Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  If he took his next victim tonight, then there’d be some overlap between her and Ashley. In a perfect world that wouldn’t happen, but it didn’t really appear to be too big of a problem. He’d be able to manage just fine. If fact, he could have his new captive actually watch Ashley Conner play the game tomorrow afternoon.

  That would get her attention in no uncertain terms.

  Actually, the more he thought about it, the more it intrigued him.

  HE GRABBED THE KEY TO THE DUNGEON and walked downstairs to pay his little captive a visit. When he opened the door and walked in she was curled up under the covers pretending to be asleep.

  “I know you’re awake,” he said. “Stand up and take your clothes off.”

  She didn’t move, pretending not to hear.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  She jumped out of bed and had the most wonderful expression of fear in her eyes.

  “It’s not game time,” he said. “That’s not until tomorrow, so lighten up.” He removed all the metal cuffs, except the one around her right ankle, which was chained to an eyebolt in the floor, and then said, “Take your clothes off.”

  She obeyed, removing everything except her socks.

  “The socks too,” he said.

  She looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “My feet get cold,” she said.

  He reconsidered.

  He got no real pleasure out of having her uncomfortable.

  “Fine,” he said. “Leave them on.” He studied her and then said, “Stay where you are, don’t move.”

  He went upstairs and returned with a checkerboard and box of black and red checkers. “You know how to play checkers, right?”

  She nodded, visibly apprehensive.

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was barely audible.

  He pulled all the blankets off the bed, set the board in the middle and sat on down on one side. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Every time you win, we’ll extend the dice game for twelve hours.” He smiled and motioned for her to sit on the bed. “Such a deal. Do you want red or black?”

  WHILE THEY PLAYED, SHE HELD HER HANDS at odd angles whenever she moved a checker and then quickly pulled them back as soon as she could, protecting them from his vision. He was curious but didn’t want to let on that he knew, so he took stolen glances whenever he could.

  It turned out that her fingernails were scratched.

  That’s what she was hiding.

  She had scratched some kind of messages or clues on them for the police to find later, after he killed her.

  Wickerfield smiled.

  What a clever little girl.

  He was actually impressed.

  They played ten games in all and he let her win six times. When they were done she actually thought that she had earned an extra three days before she would have to play the game again. In reality though, she had broken the rules.

  That meant that they no longer bound Wickerfield either.

  He could take her whenever the mood struck him.

  Fair is fair.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Day Four - July 14

  Friday Afternoon

  _____________

  ALTHOUGH MOST OF THE DENVER HOOKERS didn’t come out until after dark, you could always find some around at just about any time because there were day Johns that needed to be serviced too. Teffinger headed over there around five o’clock to see if he could find anyone who might know how or why Mary Williams ended up with a knife in her eye.

  The Rainbird Bar sits on Colfax, just a few blocks down from Capitol Hill, smack dab in the heart of hooker-land. Teffinger knew the place well. He was there seven years ago responding to blood on the linoleum, a drug sale gone bad. Then again three years ago—a woman cut down at the unjust age of twenty, stemming from an argument over five dollars. When he walked in, three scantily clad women had already checked him out from head to toe by the time he’d taken four steps inside the door.

  All of them had made him for a detective.

  Only detectives wore sport coats when it was this hot out.

  Teffinger walked up to the closest one and put his arm around her shoulders. She was a new face, a white girl about twenty-five, with needle marks on her left arm.

  “How are you doing, darling?” he asked.

  “Just dandy.”

  “Someone got killed last night, out in the alley,” Teffinger said. “You heard about that I assume?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Yeah, we know.”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor if you just serviced your regulars for a while, until we can catch this guy,” Teffinger said. He looked at the other two women as he said it, including them in the comment. One of them nodded. “If any of you know anything, I’d love to hear it,” he added.

  Silence.

  “I really don’t care what you do to get your grocery money,” he said, “but I am going to care if you die in the process. That would sadden me quite a bit, in fact.”

  “Why would you care about us?”

  Teffinger looked surprised.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” He paused to let them know he was serious. “So, do any of you know why Mary Williams ended up with a knife in her eye last night?”

  “You mean Paradise?”

  “Right, Paradise.”

  “I never knew her real name.”

  All three of them avoided his eyes.

  Then one of them spoke.

  “She was into rough stuff,” the woman said.

  Teffinger nodded. “I know.”

  The woman looked like she’d spoken her part and was done. “That’s all we know.”

  “So you didn’t see her with anyone in particular last night?”

  One of them laughed. “We’re the day girls, honey. You need to talk to the night shift.”

  Teffinger thanked them and headed for the door. Just as he was about to step outside, one of them said, “She had a camera or something set up at her house. At least that’s what she told me once.”

  Teffinger was intrigued and walked back over.

  “A camera, huh?”

  The woman nodded. “That’s what she told me once. I never personally saw it or anything.”

  “Interesting.”

  The woman looked hesitant and then added, “She really didn’t have anyone there to protect her or anything, and she let the guys tie her up. So she used to take their pictures when they came in the house—I mean, they, the guys, didn’t know it or anything, it was all on the sly. That way, if one of them got too rough or something, she’d have his picture. Then she’d give it to some friends of hers who’d even things up.”

  Teffinger waited for her to continue, but she was done.

  “Thanks,” he said. Then he pulled three business cards out of his wallet and handed one to each of them. “That number’s my cell phone,” he said, pointing. “I carry it with me all the time. If any of you have any trouble, you call me day or night. Now, promise you’ll carry this with you, for at least the next week or so.”

  They promised.

  When he stepped back outside the heat hit him immediately. Still over a hundred, he thought. When in the hell is it going to rain?

  TEFFINGER TALKED TO A FEW MORE HOOKERS that he spotted milling around outside, got nothing of interest, then drove over to the victim’s house. It turned out to be a small brick structure. The front yard was dead from the heat but the weeds were still thriving, giving the ground a spotted green appearance. He pulled into the cracked cement driveway, took the search warrant out of his briefcase, walked to the front door and pressed the doorbell.

  No sound.

  He pressed it again.

  Nothing.

  Then he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  No sound or movement came from inside.

  One of the duplicate keys made from the victim’s key chain found in her purse fit the front door. He opened it, said “Hello, anyone home? We got a search
warrant,” and got only silence back. He stepped inside. All the windows were closed and the place was an oven. The living room had a fireplace with a mantle, decorated with several pictures of a little girl. A pretty good sound system sat on the right side of the fireplace. Teffinger turned it on and a rap song that he’d never heard before filled the room. It wasn’t bad so he let it play but turned it lower.

  The kitchen was tiny and separated from the rest of the house, with cheap painted pine cabinets and Formica countertops, but neat and clean. Inside the victim’s bedroom there was a small closet. Inside that was an expensive combination safe bolted to the floor, hidden under a blanket and a box.

  Teffinger pictured the routine.

  When the woman brought a John here he’d have to fork over cash in advance. She’d excuse herself and put the money in the safe before anything else happened.

  Damn.

  It was way too hot in here.

  He opened every window, the front door and the back door, and then turned on every fan in the house.

  The bondage area, located downstairs where it was much cooler, held three pieces of equipment—a long table that looked like a workbench, a cross, and a chair. All were fitted with strategically placed eyehooks where chains or ropes could be attached. There were also eyehooks in the ceiling at several locations, as well as the floor. A pair of cuffs hung from the ceiling on chains. Accessories hung on hooks on a wall—chains, ropes, cuffs, locks, ball-gags, hoods, blindfolds, spreader bars, whips, feathers, clothespins, and lots of painful looking stuff.

  Teffinger studied the corners and other dark areas, looking for a camera, but found none. Then he realized why. There was always a potential that someone would attack her upstairs and never even get to this part of the house. So the camera would be upstairs somewhere. In fact, if the woman was smart, she’d get the guy’s picture before he ever entered the house.

  He went back outside to the front entry and found it—a small digital camera—fitted inside the front porch light. At night, the light would be strong enough that a flash wouldn’t be required. After a little exploring he found it was actuated from a foot pedal located under a smaller welcome mat over in the corner. So, while the woman was unlocking the door the man would be standing in front of the camera. She’d step on the pedal and he’d never be the wiser.

  Very clever.

  But where were the pictures?

  No doubt they’d be downloaded into a computer but he didn’t find one anywhere in the house. Maybe she had a laptop that she kept in the safe. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that was the case. He’d have the Crime Unit come up here later and get it.

  Not that any of this really mattered that much.

  After all, she got killed in the alley, not her house.

  About all the pictures would be good for is if the guy was a regular and someone recognized him as being on Colfax on the night in question.

  WHEN HE FINALLY LEFT IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK and he was drenched in sweat. Outside the sun was still bright but the shadows were a lot longer and heat wasn’t quite as mean.

  The evening was coming and then the night.

  Somewhere out there in the darkness tonight, barring a miracle, a woman was going to be pulled into a van and driven off to Ashley Conner land.

  He turned the Tundra’s AC on full blast and headed over to Rain’s place. When he got there he found her in the shower, cooling off. She almost pulled him in with his clothes still on, but he managed to get out of them first.

  For a long time they stood in the water, kissing and playing with each other with an increasing intensity. Then he laid her down in the tub and took her, forgetting about everything else in the world as the water sprayed down on his back.

  Then they swung by McDonald’s and ate in the Tundra as they headed downtown.

  It was almost dark now.

  Game time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Day Four - July 14

  Friday Afternoon

  _____________

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON STARTED OUT NORMAL but quickly escalated into a frenzied state of affairs as Jackie found herself trying to jam eight hours of paperwork, conferences and phone calls into a four-hour slot. She didn’t even have time for one afternoon walk, much less three or four. Throughout it all, hour after hour, Stepper’s CD spilled out of two speakers, playing on endless loop from an old Yamaha CD player. Jackie hoped that if she heard it enough something would eventually jump out at her. But so far the only thing that jumped was Claudia: “Tell Stephen Stepper he can stop worrying about his mystery client, because I’m going to kill him myself if I have to listen to this crap for five more minutes.”

  Jackie looked at her, just as a pile of papers fell off the end of her desk, and said, “I need to get drunk so bad my teeth hurt.”

  Claudia looked at her watch. “Hold off a couple more hours. I don’t want anyone filing a bar grievance, charging you with lawyering-while-intoxicated.”

  Jackie laughed. “An LWI,” she said.

  “I can see it now,” Claudia added. “You’d be the attorney to get a new group formed—CADL.”

  Jackie thought about it. “Meaning?”

  “Clients Against Drunk Lawyers.”

  Jackie laughed, then lit a match—the first of the afternoon—and blew it out. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “Does that mean you’ll turn off Stephen Stepper?”

  Jackie shook her head, said “Sorry,” then stooped down and picked papers off the floor, trying to sort them as she did.

  AN HOUR OR SO LATER, BROOKE DROPPED BY, bringing some draft employment policies that Image wanted to use at the LoDo operation, but only after they got blessed first by a Colorado attorney, just in case this state had some quirks that the others didn’t.

  Aaron Cavanaugh was with her, so cool.

  Jackie got up from her desk, walked over and gave him a big hug, reaching around and feeling his ass, a familiar ritual. “God I love this guy,” she told Brooke. Then to Aaron: “If you’re ever in the mood for a real Jax, let me know.”

  He smiled and put his arm around Brooke’s waist. “Already got one,” he said. Then, referring to the CD, “What’s with the talking?”

  “Pay attention, because that’s what a killer sounds like.”

  “A killer, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A mean one or a nice one?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  It looked like Aaron was about to say something, but he didn’t, and instead concentrated on the words and the voice. Jackie took the opportunity to tell Brooke about the latest call from the mysterious Northwest to Stephen Stepper this morning. She added: “Stephen thinks that the client is the same guy who took that art student—Ashley . . . somebody—the guy who’s supposed to pay a so-called visit this weekend.”

  “You mean the guy all over the news?”

  Jackie nodded. “One and the same.” Then added: “Listen for yourself.” She walked over to the CD player and put in the second CD, the one with this morning’s conversation.

  Everyone in the room concentrated on it, listening to every word. At the end, Brooke said, “He doesn’t admit it.”

  Jackie agreed.

  That was true.

  “But he admires the guy way too much,” Jackie said. “No doubt because he is the guy.”

  She watched Brooke as she thought about it and saw the doubt on her face. “Could be, could not be, too. I really don’t see enough here to jump to that conclusion.”

  Jackie shrugged.

  Technically Brooke was right, but that didn’t change her opinion.

  “I’m still with Stephen,” she said.

  Brooke held her hands in surrender, then grabbed Aaron’s arm and pulled him towards the door. “We got to go,” she said. “Don’t forget about those papers. The bigwigs want them reviewed by yesterday.”

  WHEN THEY LEFT, JACKIE PUT THE FIRST CD back in the player and li
stened to it with half an ear as she wrote letters and tried to get stuff off her desk.

  Then it was 5:00 and Claudia had her purse in hand, heading for the door. She stopped to say: “You know, this may just be my imagination, but I keep thinking that in one of those conversations, the mystery client tells Stephen that he mentioned something in their last conversation. But I don’t remember another conversation where it was mentioned. For whatever that’s worth.”

  Jackie twisted a pencil in her fingers.

  “I think I know what you mean,” she said.

  “Good, because I’m out of here. Happy drinking.”

  After Claudia left, Jackie lit matches one after the other, letting them burn down to her fingers before shaking them out and throwing them into an ashtray.

  So if Claudia was right, what did that mean?

  She paced back and forth, with her shoes off.

  It meant a prior phone conversation was missing from the CD, but why?

  Maybe it was because Stephen hadn’t taped it, but then again maybe he left it out on purpose.

  “Damn it, Stephen. What the hell’s going on?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Day Four - July 14

  Friday Night

  _____________

  WICKERFIELD HOPPED INTO THE VAN about 8:30 so that he’d be downtown by 9:30, right when it got dark. He turned the radio to an oldies station that just happened to be playing the exact same songs that he would have picked if he’d been in charge—“On the Poor Side of Town,” “When a Man Loves a Woman,” “You Can’t Hurry Love,” “Get Off My Cloud,” “White Wedding.” He actually hated to turn it off when he got downtown, but he did.

  It was time to concentrate.

  Back home, Ashley Conner was busy thinking about what a bad girl she was. Wickerfield went down to see her a half hour before he left, handed her a nail file and said, “File all that crap off your fingernails, and your toenails too. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to talk about your punishment.”