Claudia Martinez, dressed better than Jackie, looked up from her computer when she walked in. “How’d it go?” she asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” Jackie said, pulling the blouse out of her shorts and unbuttoning it. “Three big-shot corporate lawyers from New York are about to have a very long plane ride home. It’s hotter than hell out there. When is it going to rain?”
She got the blouse off, slipped into a T-shirt, and then hung the top on a hanger, a familiar ritual.
“I did what you asked and have one word for you,” Claudia said.
Jackie looked at her, sensing seriousness in her tone. “And what might that be?”
“Creepy.”
“The CD?” Jackie questioned.
“Oh, yeah. The CD.”
“How creepy?”
“The guy’s a killer,” Claudia said. “I can see why Stepper’s looking over his shoulder. Maybe Stephen’s actually legit on this whole thing.”
“The guy admits killing?”
“No, he never comes right out and admits it, and doesn’t mention any names or specific details or anything like that, but when you listen to enough of these conversations and put them together, he’s a killer. There’s no question in my mind.” She picked a pen off her desk and rolled it in her fingers. “Women, young women. That’s his passion.”
Jackie weighed the words.
“That’s your transcript,” Claudia said, handing her a manila file folder. “As near as I can make things out. Enjoy.”
THAT EVENING AFTER SUPPER, Jackie drove her 1986 Porsche 911 up Highway 74 into Bear Creek Canyon, twisting through the mountains next to the river with the Targa top off, ending up in a parking space under an aspen tree five or six blocks down from the Little Bear Tavern. She didn’t apologize for the Porsche. She had a number of clients who expected her to pull up in something nice. Plus she loved the way the headlights jutted out like torpedoes. It was a lot better looking than the newer models, in her opinion.
She slipped in the CD and followed along with the transcript, lighting matches and throwing them out the window onto the asphalt. Thirty minutes later she couldn’t sit in the car anymore, her body just wouldn’t let her. The man was a killer all right. But Jackie hadn’t found a single clue on how to track him, at least not yet.
Nor did she have a clue why he might want to kill Stepper.
It was dark now and people had been pouring into the Little Bear ever since she got there, most of them arriving on Harleys. She put the Targa top back on the car, locked it and headed in that direction, wearing shorts and a tank top. A block away she could already hear the band and the hollering.
She fluffed her hair and put a spring in her step.
There was only one thing she needed more than to get drunk right now.
And that was to get laid.
Chapter Eight
Day One - July 11
Tuesday Night
_____________
ASHLEY CONNER MIGHT DIE TONIGHT.
She might not.
That was the beauty of the thing, not being in control.
Right now Wickerfield could only concentrate on the moment. With the headlight of the Kawasaki dirt bike off, and the night blacker than black, he couldn’t help but grin and wonder if he wasn’t just a little bit crazy as he flew across the pitch-black field in third gear. The motorcycle twitched and bucked like a thing possessed, bouncing off the unseen earth and rocks and vegetation, but it couldn’t throw his feet off the pegs or wrench the handlebars out of his grip.
The custom muffler did its job just fine, keeping the engine as quiet as a coffin.
He kept the knobby front tire pointed in a beeline towards the one and only visible light, a two-hundred watt floodlight perched on top of a prefabricated metal building at the other end of his property, more than a mile away.
Finally getting there, he pulled the bike along the side of the building, killed the engine, deactivated the building’s security system, and walked around to the front. His quad muscles burned from the ride, not used to the rapid up and down movement. He opened the Master padlock, rolled the overhead door up and flicked on the lights. Inside, just where it should be, sat his getaway car should he ever need it, a 6-cylinder Audi with lots of horses under the hood and 7,500 miles on the odometer.
HE ROLLED THE OVERHEAD DOOR DOWN and started the inspection process, now a weekly ritual.
The vehicle’s battery connects to a small trickle charger permanently mounted under the hood, with a plug that disconnects just under the front bumper. He unplugged it from the extension cord, slipped inside the car, pulled the key out from under the front seat, and turned the ignition. The engine fired right up—perfect—and he shut it down almost immediately, not needing the carbon monoxide.
Then he opened the trunk and unzipped the largest suitcase. It held several changes of clothes, leather shoes, tennis shoes, bathroom essentials, three colors of hair dye, two boxes of brown and green contact lenses, a couple of different colored wigs and moustaches, and other necessities. With everything there and as it should be, he zipped it back up and set it on the ground.
Then he turned to a second suitcase, a smaller one, filled with non-perishable food items and water, enough to keep him alive for a full week. Finding everything in place, he set it on the ground.
Good.
Then he turned his attention to the gun case. The shotgun, rifle and handgun—all legal—were inside, together with enough ammunition to get out of any predicament he could envision.
He set it on the ground.
From under the spare tire he pulled out a small black canvas bag and verified that everything was still there: two alias passports, three alias driver’s licenses, $25,000 cash, blank checks, a small black book containing the banking information for his accounts in the Caymans, the Bahamas and Mexico City.
Okay, good.
No problems there either.
He put everything back, reconnected the battery charger, locked up, and then walked the two-hundred-yard stretch of gravel driveway from the building to the road—County Road 5—just to be sure there were no obstructions and that the chain across the entrance hadn’t been removed.
Okay.
Good.
With everything in order he headed back across the field on the Kawasaki, to the other end of his 350 acres, where the house sat.
A HUNDRED FEET BEHIND HIS HOUSE stood a large prefabricated metal building containing four thousand square feet of footprint that he called the barn. He pulled the dirt bike inside, parked it in its usual place and topped off the tank with 91-octane gas.
As long as he was there, he decided to take a quick look around. The Ford van had been white when he bought it. He painted it black, soundproofed the windowless back compartment and modified the door so that it couldn’t be opened from the inside, unless you knew the trick. He also installed eyehooks in the four corners of the floor, to attach handcuffs in case the need arose. Painting the vehicle black had been a brilliant idea. In case the cops ever got lucky enough to know to look for a black van, this one wouldn’t pull up if they did a records search.
A toggle switch under the dash operated the two small lights for the rear license plate. When he was doing something he shouldn’t, he could turn the lights off. Then, back on the road later, he could turn them on and be legal again. He liked that little setup so much that he installed it on all his vehicles.
He limited use of the van strictly to abductions and body drops. There weren’t a lot of neighbors around, but he didn’t want even them to know he had a van if he could help it. He only brought it out after dark.
Next to the van sat the hardtop Jeep Wrangler. It could have a value if he needed to escape in the winter, or drive directly into the miles of land that surrounded his property.
Next to that was the white Ford F-150 pickup truck, 8 cylinders, automatic, regular cab, short bed, four-wheel drive. All the vehicles were parked perpendicular, facing the opposi
te side of the structure, so they could be pulled out at any time without having to move another one.
He kept the Camry, his daily driver, parked next to the house.
All the vehicles were registered in the names of separate dummy corporations. So if the cops ever got lucky enough to get a license plate number, they’d still need a considerable amount of research and time before they had any chance of tracing the car to him.
There’d be another gap tracing him to the property, which was also titled in the name of yet another corporation.
With everything in the world exactly as it should be, he walked to the house, humming, and let his thoughts turn to Ashley Conner.
Later this evening, very soon in fact, he would visit her. Tonight, however, things would be a lot different than the previous three nights.
Tonight she would play the game.
He grinned, just thinking about it.
FOR SOME REASON, A GLASS OF COLD wine seemed to be just the thing. He headed for the kitchen, pulled a fresh bottle out of the built-in wine cooler in the center island, and set it on the granite countertop next to the remote.
Seeing the remote made him realize he needed music. He picked it up and pointed it towards a wall of electronics in the adjacent room. Seconds later the familiar sounds of the Beach Boys spilled from a sound system that cost him one-point-two wheelbarrows full of money. He uncorked the bottle of wine and poured it into a crystal glass, smiling. The money had been worth it; the music couldn’t have been more clear and vibrant if the band had set up right there in his house.
He held the glass up and spun around on the tile floor, as if dancing with a partner. The movement filled his head with flashes of expensive stainless steel appliances, distressed maple cabinets and contemporary light fixtures.
Ashley Conner had never seen this part of the house and never would.
When he got her home Saturday night, she was still unconscious in the back of the van. Nevertheless, out of an abundance of caution, he put a leather hood over her head and cuffed her hands behind her back before removing her. Then he carried her into the house and straight to the dungeon, amazed at how light she was. She didn’t wake up for another two hours after that.
WICKERFIELD DESIGNED AND BUILT the dungeon with his own two hands, over a period of two years. At times, he wouldn’t work on it for months, having almost no interest in it. Other times he seemed frantic to finish, working fourteen-hour days one after the other.
The house itself was a 5,000 square-foot contemporary stucco ranch with a walkout basement that had ten-foot ceilings. The dungeon occupied the back half of the lower level, hidden silently behind a normal looking recreation room replete with an entertainment center, wet bar and a pool table.
Dungeon was admittedly too strong of a word. True, the space was encased in concrete-filled, rebar-enforced cinderblock walls and soundproofing material galore. But from the inside, it looked more like a nice finished suite, albeit windowless. The main room was downright huge, taking up more than a thousand square feet. It had light-brown carpeting, drywall, oak trim and recessed lights. A queen-size mattress sat on the floor at the far end, near the bathroom. Scattered throughout the rest of the space were the devices; the Saint Andrew’s Cross, the rack, the chair, the stocks, etc. Eyebolts for attaching chains and ropes were strategically placed in dozens of places in the floor, ceiling and walls.
The entry to the space is through a solid steel door. There’s a second steel door, at the other end of the room, which leads to a small cinderblock room with ceiling hooks, the Punishment Room. Once someone was strung up in there, and the door was shut, they couldn’t see or hear a thing. That’s where they went if they were stupid enough to damage or deface the main room or the bathroom.
WICKERFIELD PUNCHED ANOTHER BUTTON on the remote control and a 50” flat-panel TV turned on in the adjacent room, displaying Ashley Conner.
She paced back and forth in front of the bed. She wore a steel cuff on each ankle. A heavy tempered chain was padlocked to her right ankle, followed by four feet or so of slack chain, which was then padlocked to her other ankle, followed by another ten or fifteen feet of chain which was padlocked to an eyebolt in the floor. The chain was long enough so that she could access the bathroom, the bed, the refrigerator and the sink without hindrance.
When she first regained consciousness Saturday night, he chained her naked in the Punishment Room with her arms stretched high above her head. He slammed the door and left her there for the better part of an hour, just so she understood.
It must have worked.
So far, she hadn’t tried to do anything stupid like let the sink run over with water, tip over the refrigerator, break the lights or trash the walls.
She was a good girl.
Young.
Sweet.
Demure.
The wine crystal now empty, he refilled it and toasted himself.
The time had come to pay his first serious visit to Ashley Conner. He rounded up the plastic bag, duct tape and dice, then headed downstairs.
Chapter Nine
Day Two - July 12
Wednesday Morning
_____________
WHEN TEFFINGER WOKE Wednesday morning, it took him a few moments to realize he was on Rain’s couch, the one that could have used a few more springs. The sounds of early morning traffic sifted through the windows and a faint orange light washed the room. He remembered Rain knocking on Ashley Conner’s door last night to see why light was coming from under the door, then finding him asleep and insisting that he spend the night at her place.
His watch said 5:45 a.m.
Good. He hadn’t overslept; he still had a full day to devote to Ashley Conner.
He stood up, stretched, peeked in Rain’s bedroom, found her sleeping naked on top of the sheets, watched her for a few seconds, and then headed for the shower.
The hot water came up to temperature surprisingly quickly. He stepped inside, one of those old bathtub-shower combinations with pink tile walls, pulled the shower curtain closed and lathered his hair with the one and only shampoo in sight, a cheap generic bottle of baby shampoo.
Three minutes later he was out, drying his hair with the towel just enough to stop the dripping. He found Rain at the breakfast table eating Cheerios with nonfat milk while the coffee pot gurgled.
“Thanks for last night,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Being a gentleman, not making any advances.”
“Oh, that.” He put a concerned look on his face. “Just don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
She smiled. “If anyone asks, I’ll say you rode me until I couldn’t walk straight.”
He nodded. “That’ll work.”
She walked past him to the bathroom.
“Put that visual away.”
He shook his head, busted.
HE EXPECTED HER TO BE A HALF HOUR at least. Instead, she was out in about ten minutes, wearing no makeup, dressed in a black T-shirt and jean shorts. Her hair hung wet and straight down her back, soaking the shirt and dripping onto the floor.
Right there, looking just like that, she was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.
“You just let it drip dry?” he asked.
She headed for the coffee and nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“Most women fuss,” he said.
“I don’t.”
“No. Apparently not.”
“Life’s too short to spend in the bathroom.”
Teffinger cocked his head. “So where do you spend your time?”
She looked at him, and for a second seemed to be defensive. Then she relaxed and said, “Around.”
THEY BRUSHED THEIR TEETH—Teffinger using his index finger—and stepped outside, cups of coffee in hand. Two minutes later they were in the alley that Teffinger stumbled across last night, to see what they could see by the light of day.
“What are we looking for?” Rain question
ed.
Teffinger shrugged. “It’s like a good song. You know it when you see it.”
“Personally I’ve never seen a song.”
“You know what I mean.”
A few minutes later she said, “Hey, over here.”
Teffinger walked over and found her squatting down by a water bottle with ASL lettering.
“That’s Ashley’s,” Rain told him. “ASL stands for Art Students League. She carried that thing everywhere.”
Teffinger left it in place and used his cell phone to call the Crime Unit. Rain, bless her heart, went back to the apartment and returned five minutes later carrying the entire pot of coffee, which they drank until the van showed up. Paul Kwak—one of the department’s best—stepped out. Teffinger brought him up to speed and helped seal off the alley as Rain waited on the sidewalk.
Lookey-Lews walked past, slowing down and pointing their faces in to see what all the fuss was about.
“Saw a ’56 T-bird on the way over here,” Kwak told him, scratching that big old potbelly of his. “Must be a show somewhere today.”
“What color?”
“Red,” Kwak said. “The color was right, but if I was going to own a baby-bird, it would be a ’57. I never could get used to the continental kit on the ’56.”
“Makes them look ass heavy,” Teffinger said.
“Exactly,” Kwak agreed. “And you can’t have a ’55 either, with that goofy electrical system they put in ’em. So that only leaves you with the ’57.”
“That’s the keeper,” Teffinger said.
“Not that I wouldn’t take a ’55 or ’56, if someone gave it to me,” Kwak said.
Teffinger had already walked the entire alley, with Rain’s assistance, and hadn’t found anything else of relevance, besides the water bottle. At least Kwak would be able to photograph it in place, bag it for fingerprints, and make field sketches to memorialize where it had been found.
“When we’re done here,” Teffinger said, “we’ll head over to Ashley Conner’s apartment and get some fingerprints to compare to the water bottle.”
Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 4
