cave wouldn’t recognize it as hers.
He’d have no reason to look inside.
Even if he did, Yardley had an explanation ready; she’d anticipated that he’d show up tonight, she was there to help him. That’s what she’d say. There’d be no reason for him to not believe it. He’d probably smile and slap her ass. “Prove it,” he’d say.
A car door opened and then closed.
A horn didn’t beep.
Cave hadn’t used the remote to lock the doors.
He was leaving them open in case he needed to make a quick getaway.
Yardley dug deeper into the seat.
A distant dog barked, once and again, possibly a warning to Cave, then it stopped. No other sounds cut the air. Cave should be past Yardley by now. She brought her head up and checked.
She was right.
There he was, sneaking through the side shadows of Madison’s house into the deeper darkness behind.
With the gun in hand, Yardley opened the door quieter than quiet and hugged the shadows back to Cave’s car. The door was opened as she suspected. She got all the way in to kill the overhead light as quickly as possible and fumbled around under the dash until she found the trunk latch.
She pulled it.
A movement came from the rear of the vehicle.
She got out, stayed low and headed to the back. A dog barked, the same as before. Her heart raced. The trunk lid was unlatched, a few inches up. She pulled it up higher and confirmed there was an emergency release inside.
Then she got in.
There was room for her body but not by much.
The claustrophobia was already climbing up her throat.
She swallowed it down.
She pointed the gun at Madison’s house.
This was it.
Bam!
Bam!
Bam!
Glass shattered.
She pulled the lid down and curled up in a fetal position. Ten seconds later Cave bounded into the car and squealed away. The violence of the turn at the corner pushed Yardley’s head into something sharp.
She didn’t care.
Hold on Deven.
I’m coming.
34
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Wednesday morning Pantage got a couple of billable hours under her belt then closed the door and watched one of the Tequila Rose surveillance tapes. What she saw sent ice up her spine.
The gladiator she picked up Friday night was there in all his glory.
What became clear, however, was that Pantage was only half right in thinking that she was the one who picked him up. At every move, he was watching her from a distance, then eventually positioning himself so they’d meet.
There were no names exchanged.
She didn’t know his.
That didn’t mean he didn’t know hers. She’d been in the bathroom a couple of times that night at his loft. That would have given him time to rummage through her wallet, replete with not only her driver’s license but also a half-dozen business cards.
A knock came at the door.
The knob turned and Renn-Jaa walked in.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
“Close the door.”
Pantage showed her the tape.
Renn-Jaa wasn’t impressed.
“He had you for free Friday night,” she said. “Why would he go off on some crazy elaborate scheme on Sunday? It doesn’t make sense. Plus, look at the guy. He can get laid three times before noon without even trying.”
“Yeah, but he can’t strangle them while he’s doing it,” Pantage said.
Renn-Jaa cocked her head.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Pantage did.
“Now, think back to Sunday night,” she said. “Do you see this guy there anywhere? Does he spark even the faintest recollection?”
Pantage opened her eyes.
“No but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“I think it does,” Renn-Jaa said.
“My memory’s gone.”
“It can’t be gone a hundred percent.”
“Trust me, it is.”
She stood up and grabbed her purse.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out who he is.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No,” Pantage said. “I have this thing. I pick guys up, I get screwed like crazy and I leave. There are no names involved. There, I said it. It’s out. I don’t know his name but I know where he lives.”
She headed for the door.
“Hold on,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, you have billables to worry about.”
“Screw the billables. I never knew you were such a slut.”
They ended up in Renn-Jaa’s car with the air on full and the radio on hip-hop, parking over on Bannock and then heading out on foot in search of a red brick “not very fancy” building. After ten minutes Pantage pointed and said, “That’s it.”
Renn-Jaa made a face.
“You screwed a guy who lives in that?”
“Not funny.”
“Does it have running water?”
She ignored it.
“He’s a photographer,” Pantage said. “He has the top floor.”
The lobby was an empty space with an elevator that looked like it hadn’t had a code inspection since the caveman days. Next to it was a stairwell with a steel door propped-open with a brick. The light was dim, provided by under-wattage bulbs screwed into minimal ceiling fixtures.
There was no directory or listing of names.
“Stay here,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m going up.”
“No.”
“I’m just going to see if there’s a name on the door. I’m not going to knock or anything.”
“No, don’t.”
“Does he use the elevator or the stairs?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you came here Friday, how did you get up, the elevator or the stairs?”
“Neither,” Pantage said. “We used an outside fire escape.”
Renn-Jaa exhaled.
“Okay, I’m taking the stairs,” she said. “Keep a lookout. If you see him coming, get the hell out of here. Don’t worry about me. He doesn’t know me. For all he knows I’m here to see someone else.”
The woman disappeared into the stairwell and headed up, keeping her heels quiet.
Pantage shifted her feet.
Then she followed.
At the top level was a steel door with a painted number 701 but no name. The stairs continue up past a sign—Roof Access.
Pantage put her ear to the door.
No sounds came from behind it.
No TV.
No radio.
No nothing.
Then she put her hand on the knob and twisted, expecting to find it locked.
It turned.
She looked at Renn-Jaa, then pushed the door open an inch. No signs of life came from within.
35
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Teffinger pitched and flipped all night in some kind of not-quite-sleep netherworld before finally giving up at 4:48 in the morning and heading outside for a jog. The exuberance of walking out of September’s law office last night with the Van Gogh notes in his pocket was gone. In its place was a dull realization that he’d actually let himself get dirty and there was nothing in the world he could ever do to undo it.
The dirt was his.
He owned it.
The notes were on his kitchen counter next to his keys.
He hadn’t read them yet.
Nestled into the side of Green Mountain fifteen miles west of Denver, Teffinger’s street went down and that’s the way he was forced to go outside his front door, meaning at the end of his run when he was dog-tired he’d be coming up. The gravity always started him out too fast and this morning was no exception. Two blocks later he regulated and got into a sustainable pace. The world was dark, broken only by streetlights and the occasional bathroom light.
The air was crisp.
He sucked it deep into his lungs.
A fox bounded out from behind a car, stopping long enough to turn a startled head in Teffinger’s direction before trotting across the street and disappearing into the shadows.
The dirt was serious.
A homicide unit couldn’t have a rogue running around doing illegal things all in the name of the end game. There could be lawsuits. There could be evidence thrown out. The Constitution required fair play.
The Constitution was bigger than Teffinger.
If he got caught, he would be discharged.
There wouldn’t be another option.
His record, his personality and his excuses however noble wouldn’t save him.
Nor should they.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
How did he get so stupid?
The four beers didn’t help but he couldn’t blame them. He’d drunk four beers plenty of times before without going out afterwards and trampling all over the law.
He hadn’t read the notes yet.
What if he just went home and burned them to ashes and then flushed those ashes down the toilet? That would get him about as close back to square one as he could ever hope at this point.
But what if Pantage ended up dead and then he found out afterwards that the notes had information that would have prevented it?
Which was more important, him staying clean or Pantage staying alive?
It was the same question as last night.
Three miles clicked by.
“One more.”
He did two.
When he got home the notes were sitting on the counter exactly where they should be. Teffinger gave them a sideways glance as he got the coffee pot going. Then he headed for the shower.
Decide before you get out, he said.
Read them or burn them.
Do one or the other by the time the first cup of coffee is done.
Be done with it.
36
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Yardley’s dark ride in Cave’s claustrophobic trunk was marked with hip-hop pounding with such an amped-up, overdrive blare that the metal vibrated. Cave’s voice rose over the speakers, violently, and his fist drummed on the console. Halfway through a song he’d punch to a different station, swear when he got a crap song, then punch to the next, ten or fifteen times if he had to.
Yardley kept the gun in her hand until her fingers got tired and then stuffed it under her body where she could feel it.
Her back was cramped.
Her legs were cramped.
The muscles on the right side of her neck were on fire from constantly being stretched to the left.
She fought the urge to open the trunk and stick her legs out. Someone might see them and flag Cave down.
Songs came and went.
After a long time the vehicle turned right and the smoothness of pavement gave way to gravel and ruts. The terrain rose gently but steadily then dropped steeply with a number of switchbacks.
The tires stopped rolling.
The engine didn’t shut off.
The vehicle rocked slightly as Cave got out. The door didn’t slam shut. What was he doing? Opening a gate?
He got back in, pulled the car up a short distance, then got out again.
That must be it.
He was going through a gate.
The vehicle drove for another couple of minutes and then came to a stop. The engine shut off
. Cave got out and slammed the door.
Yardley got the gun into her hand and pointed it at the lid of the trunk.
There was no need.
Wherever Cave went it was somewhere else.
Yardley waited for a full minute, maybe two, to let Cave get situated, then she silently felt around in the darkness until she found the release latch. When she pulled it the lid popped and caught, barely audible but with a slight sound nonetheless.
Cool air worked its way through the crack.
Crickets punctuated the night.
Yardley pushed the lid open far enough to get her body through, then eased her way out and gently pushed the lid down.
She stayed low.
The dark silhouette of a building of some sort took shape. No lights or sounds came from it. With the gun in hand, she headed towards it one silent step at a time.
The building was a metal structure with ribbed sides. In the front was an overhead rolling door, currently down but letting a sliver of light from inside define its perimeter. Next to it was a man door.
Yardley worked her way down the side of the structure and found no windows.
At the far backside, however, she located one.
It was high.
The lower edge was six feet off the ground.
The glass wasn’t clear, it had some kind of rippled texture. It was cracked, though, as if it had been hit by a rock. Maybe there was a sliver wide enough to see through if she could get her eye up to it.
She looked around for something to stand on.
There was nothing.
She headed around to the other side of the building and walked into a stack of chopped logs. She grabbed the biggest one she could carry and silently wedged it against the metal under the window.
Her right foot went onto the top of the log.
Then with one quick motion she boosted herself up.
As she was bringing her eye to the glass, a sound came from behind her.
37
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
When no sign of life came from inside the gladiator’s loft, Pantage pushed the door open farther and stuck her head in. The bed was at the far end of the space, empty. The gladiator was nowhere to be seen.
