by R. J. Jagger
“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t a hit,” she said. “Anyone can become a hit. She could have seen something she shouldn’t have. Someone might have told her something. She might have had a secret life. You never know.”
Teffinger frowned.
“He ran her over out in the desert,” he said. “That’s not the way a hit goes down. That was fun.”
“Well, maybe we’re both right. Maybe he’s an assassin who also kills on the side for kicks.”
Teffinger chewed on it.
Then he said, “See if you can find out who Bent was talking to prior to Ashlyn’s murder. I’m starting to think you’re right in that Mr. K may very well be on that list.”
11
Day Fourteen
August 16
Tuesday Evening
The emotion of the afternoon burned off and got replaced with a silent sense of doom as the day waned on and the evening crept in. Hurling the cell phone into the telephone pole was now something Teffinger would take back a hundred times if he could.
Raverly called North every half hour throughout the day.
The man never answered.
When she called the firm directly, she was told North was out of the office for the rest of the day. She left messages for him to call.
He never did.
They were in homicide, Teffinger and Raverly. Everyone else was gone. Outside the twilight was growing ever deeper and now teetered on the edge of night. The windows were almost full black. They had microwave spaghetti in their guts and dirty forks in the sink.
Teffinger needed a beer but the room was a security blanket. Going home meant the day was over. Staying here meant it wasn’t.
He slumped back in his chair.
“It’s my fault about North,” Teffinger said. “I should have never tried to intimidate him. Everything I’ve done in this case has been wrong.”
Raverly sat on the edge of the desk.
“Not everything,” she said. “There were a few moments back in Vegas that you handled pretty well.”
He smiled.
Suddenly the door opened and Kwak from forensics came in. By the expression on his face the news was good.
“Got the number,” he said, referring to call Teffinger so eloquently smashed into the telephone pole. “It’s an L.A. number registered to Michael Decker.”
“Michael Decker,” Teffinger repeated.
He punched the man’s name into the keyboard and got no criminal records. Then he Googled the phone number and got a hit. It appeared on the contact information for an attorney named Michel Decker.
“I thought the call came from Mr. K,” he said. “It looks like it actually came from the mysterious L.A. attorney we’ve been looking for.”
Kwak slapped him on the back.
“I’m out of here,” he said. “Call me at home if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
Raverly’s phone rang and the voice of the private investigator Jack Bahamas III came through. “Got those phone numbers for you,” he said. “I put them in a PDF format. Give me your email address.”
She did.
Thirty seconds later she had the display on her phone.
“There it is,” she said. “It matches your number. When you got the call this afternoon, what exactly did the guy say?”
He wrinkled his forehead.
“The best I can remember it was, You wanted me to talk to me, so here I am.”
“That would be consistent with the attorney,” she said. “North must have told him that you were trying to find out who he was.”
Teffinger paced.
“Should I call him?”
“I don’t see how it could hurt.”
That was true.
His blood raced.
He grabbed Raverly by the shoulders and said, “I killed a man last year. He was a suspect in a savagely mean murder, his third across the country. I was tailing him, he spotted me and we got into a confrontation. He ended up dead. His name was Peyton Rekker. Do you know him?”
She stepped back.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Just answer,” he said. “Do you know him?”
A beat then, “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know of him,” she said. “The case was in the papers and there were allegations of excessive force. You were cleared.”
“That’s right, I was cleared.”
She looked into his eyes.
“Just between you and me, did they get it right?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Do you want the truth?”
Yes, he did.
“A lot of men have tried to parade into my life over the years, Teffinger,” she said. “You’re the first one in a long, long time that I’m thinking about letting in.”
He turned away.
She was lying to him and telling him she loved him at the same time.
The contrast hurt his brain.
“I’m going to call the lawyer,” he said.
She squeezed his hand.
“Answer my question first,” she said. “Did they get it right?”
He exhaled.
“They got it 70 percent right.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being honest.”
He raked his hair back with his finger. It immediately flopped back down over his forehead.
“It doesn’t come naturally,” he said. “I have to work at it.”
“As long as it comes.”
He dialed the L.A. lawyer, Michael Decker, who answered on the third ring.
“Why’d you call me before?” Teffinger said.
“Because you’re threatening Anderson North,” Decker said. “He’s a mouthpiece, nothing more and nothing less. I want to be crystal clear that you understand that. He has nothing to give you so leave him alone.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Let’s stop this stupid dance,” he said. “Give me the name of your client and let’s be done with it.”
“That can’t happen.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“I want you to know something,” Teffinger said. “Brooklyn Parks was a personal friend of mine. I’ve known her since high school. What happened to her out there in the desert, it’s personal to me.”
The phone was silent.
Then Decker said, “I never heard of anyone named Brooklyn Parks.”
“Your client never told you about her?”
“No.”
“Then how’d you pass the information on to North?”
“I didn’t.”
“You know what I think? I think that maybe you and your client are the same person.”
He hung up.
12
Day Fifteen
August 17
Wednesday Morning
Teffinger tossed all night with the equivalency of a rowboat adrift in a hurricane and paid for it with a deep exhaustion when he woke Wednesday morning. Raverly, still sleeping, hadn’t killed him during the night, so he had at least that much going for him.
He didn’t have energy but set out on a pre-dawn jog nonetheless, letting the cool thin air clean his lungs and wash his brain.
Today was the day.
He had a few tricks left but not many. He’d get more airline manifests today and be able to cross-reference them against San Francisco and Las Vegas. If he got a hit, maybe he’d be able to trace the name to a hotel. Most hotels had security cameras. That would give him a face to attach to the name. If the guy rented a car, he’d also have a license plate number.
Things weren’t totally hopeless.
Still, the emptiness in his gut was tangible.
He felt like the smaller guy in the ring, hoping to land a sucker punch.
He ran three miles under the streetlights.
When he got back, Raverly w
as in the kitchen wearing a T that hung mid-thigh over bare island-girl legs, whipping up pancakes. She put her arms around his neck and said, “I’ve been thinking about tonight.”
“And?”
“And, you’re basically a good guy inside, Teffinger.”
“Basically?”
“Right, basically,” she said. “Don’t let yourself be your own enemy tonight. If you get a chance to kill him, do it. Don’t give him an inch.”
“That’s not the way it works.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“You get a better book if he’s alive,” he said. “You have a chance to pick his brain.”
“Don’t give him an inch,” she said. “Don’t even give him half an inch. The world will be a lot better off without him in it.”
She poured two cups of coffee, handed one to him and said, “I’ve been thinking about what that L.A. attorney Michael Decker said, about him never telling North anything about Brooklyn Parks.”
Teffinger frowned.
“He was just screwing with me.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” she said. “Maybe he was telling the truth.”
“How could he be?”
“Okay,” she said, “it goes like this. You wanted details on a murder, right? So you had a sense that this guy was really legit—”
Teffinger took a sip.
It was hot.
It was heaven.
“Right.”
“Okay,” she said. “What if Decker told North only about one murder, namely Ashlyn White, which would be enough to prove Mr. K’s pedigree.”
“But—”
“Hear me out,” she said. “What if North is the one who killed Brooklyn Parks?”
“North?”
“Right, think it through,” she said. “Here North is, in a position where he’s feeding information to a detective from a killer who’s owning up to murders. All he had to do was slip in information on a second murder—one done by him—and let you think Mr. K was confessing to it. That gets North off the hook.”
Teffinger grabbed plates out the cupboard and set the table.
“So he was framing Mr. K, that’s what you’re saying.”
“Precisely.”
“The more I think about it, the more it fits,” she said. “Maybe when you rattled North yesterday you had a bigger effect than you realized. Maybe that’s why he never called me back. Maybe he’s feeling trapped.”
She slid pancakes onto the plates.
Teffinger smothered them with strawberries and whipped cream and sunk in.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The problem is that Brooklyn was just a hand sticking out of the dirt. No one was going to ever find her by accident. Hell, even looking for her, it took us a long time and a truckload of luck.”
“Yeah, but North wouldn’t necessarily know that,” she said. “He dumped the body—when?—almost a year ago, in September of last year. He never went back to it. He didn’t know it got covered up.” She speared a strawberry with her fork and brought it to Teffinger’s mouth. “That explains why Ashlyn White was an assassination out in San Francisco but Brooklyn Parks was more in the nature of a fun kill. It wasn’t the product of one guy with two dimensions, it was the product two different guys.”
The words stuck.
They made sense.
“Damn it, you might be right.”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Put that look of surprise on your face at the same time you’re saying I’m right.”
He kissed her.
“Did I do that?”
“Yes you did.”
“I’ll say I’m sorry later.”
“I’ll be waiting for it.”
Teffinger took a big bite, chewed and washed it down with coffee.
Tonight’s kill would be pre-arranged.
It wouldn’t be for fun.
He was fairly sure of that before but now he was certain.
At the office, he got a call he didn’t expect, namely the Lakewood detective, Brad Bradley, who was working the murder of Atasha that took place in Teffinger’s bed two weeks ago.
“Did she seem suicidal?” the man asked.
Teffinger reflected back.
“She was down,” he said. “She just got dumped by her boyfriend, she was out in the weather, she was broke and all that. She wasn’t what I’d call happy but she never struck me as suicidal. Why do you ask?”
“We stumbled across a secret compartment in her purse,” Bradley said. “We found a small vial of liquid in there. I’m getting it tested but I’m pretty sure it’s cyanide.”
“Cyanide?”
“Right.”
Teffinger cocked his head.
“Maybe that’s how we can identify her,” he said. “Check some of the mental health places out in New York. Maybe they’re run across her.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Remember, though, I’m not positive what it is. It might be some kind of weird New York drug that we bumpkins out here in Colorado never came across before.”
“Take a hit of it,” Teffinger said. “See if you die or get nutty as a squirrel.”
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
“No worries. It’s the least I can do, and that’s what I always do.”
13
Day Fifteen
August 17
Wednesday Afternoon
Teffinger shouldn’t be worried about personal issues with the witching hour so close, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Raverly and, the more he did, the bigger her lie grew. She was the one who tried to kill him two weeks ago and got Atasha instead.
He could feel it in his gut.
It was settling into his bones like some kind of a creeping disease.
He had no future with her.
It wasn’t surprising.
Every time without exception that he thought he’d finally found the one he’d been looking for, something always happened.
He was cursed.
He didn’t know why but did know that he was.
The afternoon dragged.
Airline manifests came in but nothing cross-referenced. They took to running background checks on every single person coming into Denver. Shady characters emerged but none were of the stature they were looking for.
“He’s driving in,” Teffinger said.
“Maybe not.”
“He is, trust me.”
Who in Denver warranted an assassination?
That was the question.
If they could figure out who the target was they’d be halfway to catching the guy.
Raverly’s words rang in Teffinger’s ear.
Don’t give him an inch.
Don’t even give him half an inch.
That implied contact.
It implied a face-to-face square off.
At this point, Teffinger didn’t see that happening.
Dark-bellied clouds rolled out of the Rockies in the late afternoon, foot soldiers with a solid army in tow.
It would storm tonight.
That would make a complicated situation even more complicated.
The day dragged on.
Nothing good happened.
Leigh Sandt called to report that she couldn’t find any shadows of the man in the FBI’s files, closed or open.
Teffinger tried to shake the L.A. attorney one final time.
The man didn’t budge.
“The blood’s on your hands,” Teffinger said.
“We both know that isn’t true.”
The line died.
Teffinger slumped in his chair.
It was hours until game time.
He had nothing.
Outside it started to drizzle.
14
Day Fifteen
August 17
Wednesday Night
The drizzle turned into a rain and the rain turned into a storm and the storm turned into an al
l-out fury with a demonic soul, battering Denver with punch after punch after punch. It was night and Teffinger had no plan other than to drive around the city randomly and hope to stumble onto something.
It was one final act of desperation.
It was an arm cocked in hopes of a sucker punch.
Raverly insisted on riding with him.
He could have resisted and probably should have. It wasn’t just against protocol; it was downright insane to let a civilian tag along on a hunt for a serial killer.
She made a point, though.
“I stuck my neck out. I earned this.”
He argued but in the end couldn’t deny her, so there she was sitting next to him.
His watch said 9:48.
He had coffee in his left hand.
The storm battered off the buildings, swung the streetlights and filled the windshield with waves. The wipers swung back and forth at full speed, sweeping the nightscape in and out of an eerie watercolor focus.
At least a hundred cop cars, both marked and unmarked, crisscrossed the city, all connected to central command, all poised to do whatever needed to be done.
They gave Teffinger no solace.
He said nothing.
His thoughts were braced for failure.
He could already see himself slumped in a chair at a debriefing meeting tomorrow in a room full of people second-guessing how things could have gone better.
Heading north on Broadway, he flicked the radio on, got a jingly commercial, and then punched the stations until he landed on Blondie’s “Call Me.”
Color me your color baby,
Color me your car.
Up ahead a woman was out in the weather pacing back and forth.
“Sex never sleeps,” he said.
He drifted to the curb, flashed his badge and said, “Go home tonight, honey. It’s not safe out here.”
“Sure.”
He pulled away and told Raverly, “She’ll be back as soon as our taillights disappear.”
Roll me in designer sheets,
I’ll never get enough.
Raverly opened her purse and pulled something out.
“I brought a friend,” she said.
It was a .38.
“Do you have a permit for that?”
