Teffinger ran down the street and then disappeared to the right at the first side street.
Thirty seconds later Wickerfield snuck through Teffinger’s garage and into the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Four - July 14
Friday Morning
_____________
TEFFINGER’S ALARM PULLED him out of sleep at 5:10 a.m., which was really strange because he had set it for 5:00. He shifted onto his back, getting used to the idea of waking up, while the weatherman told him the heat would shatter a hundred again, making it the tenth day in a row.
That wasn’t good.
That meant that a lot of people would be out at night.
He shaved in the shower, popped in his contacts, threw on a pair of jeans and a blue cotton short-sleeve shirt, then mixed up a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana and nonfat milk, which he carried out to the Tundra and ate while he drove. By 6:15 he was at his office kick starting the coffee machine and standing there staring at the pot as it slowly filled up. Of course no one else was there yet, nor would they be for another two hours or so.
Teffinger’s gut told him that the so-called “visit” would come tonight, not Saturday. The guy would be excited to finally be on the news. He’d take the next victim this evening, if possible, then use tomorrow to kick back and watch the city squirm.
Sydney showed up about seven, more than an hour early, a real surprise. She wore gray pants and a nice white blouse that seemed extra crisp against her skin. She headed straight for the coffee, saying over her shoulder, “Thought you’d be here.”
“Just got here,” he said.
She sank down in the chair in front of his desk and propped her feet up. “This coffee sucks,” she said.
Teffinger shrugged, then saw that his cup was empty and walked over to fill it, shaking in powdered creamer and then pouring the coffee on top.
“I’m thinking our friend is going to strike tonight,” he said. “I’m also thinking that Ashley Conner’s body is going to show up somewhere before the five o’clock news.”
She frowned.
“Don’t even say that.”
“He’s not going to want two live ones around at the same time, is what I’m saying.”
Suddenly his cell phone rang and the dispatcher’s voice came through. “Teffinger, we got a body. It’s an African American woman, reportedly a streetwalker. She has a six inch knife buried in her eye.”
Teffinger looked at Sydney.
They were the only ones there. No one else would be in for another hour, minimum.
“What’s the location?” he questioned.
TWELVE MINUTES LATER THEY ARRIVED AT AN ALLEY off Colfax, just down from the Rainbird Bar, a long-standing hooker hangout. Three patrol cars guarded the scene, which had already been taped off. Trash and litter lay everywhere in stinking piles. Even at a casual glance, Teffinger counted ten or twelve used needles on the ground around the body.
Sydney recognized the victim.
“Well I’ll be damned. That’s Mary Williams,” she said. “We went to East High together. She was in tenth grade when I was in eleventh, then she dropped out.”
Teffinger nodded.
“I slept over her house once,” Sydney added.
Now, according to Sydney, the woman had a reputation for giving private S&M sessions. Supposedly she had a dungeon set up in the basement of her house over in the seven hundred block of Downing, although Sydney had never personally seen it. There she let the Johns string her up and whip her for a hefty pile of cash upfront.
“So what do you think?” Teffinger asked.
Sydney shrugged.
“Maybe someone brings her back here to get a blowjob, he doesn’t feel like paying, she goes to leave, he’s not in the mood to be denied and sticks a knife in her eye.”
Teffinger considered it.
“Or a drug deal gone bad.”
Sydney shook her head. “No, not drugs. She was never into that, believe it or not.”
“Really?”
“She even got on my case once for smoking,” she added.
Detective Richardson, a baby-faced up-and-comer, showed up a little after nine and the three of them worked the scene until noon, at which point there was nothing left to do.
BY THE TIME THEY GOT BACK TO HEADQUARTERS it was coming up on one o’clock. Katie Baxter cornered Teffinger as soon as he walked in.
“The divisions are all set up for tonight,” she said. “We’re going to concentrate on places where young women can be found, which includes the major nightclubs, the LoDo area, and downtown—particularly around the Paramount, since someone’s playing there tonight.”
“Who?” Teffinger asked.
“I don’t know, I don’t exactly travel in that circle anymore.”
“Okay.” He ran his fingers through his hair: “What about Broadway?”
She nodded.
“That’s on our radar screen, just in case this guy’s gutsy enough to try the same trick twice, just to rub it in our faces.”
Teffinger nodded.
Good.
TEFFINGER’S CELL PHONE RANG. It turned out to be Jena Vellone. “Nick,” she said. “If something happens tonight, can you call me? I want to be first on the scene and break the story.”
He thought about it.
“Give me your cell number again,” he said.
She did.
He wrote it on the back of one of his business cards and stuffed it in his wallet.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said, “but we’ll see.”
When she hung up, Teffinger programmed the number into his phone.
THREE MINUTES LATER HIS CELL PHONE RANG AGAIN. This time it was Rain. “Nick,” she said, “what are you up to tonight?”
“Driving around and looking for a van, until I fall asleep at the wheel.”
“Can I ride with you?”
“That’s against policy.”
“Not if you’re in your truck,” she said.
He considered it.
Actually, she was right.
“Yeah, why not,” he said. “But I’ll have to drop you off somewhere if I get a call or something.”
“Fine. Just slow down to at least twenty-five first.”
Chapter Nineteen
Day Four - July 14
Friday Morning
_____________
JACKIE’S ALARM CLOCK went off before daybreak when the bedroom was still dark. She reached over without opening her eyes and turned it off. Normally this is where she’d pull the vibrator out but today she had too much on her mind and hit the shower instead.
She swung by the office to pound out paperwork and get coffee into her system, then got in the Porsche and headed north on I-25 to the Boulder Turnpike, finally exiting on 104th Avenue. Five minutes later she pulled into the Texaco where one of the phone calls to Stepper had come from.
Inside, she milled around until two customers left and then walked over to the counter. The attendant was a scruffy looking older man with a beard and a thin face. He smelled like a forest fire. For some reason she pictured him drunk out of his mind every night on Jack and waking up to a hacking cough.
“Hi,” she said. “I was hoping that you could maybe help me out with something.”
“Sure,” he said, showing yellow teeth. “What do you need?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m a lawyer and I’m trying to locate a man who made a phone call from the pay station outside on May 5th at 10:42 in the morning.”
The man shook his head. “We rotate our surveillance tapes every five days.”
Jackie nodded and tried to not look at his mouth, but found herself pulled back to it, as if it was a train wreck or something. “I suspected that,” she said, “but I was thinking that maybe he made the phone call when he stopped to get gas, and maybe he paid with a credit card. I was hoping you could tell me if there were any credit card purchases around that time.” She leaned on the counter. “I�
�m not looking for his credit card number or anything like that, just the name on the card.”
The man looked confused.
“I wouldn’t have a clue how to do that,” he said. “I guess you’d have to get into our computer system somehow, but I don’t have access to anything like that. Only corporate could do something like that.”
“Okay,” she said. “I understand.”
“If you want to leave your card, I’ll pass the request on and have them call you.”
She hesitated, not particularly excited about someone that skuzzy having her phone number. She pictured him calling her at two in the morning with his dick in his hand, but she handed him one anyway and left.
FROM THE TEXACO SHE HEADED to the north edge of downtown, parallel parked the Porsche on Wazee, and walked a block until she came to an old three-story brick building with heavy construction taking place inside.
She called her sister on her cell phone and two minutes later Brooke walked out of the front entrance, looked around, and finally spotted her. Her face was dirty and smudged, and when she took off her hardhat her hair was matted in sweat. She was grinning ear to ear and never looked happier. “Here,” she said, handing Jackie a yellow hardhat, “you got to wear this, otherwise six guys are going to chew my ass.”
Jackie said, “Do me a favor. Kiss my hair goodbye for me.”
Brooke did.
Then they walked inside.
THE CITY WAS STANDING ON THE CUTTING EDGE of getting the most extreme, chic, sensory-overload nightclub that imagination, creativity and truckloads of money could provide; an equal to the likes of Studio 54 back in its heyday.
Jackie could tell that Brooke was, at that moment, probably as happy as she had ever been. The six years of brain damage at the University of Colorado was finally starting to pay off. Without those two degrees—the bachelor’s and the master’s, both in business, both summa cum laude—Brooke probably wouldn’t have been viewed as having the necessary pedigree to pull a project like this off. But she did have those two degrees. And she did have four years of hands-on experience as executive manager of Breathless, Denver’s place to see and be seen. And she did have all the right connections. And she did have her finger firmly on the pulse of Denver. And she did have the beauty, poise and charisma to be in the business. In fact, modesty aside, she was perfect for something like this.
The whole idea for Image had been Brooke’s brainchild from the start, but she needed investors.
And now she had them, namely Richard Alexander and Tom Iverson, two experienced entrepreneurs who already owned a number of insanely successful and lucrative clubs in L.A., Chicago, Las Vegas and New York.
They put up the cash, bought this building, got the liquor license and were funding the construction.
Brooke’s job was to develop the themes, quarterback the interior design, advertise and market, recruit all the right people, and then oversee all day-to-day operations once it got up and running. That meant she’d be responsible for human resources, security, reservations, bookkeeping, legal, purchasing, payroll, insurance, risk management, taxes, and all the rest. In exchange, she’d be a fifteen percent owner, receive a compelling base salary with a yearly escalation clause, and get a cut of the door.
Her squeeze—Aaron Cavanaugh—would have a crucial role to play, too.
At twenty-three, he was three years younger than Brooke, but that didn’t bother her one bit. With those GQ looks, and that perfectly proportioned six-foot body, there wasn’t a female in a hundred who wouldn’t gladly sign up on the spot. He would be the front man for the new club, the pretty face that got the right people in the door and defined the standard of exclusivity, the meet-and-greet guy, the man with final say on who could move to the front of the line or reserve a table or booth on Friday night.
JACKIE FOLLOWED HER SISTER AROUND and learned that the interior of the building was currently being gutted in preparation of reconstruction.
Jackie couldn’t have been happier.
The project had pulled Brooke out of that dark mood that seemed to have a hold on her lately.
While they were standing in the center of where the main dance floor would be, Brooke’s cell phone rang. “Might be business,” she said as she looked at the number. “Nope, it’s Aaron. Just give me a minute.”
“Hey there, sexy,” she said.
Then the smile dropped off her face.
Jackie watched as her sister listened intently to whatever it was that was being said. A furrow grew between her eyes, a familiar mark of stress. Then she looked at Jackie and said, “I’ll be right back,” and walked over to the wall as she talked, turning her face.
The conversation went on for about five minutes.
Brooke hardly talked at all but when she did it was in a serious tone.
Jackie wandered farther off, giving Brooke her privacy.
When Brooke finally hung up and walked over, she couldn’t have looked more upset if she was being paid. “Trouble in paradise?” Jackie asked.
Brooke shook her head. “No, something else.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
Brooke looked at her as if she wished that was possible.
Then she said, “Unfortunately, no.”
JACKIE WENT TO HER OFFICE and hadn’t been there for more than thirty minutes before the walls closed in. She ended up walking down Welton towards Broadway, leaving a string of burned matches in her wake, wondering what the hell was wrong with Brooke. She was sitting on the sidewalk in the shade, leaning against a building, when Stepper called her.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She sensed urgency in his voice.
“I got another call from Northwest this morning,” Stephen said. “He was talking about the Ashley Conner situation. You’ve heard about that, right?”
Yes, she had.
But what was it?
Oh, yeah.
“She’s the art student who disappeared, right?”
“Right,” Stepper said. “And whoever took her is supposed to strike again this weekend, according to the letters he’s been sending the press.”
“Right, that’s the buzz.”
“Well, Northwest was talking all about that case,” Stephen said. “Although he didn’t come right out and say it, I think he’s the one who took the Ashley Conner woman.”
Jackie stood up and paced.
“You really think so?”
“Like I said, I’m not positive, but my gut tells me he’s the one.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, major wow.”
A well-dressed man and woman in their late thirties walked on the other side of the street, close together, touching each other. For some reason Jackie sensed that they were cheating on their spouses.
“Did you tape the conversation?” Jackie questioned.
“I did.”
“Good.”
A pause then, “I’m not sure it’s so good.”
“Why?”
“This is getting too heavy,” Stephen said. “I think I’m going to have to pull you off the case.”
“Screw that,” Jackie said. “Are you in your office?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Chapter Twenty
Day Four - July 14
Friday Afternoon
_____________
WICKERFIELD PACED BACK AND FORTH in front of the board, giving it dirty looks as if his expression alone could force answers to jump out of it. Face it—his concentration had gone to hell. The blue marks on the board were starting to look more like a child’s scribbling than mathematical symbols. Most of his brain cells were focused on tonight, when the rock star would take stage.
He needed to be careful, though.
If the perfect opportunity didn’t present itself, he needed to wait until tomorrow, or even Sunday if necessary. Don’t force the situation. That was important. There’d be plenty of police out there trolling aro
und in the darkness. He’d be able to see some of them, but not all of them. Still, they’d be there. Don’t forget that.
He capped the blue marker and set it on the desk, then wandered into the kitchen, pulled a nonfat yogurt out of the fridge and ate it with a plastic spoon as he walked around the kitchen island in circles. No fat and plenty of protein, the yogurt, good stuff—rock star food.
He walked into the master bathroom, took a piss, then pulled off his shirt and studied his abs in the full-length mirror. His torso was totally ripped.
“Ought to be on the cover of a magazine,” he told himself, posing.
He had to admit, he wasn’t at the absolute prime of his life but wasn’t far off the mark, either. Just to prove himself right, he dropped down to the tile floor and did a hundred totally honest pushups.
That felt good.
In fact, it made him want more.
He walked into the master bedroom, dropped down to the carpet, and did two hundred stomach crunches. Then he went back into the bathroom and studied his abs again. The six-pack was incredibly defined. With a little more work he could probably get back to his eight-pack days.
Maybe he should go for it, just to prove that he could.
We’ll see.
Outside, the afternoon sun pounded down relentlessly, trying to dry up every living thing on the face of the earth.
“We need rain,” he said. “Bad.”
He couldn’t remember a more scorching summer.
But there was one good thing about hot days.
They made for perfect nights.
THE MONITOR SHOWED ASHLEY CONNER pacing back and forth in front of the bed. The fact that she won the game now twice in a row was a problem, but fair was fair. If he expected her to die by the rules when the time came then the least he could do was play by the rules until that time did come. One of the rules, as he told her upfront, is that they would play the game every forty-eight hours. That meant that her next play would be tomorrow afternoon. No doubt she’d lose at that point and he already knew what he was going to do with her body. One person had won twice before, like Ashley. But no one had ever won three times.
Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 8
