Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  He didn’t.

  “It’s called Touch Me I’m Going to Scream.”

  “Who sings it?”

  “My Morning Jacket.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “If you want, I can put it on repeat. We can go down in the dungeon and have some fun.”

  Teffinger pulled up a memory.

  Del Rey was on her back on a green leather table, dressed in white panties and a little schoolgirl outfit. Her knees were bent 90 degrees, her legs were separated and her ankles were tied to the feet of the table. Her arms were pulled up tightly over her head. Her elbows were bent at the end of the table and her wrists were pulled down towards the floor and inescapably tied.

  Her body was stretched tight.

  Her eyes were blindfolded.

  Her blouse had ridden up to showcase a taut stomach and a pierced navel.

  A petite vixen in similar attire was running her fingertips lightly over Del Rey’s exposed flesh, in the initial throes of teasing her captive into an orgasmic frenzy.

  Teffinger was sitting in the corner chair with a Bud in hand, watching for now, free to join in whenever he wanted.

  “Teff, I said do you want to go down in the dungeon and have some fun?”

  The words snapped him back.

  The answer inside his head was, Yes.

  The answer that came out of his mouth was, “What we need to do is check the perimeter and then lock up. Then I want you to follow your normal routine.”

  She ran a finger down his chest and said, “You can’t resist me forever.”

  That was true.

  He knew it.

  She knew it.

  “For the moment let’s just concentrate on keeping you alive.”

  “That’ll take care of itself. I’m not the target. I already told you that.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  She turned, bent slightly at the waist and rubbed her posterior into his lap. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If I’m right, you have to be my slave for a hour. If you’re right, I’ll be yours.”

  He raked his hair back with his finger.

  It hung for a heartbeat and flopped back down.

  “Deal,” he said, “but for dinner, not slave. Loser pays.”

  “Okay.”

  Before bed Del Rey took a shower, then turned off the lights and slipped her naked body under a thin sheet. Teffinger sat on the bedroom floor with his legs stretched out and his back against the wall, resisting the urge to yank the cover off and take her to a place she’d never forget.

  “Pleasant dreams,” he said.

  “Wake me if you hear anything.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Within minutes the woman was asleep. Her breathing was deep and steady and familiar. He’d heard it plenty before and never gotten tired of it. Thinking back, he wasn’t sure how he let her slip out of his life. He did know one thing though; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Time passed.

  Not a sound came out of the world that shouldn’t be there.

  His thoughts wandered.

  His eyes got heavy.

  Don’t sleep.

  Don’t sleep.

  Don’t sleep.

  He splashed cold water on his face and took a walk through the upper level of the house, finding nothing out of whack. Then he headed down the open staircase to the walkout level, a large space with ten-foot ceilings.

  Everything was normal.

  All the sliding glass doors were locked.

  The wall-to-wall windows were locked.

  No glass was broken or cut.

  The dungeon was built into the back corner. It was a large windowless room with a carpeted floor and textured walls. Teffinger stepped inside, closed the door, brought the recessed lights on and then dimmed them to shadows.

  Everything was as he remembered it.

  He turned on the sound system.

  A sultry voice dropped out of ceiling speakers. The words were French and the melody was haunting. The woman singing it understood lust. She understood passion. She understood the meaning of life.

  Suddenly the door opened and Del Rey walked in.

  She was naked.

  She attached padded cuffs to her wrists and ankles and then stood in the middle of the room. She raised her arms and spread her legs. Immediately above her wrists, chains hung down from the ceiling.

  “Don’t deny me,” she said.

  13

  Day Three

  July 10

  Thursday Morning

  Thursday morning Teffinger woke up next to a soundly sleeping but otherwise very much not-dead Del Rey. He slipped out of bed without waking her and took a quick walk around the perimeter, which showed no evidence of tampering or attempted break-ins. His phone had no messages or missed calls, which wouldn’t be the case if one of the other Susan Smiths had been murdered. His gut feeling about last night had been wrong.

  So, what did the Portia do last night?

  Had she been doing final surveillance?

  Had she parked her little killer body out in the open space and studied her prey through binoculars?

  Did she spot Teffinger?

  Was his cover blown?

  Del Rey appeared in his peripheral vision, walking his way in a vision of white panties and an upper-body jiggle, scorching the image into Teffinger’s brain where it would live forever.

  “Is everything okay?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Soap me up.”

  “Soap you up?”

  “Yeah, in the shower.” She grabbed his hand and pulled. “Come on. I won the bet by the way.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You’re not going to re-neg, are you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  It was mid-morning in homicide, at the start of the sixth or eighth or tenth cup of coffee, when Sydney walked over to Teffinger’s desk with a serious face and said, “Come on. Someone just found a body.”

  “Where?”

  “A stone’s throw from Susan Smith’s place.”

  “Which Susan Smith?”

  “The model.”

  She was the one he’d seen at the clubs, the one who ended up spreading out in the beds of the powerful and the relevant; the kind of men who could fill a briefcase with hundreds and hand it to the right person if need be.

  He drained what was left in his cup and grabbed his jacket.

  “Get down to the body,” he said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see Portia Montrachet.”

  “You think she’s still in town?”

  “If she is it’s not by much,” he said. “Go confirm the body belongs Susan Smith and call me. As soon as I get your call I’m going to arrest her.”

  Portia wasn’t at the hotel but hadn’t checked out. Teffinger paced in the lobby with coffee in hand, picturing himself getting fired, and justifiably so, once it came out that he did the incredibly stupid act of sleeping with a person who was under suspicion of being an assassin.

  His phone rang.

  Sydney’s voice came through.

  “The body doesn’t belong to Susan Smith,” she said.

  Teffinger halted mid-step.

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” she said. “Get down here though. You need to see this.”

  14

  Day Three

  July 10

  Thursday Morning

  The dead body sent a cold chill up Teffinger’s spine and into his brain. The victim’s face, now battered and listless, belonged to Portia; the hair, now messy and tangled, belonged to Portia; the body, now quiet and without dance, belonged to Portia. Teffinger knelt close. The familiar scent of the woman’s perfume pulsed through the air and ma
de him flash back to the night before last, drunker than drunk, with his face between her thighs and the moans of her lust in his ears.

  She hadn’t gone easily.

  There had been a struggle, a violent one. Her face was beaten. Her clothes were ripped and dirty, indicative of a fight that ended up on the ground. Her panties were ripped off and twenty feet from the body, which itself was in an alley.

  A knife was in her gut, still there, buried up to the handle.

  Portia.

  Portia.

  Portia.

  Whoever killed her would pay. Teffinger would spend the rest of his days tracking the guy down. No matter how long it took it wouldn’t be too long.

  “Teffinger are you okay?”

  The works came from Sydney standing close with a concerned look on her face.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He raked his hair back.

  It immediately flopped down.

  “She deserved something but not this,” he said.

  Over the next two hours Teffinger’s theory of the crime became clearer. Portia’s purse wasn’t far from her body. It was undisturbed, including her wallet, which contained over $5,000 cash. Also inside the purse was a .357 Tarus with a detached silencer. She had definitely come to the area with the intent of murdering Susan Smith. The target, though, hadn’t been home, forcing Portia to wait. That was the fatal element. During that wait she encountered a stranger; a stranger who saw a beautiful woman alone and lingering in the shadows, a stranger who quickly got bad thoughts into his nasty little head.

  He started off friendly.

  She wasn’t interested.

  She had business at hand.

  The man looked around and found no one in close proximity.

  Things escalated.

  The whole sick thing probably didn’t last more than two minutes.

  Susan Smith the target wasn’t anywhere to be found until mid-afternoon when she showed up in high heals and a sinful night-before dress. Teffinger intercepted her from behind with a hand to her elbow in the lobby of her building, The Terrace, and said, “We need to talk.”

  She turned, studied his face and said, “I’ve seen you on TV. You’re that detective.”

  Teffinger nodded.

  The woman smelled like smoke.

  “Nick Teffinger,” he said. “I’ve seen you around at the clubs. I came over once to buy you a drink.”

  She wrinkled her forehead.

  “Are you sure? I think I would have remembered—”

  He shifted his feet.

  “Another guy got there first, he beat me out by a half second.”

  She smiled.

  “Next time be faster.”

  “Next time I will.”

  Her space, on the second of ten floors, was a lot more opulent than Teffinger anticipated, replete with high ceilings, floods of sunlight, rolling open spaces and rich contemporary textures. The pallet was muted with strategically placed color splashes.

  “Business must be good,” he said.

  “Good enough.”

  “How do you afford something like this?”

  She smiled.

  “People give me money.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they like me.” She headed for the wet-bar. “Do you want a drink?”

  No.

  That was the correct answer, No.

  He went to say it but the words that came out were, “Sure, why not?”

  “Diet coke and Absolute?”

  “Fine.”

  He explained the situation, namely that the killer—a woman who went by the name of Portia Montrachet— came to take her mark last night. Luckily for Susan, the woman ended up in an encounter that left her dead. “The important thing is that whoever hired her will have another go at it. You’re not off the hook.” He took a hard swallow and added, “You need to be honest with me tell me what’s going on. If I don’t have the information to stop this at the source, it won’t stop. So tell me, what’s the source?”

  The woman pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, tapped two loose and extended the pack towards Teffinger.

  He declined.

  She lit up.

  “There is no source.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “Don’t play this game. It’s dangerous.”

  She blew smoke.

  “I’m a big girl, Mr. Teffinger. I can take care of myself, if there was even something to take care of, which there isn’t.” She tapped ashes into a tray, read the expression on his face and leaned back. “I’ll make you a deal. You can take me out tonight and ply me with drinks. You can pick my brain while my defenses are down.”

  He considered it.

  It was wrong.

  It was stupid.

  It wasn’t the way investigations worked.

  It wasn’t the way to maintain professional boundaries.

  He stood up and headed for the door. Halfway through he turned and said, “I’ll pick up you up nine.”

  “Perfect.”

  15

  Day Three

  July 10

  Thursday Afternoon

  The afternoon was a flurry of motion, but whether that motion was forward, sideways or backwards, only time would tell. A search warrant for Portia’s hotel room turned up the suitcase and the money. Unfortunately, though, the photo of the mark--Susan Smith--wasn’t inside or anywhere to be found, either in the room or in the woman’s rental vehicle.

  As for her murder, none of the private security cameras in the area shinned on the location in question. The cameras in the fringe areas where Portia may have walked en route contained no footage of her. No witnesses came forward. The alley contained a lot of junk ranging from empty cans to spent cigarette packs to who knows what. The fresher pieces were meticulously collected and bagged on the chance one belonged to the killer. Still, it wouldn’t lead to the person’s identity, it would only tie him to the scene after they knew who he was. Two stray pieces of trash, however, rose above the others; not in the alley but just outside on the sidewalk. The first was a spent book of matches, burnt amber in color with a black abstract dragon on the front, somewhat in the nature of a tribal tattoo. The second was a discarded cigarette, thrown down after only a few puffs and then burnt to the filter.

  Neither contained prints.

  “Find out where the matches came from,” Teffinger told Sydney.

  “You’re not serious.”

  He was; very, in fact.

  “The guy could have lit the butt in the first few moments when he was talking to Portia, then threw it down when things escalated. That’s why it was hardly smoked.” He raked his hair back, focused on the matchbook and said, “It could be from a tattoo shop. Maybe our guy’s an ink nut. Go back over the tapes and mark anyone and everyone with tattoos, male and female, or even tattoo-looking, even if you can’t see anything visible.”

  “Tattoo-looking?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s a long shot.”

  “I’ll take a short shot if you have one.”

  She screwed a serious expression on her face and said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said before, about how Susan Smith told you she was a big girl and could take care of herself.”

  “Well, she is, but she can’t,” Teffinger said. “She doesn’t really appreciate the depth of the problem.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at,” Sydney said. “What I’m getting at is that maybe she already took care of the problem. That’s why she’s so relaxed, at least short-term.”

  Teffinger raked his hair back.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that maybe she was laying in wait.”

  The words landed with the force of a two-by-four, not because they were farfetched, which they were, but because Teffinger should have come to the theory himself. “Are you saying
Susan Smith killed Portia?”

  Sydney shrugged.

  “Obviously I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible though, you have to admit. I mean, I’ve been in contact with her. She knew she was a target. She knew to be on the lookout for Portia—an attractive female with a tattoo on her neck—who I described to her. She discounted the whole situation to my face like I was out of my mind, but maybe all the while she knew she was the target. Rather than let that fact on to us—because we’d press her to tell us all the hows and whys, which is something she’d no doubt rather keep secret—she laid in wait.”

  Teffinger leaned forward.

  “Or had someone lay in wait on her behalf,” he said.

  “Right, she could have hired someone, or had a friend, or maybe even some type of accomplice involved. Then she, or they, made it look like some kind of a sex thing gone wrong.”

  Teffinger chewed on it.

  It made sense, logically speaking.

  Down in his gut, though, it didn’t resonate.

  It was thin.

  It was watery.

  “Store it away as a theory,” he said. “We’ll drag it out later if we need to.”

  Sydney shook her head.

  “It’s a mistake to take her out tonight,” she said. “If she killed Portia, you’ll be tainting the investigation.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s my new MO.”

  “Plus there’s the danger to you.”

  He smiled.

  “That’s cute. I’m going to get some more coffee. You want some?”

  Time passed. Clouds rolled in late afternoon. Instead of vaporizing and blowing to Kansas, they grew mean black bellies and put on a bad attitude. At twilight they cleared up without dropping a drop.

  Teffinger and Sydney were the only ones left in homicide.

  A pizza box with three pieces sat on the corner of Teffinger’s desk.

  His stomach was a grease pit.

  Just as he was about to leave, Sydney pulled him over to the security tape and pointed. “What do you think about this guy?”

  Teffinger studied the screen.

  The guy in question looked like a boxer, with a square chin, a furrowed brow and a cat-like movement. Teffinger’s first thought was that he didn’t know if he could take the guy in a fair fight. His second thought was a lot darker and a lot more relevant.