by R. J. Jagger
“Thanks but I’m not going to drag you into my problems,” Pantage said.
“But—”
“No buts,” she said. “This isn’t amateur hour, no offense. If you got hurt or killed I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Renn-Jaa said. “I understand the risks. It’s my decision to make. I’m a big girl.”
“No. That’s final.”
Pantage’s phone rang.
“Let me take this,” she said.
The voice of the California investigator, Aspen Gonzales, came though. “I thought it would be best to touch base with you. It’s about Chiara de Correggio.”
“What about her?”
“Look, I don’t know if you were a friend of hers or what, so I’m sorry if this is bad news.”
Pantage stood up.
Forty floors below, the people looked like ants and the cars moved like toys.
“Go on.”
“She’s dead.”
The words registered, not because Pantage had been friends with the woman and should feel something, but because it was yet another dark thing in her life.
“What happened?”
“She got murdered, actually,” Gonzales said.
“By who?”
“It’s an open case.”
“So they never caught anyone?”
A pause.
“No. Here’s the thing,” Gonzales said. “There isn’t much that’s public about the murder. About the best I can tell you so far is what I already told you. Now, there are ways to go deeper.”
“Do you need more money?”
“I will if I go that route but that’s not the issue,” Gonzales said. “The issue is that the case is dormant right now. If an investigator such as myself starts prying into it, someone on the other end is going to scratch their head and wonder who I’m working for and what their interest is in all this.”
“You said you’d be confidential.”
“I will, you don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “Here’s what I’m getting at. I don’t know if you or someone you know, a sister or friend or something, had anything to do with the woman’s death. I’m not going to ask you and I don’t want you to tell me if that’s the case. What I’m saying though is that if that’s the case, I’d let sleeping dogs lie. I’d just walk away from it right now. I don’t need an answer this second. You can think about it and call me later.”
Sirens came from below.
Pantage looked out the window.
A cop car was weaving in and out of traffic at high speed with the lights flashing.
“I’ll call you later,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine. I haven’t done anything yet in connection with the other part of the assignment, London Winger. I’ll start on that as soon as we hang up.”
“Call me when you get something.”
“I will.”
She hung up.
Renn-Jaa looked at her and said, “What was that all about?”
Pantage studied her.
“I might need a friend,” she said.
“You have one. Tell me what’s going on.”
26
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Afternoon
Mid-afternoon Teffinger received a strange phone call from a female voice. “I may have information relating to Jackie Lake. I have to stay anonymous though.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t—”
“Totally anonymous,” the voice said, “even from you. Go to the 16th Street mall. There are back-to-back benches at 16th and California. Sit in the one facing towards Broadway. Don’t look at the bench behind you. Face straight ahead. After you’re situated, I’m going to come and sit in the other bench at your back. Don’t turn around. We’re going to talk. When we’re done, you’re going to get up and walk away. You’re not going to turn back. You’re not going to try to see who I am.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“Those are the conditions,” the voice said. “They’re not negotiable.”
Teffinger looked at his watch.
“When?”
“Right now.”
“This better be something real,” he said.
“Don’t worry, it’s real.”
The destination was a fifteen-minute walk from homicide. Teffinger did it in twelve and sat down. An old couple occupied the bench at his back. Teffinger flashed his badge and said, “I’m sorry but you’re going to have to leave. I need that bench for business.”
The woman wasn’t impressed.
“What kind of business?”
“Detective business.”
“Don’t you have an office?”
“No.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s being painted.”
The woman pointed to an empty bench thirty yards down. “Use that one,” she said.
“Look, don’t turn this into an incident,” Teffinger said. “I need you to vacate that bench and I need you to do it now. Please and thank you.”
“You just don’t like old people,” she said. “Just because we’re not as strong as you doesn’t give you the right to boss us around.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Look—”
“That’s not even a real badge,” she said. “I’ve seen real badges. That one’s not real. Even your eyes aren’t real. They’re two different colors. Who has two different color eyes? No one, that’s who.”
Teffinger smelled alcohol on her breath.
He pulled a ten out of his pocket, dangled it in front of her and said, “Do you want this?”
A pause.
The woman snatched it.
“Take your stupid old bench.”
Then she was gone, the man too.
Teffinger faced the way he was supposed to and kept pointed in that direction. The bench was in the sun. Heat radiated off every building in the stinking city. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Five minutes later the weight of a body sank into the bench behind him and a female voice said, “Don’t turn around.”
“Next time pick a place in the shade,” Teffinger said. “You didn’t bring a cold Bud Light with you by an chance, did you?”
The woman chuckled.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said. “Tell me why I’m here.”
The woman cleared her throat.
“I’m an attorney,” she said. “What I’m about to do is violate the oath I took when I became an attorney. I’m going to violate my client’s confidentiality.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Trust me, I don’t want to,” she said. “You need to promise me that you’ll never tell anyone about this conversation, not today, not tomorrow, not ten years from tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
“If you ever tell anyone about it, I’ll deny it,” she said. “I’ll deny it with a vengeance. Then I’ll sue you for defamation to prove I’m right.”
“You won’t get anything,” Teffinger said. “All I have is a ’67 Corvette and the bank owns most of that. Do you like old Corvettes?”
“No. I’m a Porsche girl.”
“Do you have one?”
“Maybe.”
“I hope it’s ’89 or earlier,” Teffinger said. “Those were the keepers, with the headlights sticking out like torpedoes. The new ones don’t do anything for me.”
“Me either,” she said. “Mine’s an ’86.”
“When did they put in the synchronized clutch?”
“Eighty-seven.”
“Ouch. So you have to come to a complete stop to downshift into first?”
“Right.”
“That makes for tough driving.”
“There are worse things,” she said. “The guy you’re looking for refers to himself as Van Gogh. He was a client of mine. He never had an actual case with me, he just retained me and then told me about the kill
ings.”
“Why?”
“Who knows,” she said. “Maybe he just needed to talk about it and knew I couldn’t repeat anything because of attorney-client confidentiality. Maybe he just liked to put me on edge. Either way it was pretty sick. He’s been doing them for years.”
“What’s his name?”
“Van Gogh, that’s all I have,” she said. “He never told me his real name.”
“Do you have an address, phone number, anything?”
“No.”
“You’re not being much help,” he said.
“He picks them out in bars,” she said. “He follows them for a week or two or three, then he strikes. He ties their wrists to the headboard and then chokes them to death while he’s raping them. That’s how Jackie Lake died, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m an attorney,” she said. “It’s a small town.”
“Has he called you about Jackie Lake?”
“Not yet.”
“When he does I want you to record it.”
“We’ll see.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“A little part of his left ear got shot off once. He’s pretty proud of that,” she said. “That was his inspiration for cutting off the left ear of his victims.”
“Who shot him? The police?”
“He never said.” She lowered her voice. “Every time he talked to me, he always finished the conversation the same way. He always said that if I ever told anyone anything about what he was telling me, he’d do the same thing to me that he was doing to the other women, only more slowly. That’s why you’re going to get up now and walk away, and you’re not going to turn around, like you promised. Goodbye.”
“What you just did took a lot of guts. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Teffinger stood up.
He took a step and stopped.
He didn’t turn around.
“Was Jackie Lake a friend of yours? Is that why you’re coming forward?”
No one answered.
She was gone.
Teffinger walked away.
He didn’t turn around.
On the walk back to the office he called Sydney and said, “See if you can find the name of a female attorney in town who owns an ’86 Porsche 911.”
“Who is this?”
Teffinger smiled.
“Thanks.”
He was almost at the office when the phone rang and Sydney’s voice came though.
“The attorney in question is someone named September Tadge.”
“September?”
“Right.”
“As in the month?”
“Right. July, August, September.”
“Her parents must have been hippies,” Teffinger said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Sydney said. “That’s a white infliction. You don’t find any black girls called September. What’s your interest in her, anyway?”
“She may have done something to make herself a target,” he said. “Don’t mention this to anyone. I’m serious, not a word.”
“Okay.”
“It’s important.”
“I understand,” she said. “Not a word.”
Teffinger almost hung up and said, “Are you still there?”
She was.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Cross-reference September to Jackie Lake. See if there’s any connection.”
“As in what? Common cases? Common clients?”
“As in anything at all.”
“Teffinger, that would be a three week project.”
“Don’t let anyone know you’re doing it,” he said. “Love you.”
He hung up.
Bars.
Bars.
Bars.
That’s where the guy did his hunting.
That’s where Teffinger needed to do his.
27
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Afternoon
Yardley was pacing with a cigarette in hand when a chill ran up her spine. Maybe Madison Elmblade actually worked for Cave. Maybe she was trying to draw Yardley into a trap. Maybe she’d call later, after dark, and say they needed to meet and come up with a better plan. That’s when the woman would club her on the back of the head and drive her to whatever sick little place Cave had picked out.
She called her contact, got dumped into voice mail and didn’t leave a message.
If Madison worked for Cave, they might meet up sooner than later, as in now.
Yardley swung the sign from Open to Closed, stepped outside and locked the door behind her. Then she followed Elmblade up Wazee towards downtown.
The sun was fierce.
28
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Afternoon
Late afternoon Pantage closed her door and called the California PI, Aspen Gonzales. “If we go deeper into Chiara’s murder, what exactly is the risk? They couldn’t get a subpoena for your files, could they?”
“Unlikely,” Aspen said. “The main risk is that the case won’t necessarily stay cold. If we shake it up someone might want to dust it off and take a fresh look. They might see something they didn’t see before. It might the first slip of a slippery slope, meaning it might not end well for the killer, or killers or people who aided or abetted them, whoever that may be.”
Pantage gave it one last thought.
“Go deeper,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“No but do it anyway. I assume you’ll try to stay as discrete as you can.”
“Of course,” Aspen said. “There will be costs. ”
“How much?”
“Let me think . . . okay, let me see what I can do for two thousand. That’s a straight pass through by the way. I don’t mark it up.”
“I appreciate it. What do you have on London Winger?”
“Nothing yet.”
As soon as she hung up, the phone rang and Teffinger’s voice came through. “What bars have you gone to in the last three or four weeks?”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the guy does his hunting. He picks his victim out in a bar and follows her around for one or two or three weeks,” he said. “Then he strikes. So, what bars have you been in?”
She hesitated.
“Can we talk about this in person, away from the firm?”
“Why?”
“It’s a little embarrassing.”
A beat then, “We’re going to be barhopping tonight so if you have anything planned in the office for early tomorrow morning you may want to push it back. Oh, one more thing. Do you know anyone with a small piece of their left ear missing?”
“Not offhand.”
“Okay.”
“Where do you get this information?”
“I detect it. That’s what detective’s do. By the way, don’t tell anyone what I just told you.”
“I won’t.”
“Oh, I almost forgot, one more thing. Do you know anyone who goes by the name Van Gogh?”
“Is that his name? The killer’s?”
“Maybe.”
“It doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Okay, don’t repeat it. You never heard it.”
She hung up and headed to the kitchen for a cup of decaf. Renn-Jaa was lifting the top of a Krispy Kreme box. “There’s one left,” she said. “I’ll split it with you.”
“I have to stay away from those things.”
The woman held it up.
“Chocolate frosting.”
Pantage hesitated.
“Come on,” Renn-Jaa said. “Don’t make me eat the whole thing.” She broke it in half and handed the smaller piece to Pantage.
“You’re evil.”
She took a bite while she poured coffee.
Suddenly a vision flashed in her brain. She was in Jackie Lake’s bedroom, straddling her helpless victim. The fear on the woman’s face was so real, so
honest, so perfect. Pantage let her right hand drift to the side until it found the box cutter. She pushed the blade out until it locked. Then she bent her face close to Jackie's and said, “I usually do this after they’re dead but in your case I’m going to make an exception.”
Then she did it.
She sliced the woman’s ear off with one quick motion.
The mug dropped out of her hand and shattered on the tile.
She looked around.
She was in the law firm’s kitchen.
Someone was there with her.
Renn-Jaa.
The woman’s forehead was tensed and her eyes were narrowed.
“Are you okay?”
29
Day Two
July 19
Tuesday Afternoon
For the first time in his professional life, Teffinger let a dark, illegal thought work its way into his brain. The lawyer, September Tadge, no doubt took notes of her conversations with Van Gogh. There would be a wealth of information in those notes over and beyond what September already told him. What time of day did he call? How long did he wait after the killing before calling? How long did the conversations last? Did he specifically name any of the bars where he picked out his victim? Were they biker bars, country bars, discos, fashion clubs, fancy hotels or what? What facts did he emphasize? Were the facts more about the woman and why he picked her or more about the act of the killing?
One option would be to approach September and ask for the files point-blank.
If she said no, she might hide or destroy them.
She might feel like she’d gotten herself in deeper than she envisioned and try to pull out.
If she said yes, she’d be the one committing the wrongful act. What right did Teffinger have to have her do the dirty work instead of him?
The best option would be to break into her office, copy the files and put them back exactly like they were.
Okay, play it out.
Suppose she found out after the fact.
Would she turn him in?
That would be doubtful.
She’d have too much fear that the story could unravel to the point of origin, namely her communication with Teffinger on the 16th Street mall.
