Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  He slowed down to a walk about a half mile before he came to a transmission tower. There he sat in the shade and drank most his water in one long swallow.

  At first he thought he would rest there for five minutes or so, but was too excited, and almost immediately got up and continued east on the ridge at a brisk walk. In three-fourths of a mile he should be able to see Teffinger’s house.

  The rock star was watching.

  HE WASN’T WORRIED ABOUT THE FORENSIC TYPES finding anything useful there. Putting the body into the back of Teffinger’s truck had been quick and simple. About four in the morning, while it was still pitch-black out, Wickerfield parked the van at the end of Teffinger’s street, in the turnaround, killed the engine and sat there with the windows open for a full five minutes, listening for any sounds of life.

  There were none.

  Once he knew it was safe, he coasted down the hill in neutral with the engine off and stopped directly in front of Teffinger’s driveway. He opened the back of the van, pulled the woman out, carried her body over to the truck and quietly set it in the bed. He pushed it against the cab as far as he could and covered it with a tarp and some wood lying in the bed, so Teffinger wouldn’t see it when he got in. That way he would drive around with it for a while. Then he got back in the van and coasted all the way down to the stop sign. There he fired up the engine and disappeared into the night.

  Not a single dog barked.

  Not a single light on the street came on.

  Not a single eye saw the invisible man.

  TEFFINGER’S STREET FINALLY CAME INTO VIEW, snaking up a valley. Sure enough, a Crime Unit van and two patrol cars were parked in front of Teffinger’s house.

  Perfect.

  The game was on.

  It would be interesting to see if the Crime Unit spent any time inside Teffinger’s house. If so, that meant that Teffinger figured out that there was a reason his alarm clock was off by ten minutes the other morning, the reason being that someone had entered his house and changed it.

  Two news vans were on the street too, with cameras rolling while female reporters talked into microphones, no doubt telling the world that this is where someone put the body into Teffinger’s truck last night.

  Wickerfield kept walking along the mountain ridge, more than three hundred yards away, feeling like he was watching his own baby being born. All this was because of him.

  The rock star.

  The magnificent one.

  Even if someone saw him here, he was just one more guy out for a walk in the hills. Suddenly a helicopter rumbled in from the east. A news chopper, getting even more footage for this evening’s top story.

  Damn it.

  He was hoping to find a spot where he could lay down and pull out the binoculars. Scratch that idea, as long as the dumb-ass helicopter was up there. So he just kept walking while the aircraft got into position over Teffinger’s house and hovered there.

  Although the ridge of the mountain was flat, and had a fairly worn hiking path, it was also so rocky that Wickerfield had to keep a constant eye on where he put his feet.

  Up ahead, about fifty yards away, a middle-aged female power-walked in his direction. She wore a big hat and sunglasses. She was smiling and looking at him. Even from this distance he could tell she was a serious hiker by her tan, her stride and her outfit, no doubt a housewife trying to keep the pounds off. He’d have to mutter something when she passed, but needed to hide his face.

  How?

  Bingo.

  He swung the backpack around and pulled out the water bottle. He would put it to his mouth and drink just as she passed. She wasn’t more than ten yards away when it happened.

  He saw it right before she got to it.

  A rattlesnake, six feet long and thick as a baseball bat, lying there invisible in the dirt, not moving a muscle, soaking up the sun.

  Her foot came down on it near the tail end, almost on the rattle. The snake reared and struck immediately, before her foot even came off. It sunk its fangs into her calf and held on for a heartbeat while it injected venom.

  The woman went down hard, smashing her body on the rocky ground. When she looked up, he had never seen such fear before. The snake was still there; its fangs not more than a foot from her face.

  “Help me!” she screamed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Day Five - July 15

  Saturday Afternoon

  _____________

  THE DAY GOT SO BIG SO FAST that Teffinger couldn’t hear himself think. He told Heatherwood he’d be right back, then walked past the elevator, down the stairs to the parking garage, and took an unmarked car over to Rain’s, parking in front of the bondage paraphernalia shop on Broadway.

  She actually answered the door this time.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” he said. She grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him in. Even though the windows were open and three fans were blowing, the place was so hot that she must have just got home. “Where’d you go?” he asked. It was a good question too. She disappeared almost immediately after they pulled over this morning with the body in the back.

  “You were busy. I walked home,” she said.

  Teffinger wasn’t satisfied. “You should have said something.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was the reason, or because she didn’t want to be around the news cameras. But he wasn’t in the mood to press it.

  “You’re sweating,” she said. “I have a cure for that.”

  She took him into the bathroom, turned on the shower and felt it with her hand as it warmed up. When it was just about right—refreshing but not too cool—she turned off the lights and allowed the room to slip into darkness, except for the faint illumination coming from around the door. By the time Teffinger had his clothes off she was already under the spray.

  They held each other.

  It felt so damn good being there with her, knowing she was safe.

  “I’m on this guy’s radar screen,” Teffinger said. “That means he knows about you. He could go after you at any time, just to show me what a clever little prick he is.”

  “I already know that, Nick,” she said. “And I’m not cooling it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “It’s the last thing I want, but we can’t afford to . . .”

  She cut him off. “I run my life, not some creep. So screw him.” She squeezed his hand. “If something happens to me, it’s on my shoulders, not yours.”

  Unfortunately that wasn’t true.

  She’d have a much better chance of staying out of this guy’s brain if she distanced herself.

  “In my ideal world, you go somewhere for a while,” he said. “I’ll pay. California or wherever you want. That’s the only way you’re going to be a hundred percent safe.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to be a hundred percent safe,” she said. “I don’t even want to be seventy-five percent safe.” Teffinger started to argue but she cut him off. “This discussion’s over. Protect me if you want but don’t expect me to go anywhere.”

  Teffinger swallowed.

  “Okay?” she added.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He bit his lower lip and then raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “Pretty much, so get used to it.”

  His cell phone rang, barely audible, coming from the pocket of his pants. He suspected it might be Sydney, reminding him of the press conference scheduled for 2:00. He pressed the light button on his watch to see what time it was—1:47.

  He slapped Rain on the ass and stepped out.

  “Got to go,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at eight if you’re still alive.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Hey, you didn’t ask me if I’m free. You’re just assuming.”

  He got back in, pulled her stomach to his and gave her a deep kiss.

  “Well are you?”

  �
�Am I what?”

  “Free.”

  “No. I’m cheap, but I’m not free.”

  He smiled.

  “Close enough. See you at eight.”

  TEFFINGER ARRIVED AT THE PRESS CONFERENCE ten minutes late, running to the podium as if he was catching the last subway train. His hair was soaked and he had no time to put on a tie. He intended all day to jot down a few notes on cue cards beforehand, but hadn’t done that either.

  Afterwards Sydney said, “If you were trying to give the impression that we’re so busy trying to catch this guy that we don’t even have time to prepare for a press conference, it worked.”

  He laughed. “Well, that pretty much is the truth.”

  “Although I’m not quite sure if I understand the wet hair thing,” she added.

  “It’s my new look.”

  “Here’s a clue. It’s not working.”

  They walked up to homicide. Teffinger found a half cup of cold goop sitting on his desk, dumped it in the snake plant, refilled and joined Sydney and Katie Baxter, who had already pulled up chairs.

  “The most important thing,” he said, “is to find out who the woman is. I don’t want to use a picture of her actual dead face, so let’s get a sketch artist to give us something as accurate as possible, without the scary look, and get it all over the news. Who wants that assignment?”

  Baxter nodded. “I can handle that.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “If this guy’s true to form, we’ll get her driver’s license in the mail pretty soon anyway,” she added

  “Maybe, but we don’t have that kind of time. Once we find out who she is, we can hopefully figure out where she got abducted. I want to process that scene while there’s still a chance of getting something useful out of it.”

  Then they outlined the other pressing things that needed to be done.

  Hours later, after everyone else had left for the day, his cell phone rang. He crumpled an empty McDonald’s bag, tossed it in the trash, burped, and answered, “It’s me.”

  A man’s voice came through, one he didn’t recognize, garbled as if the guy was talking while chewing a pencil, deliberately disguised. “I’ll tell you her name, if you want.”

  Teffinger’s mind raced.

  “No thanks,” he finally said.

  Then he hung up and kicked the trashcan.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Day Five - July 15

  Saturday Night

  _____________

  ASHLEY CONNER, IT TURNED OUT, lived in a seedy apartment building south of downtown. The elevator was broke so Jackie took the stairs to the fourth floor, immediately spotting a door with yellow police tape.

  She had no idea what she was doing here or hoped to accomplish. All she knew is that if the man terrorizing Denver was in fact Stepper’s mystery client, then this was where his first victim lived.

  She tried the doorknob and found it locked.

  She jiggled it just to be sure.

  Sure enough, it was locked solid.

  Okay, now what?

  She walked down to ground level, sat on the front stairs of the building, and watched a half-dozen moths dart as close as they could to a streetlight. She pulled out a book of matches and lit one. Then she blew it out and threw it on the cement walkway where it landed about five feet away. She lit another one and threw it, trying to get it as close to the first one as she could. It landed about eight inches away, not bad. Before she knew it there were thirty or more matches on the ground, more than a few of them still burning.

  The door opened behind her and she instinctively moved over to let them pass. There were two people, a man and a woman. Both looked too young and full of life to be in a place like this. They walked to a mid-sized SUV parked on the street. When the man turned to get in she recognized him.

  Nick Teffinger.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  It certainly wasn’t investigating, not the way he and the woman were hanging on each other.

  They rolled through the stop sign at the end of the street and crossed Broadway, which was one-way south. She suspected that they were cutting over to Lincoln to head north. Jackie didn’t know why but she ran to the Porsche and sped in that direction. She didn’t really expect to catch them but ended up next to them at a red light at 8th Avenue. Teffinger actually glanced in her direction for a second before she could cover her face with her hand.

  When the light turned green she let him take off, then dropped back and followed in his lane with another car between them. She flicked the radio buttons, suddenly starved for good music, skipping over a number of duds before finally powering off altogether.

  Then she powered it back on, determined to find something worth listening to. When she landed on the B-52’s “Roam,” she nodded and left it there.

  That was better.

  Teffinger passed the State Capitol Building and turned right on Colfax.

  She followed.

  STEPHEN’S STORY ABOUT BEING RUN OFF THE ROAD had been nagging at her all day. Stephen was over six feet, built, and had a bare-knuckles attitude about everything. If someone had played car bumper like he said, and that’s all there was to it, he would have been the first person on the face of the earth to run the guy down and pull his ass out of the car. Plus there was no damage to his vehicle, which seemed unlikely given how long the chase seemed to last.

  Chances are there was more to the story than he was telling, but then again, maybe he was just being on his best behavior. After all, his life wasn’t exactly what you’d call normal anymore. Not since his lovely wife Sarah disappeared without a trace two months ago, halfway through a brutally ugly divorce.

  Stephen had no alibi, but the police had no body or credible evidence.

  Things would eventually shake out. In the meantime, everyone in town had an opinion.

  Suddenly Teffinger’s SUV pulled into a parking space in front of a liquor store. She continued past, parked the Porsche a block down and then headed back on foot.

  Maybe the woman with him was a hooker and he was dropping her off.

  That would be interesting.

  Then her cell phone rang. “It’s me, Sean. A few buddies of mine have their hands on a company jet. We’re heading down to the Hard Rock in Vegas to tear it up. I thought you might want to come.”

  She turned and headed back to the Porsche, already picturing a wild night of partying, gambling and sex. Then she surprised herself, stopped in her tracks, and said, “I’d love to but the timing’s wrong.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ll be back in time for work Monday morning.”

  “Why? When are you coming back?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  She almost gave in again but said, “Call me then.”

  SHE LEANED AGAINST A BUILDING about fifty yards down from Teffinger and the woman, who were talking to hookers. The woman had long black hair and started to look more and more like a model. A dark van slowed as it passed. Jackie couldn’t make out the face of the driver but it was clear from the silhouette of his head that he was checking her out.

  He probably thought she was a hooker.

  She turned her body away from him.

  He sped up and disappeared down the street.

  She lit a match and then threw it on the sidewalk.

  Then another.

  And another.

  She watched them burn out, then threw more.

  Teffinger and the dark haired woman—the model—were still talking to hookers. It appeared that Teffinger was showing them something.

  She pulled out her cell phone. There were three new voice messages at her office number. The third one got her attention.

  “Yes, um, Ms. Jax? This is Bradley Winters, from Texaco. It’s my understanding that you’re trying to locate someone who may have been at our Westminster station at May 5th at 10:42 in the morning. We usually don’t give out information, but since you’re an attorney, I’m going to assume this is legit. In any event
, there were two credit card transactions near that time. The first was at 10:35, a gas purchase by someone named John S. Martin. The second was at 10:49, another gas purchase, by someone using the card of a company called Seven Circles. Hope this helps. Call me if you have any questions, my number is . . .”

  She immediately called Stepper to see if he recognized either of those names.

  He didn’t answer.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Day Five - July 15

  Saturday Night

  _____________

  THIS WAS PROBABLY A STUPID IDEA but Wickerfield really didn’t care. The TV coverage had him dancing—so perfect. He walked downstairs, fastened a three-foot chain to Ashley Conner’s ankles so she couldn’t run, and then brought her upstairs.

  She chewed on her lips, apprehensive, obviously wondering if he was going to kill her.

  “You’re okay for now,” he told her. “We’re just getting some fresh air.”

  They headed out the back door to take a walk in the north forty. Ashley wore a steel collar around her neck, fastened to a lightweight alloy chain attached at the other end to Wickerfield’s belt. She carried the chain in her hand to keep the weight off her neck as best she could.

  It was almost dark.

  Wickerfield’s property went forever and was totally hidden from view, secluded to the max and perfectly private.

  Ashley Conner seemed grateful to be outside.

  She remained quiet, however, not saying anything. Then, out of the blue, she spoke. “Do you have a gun?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to die by suffocation,” she said. “I’d rather be shot in the head.”

  Wickerfield nodded, understanding.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “You’re all over the news. Everyone in the world’s looking for you.”

  She was shocked.

  “Really?”

  “Yep,” he said. Then he laughed: “Everyone except me.”

  An orange moon rose over the tree line to the east. Way off in the distance a pack of coyotes yelped and Wickerfield pictured them running down a jackrabbit. “This was all farm at one point,” he said.