It was also all that he could think of to say while his brain spun the possibilities.
“No, I don’t see them.”
He broke into a trot.
“Leave now,” he said. “Get in your car and get out of there. Stay on the phone so I know you’re safe.”
“I don’t think anyone’s still here. I think they’re gone.”
“I don’t care if they’re gone or not. Get out of there right now.”
Forty minutes later he met her down at 6th by the fairgrounds and held her tight. She was calm now. The initial shock was gone.
“I don’t want a police report,” she said.
“That’s not smart.”
“I don’t want the dungeon becoming public knowledge.”
“I’ll keep a cap on it.”
“You can’t and you know it.”
He frowned.
The words were true.
“Give me your key,” he said. “I’ll go up and have a look around. When I’m sure it’s safe I’ll give you a call and you can come up.”
Five minutes later he was in her house.
No one was there.
The magpie was on the counter right where Del Rey said it was. The wings were ripped off and gone. The head was cut off and lying cockeyed with opened eyes next to the body. A kitchen knife was on the counter next to the head. Goo was on the blade.
He found the wings.
One was in the refrigerator.
The other was on Del Rey’s pillow.
He left everything as it was and called her.
“It’s clear,” he said, “come on up but be prepared.”
Four minutes later she walked through the front door to the kitchen and asked a question Teffinger didn’t expect.
“Did you do that to the head?”
No.
He didn’t.
“It wasn’t like that before,” she said. “It was on. The head was on. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
33
Day Five
July 12
Saturday Afternoon
Teffinger’s best arguing couldn’t convince Del Rey to report the intrusion and get an official case on file. “This is Unincorporated Jefferson County,” she said. “The sheriff’s office is right across the street from the Taj Mahal.”
“The what?”
“The courthouse. Every judge in the county would know about the dungeon within a week.”
Teffinger wasn’t impressed.
“So what?”
“So when I walk into a courtroom I need respect,” she said. “I don’t want anyone in the room with a trump card. Lawyers included for that matter.”
Teffinger leaned against the countertop, almost on the bird.
The place hadn’t been trashed.
Nothing of value had been taken.
A gold watch sat unceremoniously untouched on the bedroom dresser next to a stack of twenty-dollar bills.
He focused on Del Rey.
“So you don’t have even the faintest idea who did this?”
She shook her head.
“Like I said, my best guess is that it has something to do with my law practice because that’s the only thing in my life powerful enough to spin into something like this. But I can’t think of a single case or client or opposing counsel or opposing client that fits.”
“Well, someone’s messing with you, that’s for sure. Either that or this is some kind of a warning.”
“A warning about what?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
He photographed the bird and the wings, getting several shots of each from different angles, and threw the parts out in the open space. Then he called Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler from Quantico, and pulled up an image of a classy fifty-ish woman with step-master legs.
She actually answered.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Teffinger?”
“Yeah, don’t hang up.”
He explained the situation and said, “So what’s your take on it?”
“To me it’s a message,” she said. “It’s a waning. The guy is saying, There’s death right here on your kitchen counter. You’re next.”
Teffinger swallowed.
“You really think it’s that serious?”
“I do. If you had more information I might have a different conclusion, but looking at it with no more facts than what you told me, I’d lay my money on it being a foreshadowing of what’s to come—especially since valuables were lying in plain sight and weren’t touched. It’s a statement that this isn’t about money. She can’t buy her way out of it.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Is there any significance to the placement of the body parts?”
“I don’t know. As for the pillow, maybe there’s nothing more behind it than the guy saw the Godfather at some point in time.”
Teffinger smiled.
“Can you do what I’m going to ask you to do?”
“Teffinger, don’t you dare. I’m slammed with fifty other things—”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “How soon can you do it?”
He didn’t need to define it.
They both knew what he meant.
It was to see if any other files existed with a similar MO. It was to see if the creep was already implicated in a prior investigation somewhere, leaving body parts of an animal as a precursor to murder.
“God, I hate you,” Leigh said.
“Hate and love are the same thing. You know that, right? Ciao.”
“Hey, you still there?”
He was.
“There’s one more option to consider.”
“Which is what?”
“Maybe the guy isn’t targeting Del Rey at all. Maybe he’s targeting you. Maybe the warning is for you.”
Teffinger shook his head.
“That’s awfully indirect.”
“Admitted.”
“Personally I don’t see it.”
“It would have to be coming from someone who knows you’re spending time with Del Rey. When I say that maybe he’s targeting you, I don’t mean that you’re necessarily the one who the guy is going to kill. It might be you but it might equally be Del Rey. For hundreds of years people have been killing the warrior by killing the thing that the warrior loves. It’s nothing new. I’ll tell you one thing. Now that I realize the target may be you, I can take my time in digging into it.”
Teffinger smiled.
“Not funny,” he said.
“A little funny.”
“Okay, a little.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead.
Teffinger’s gut churned.
Del Rey put her arms around him and said, “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Either that or the ghost saw me. Time will tell.”
34
Day Five
July 12
Saturday Afternoon
Jori-Lee landed uneventfully at Miami International Airport, rented a black Camry and checked into the Beacon Hotel on Ocean Drive in the heart of South Beach. She couldn’t afford ten cents of it. It all went on plastic. She’d have to worry about that part of it later.
A salty breeze blew off an endless beach.
Friendly aqua waves lapped against the sand.
The hotel was art deco.
Her room was nice, on the ocean side.
Ocean Drive buzzed.
Palm trees swayed.
Life was good.
She didn’t ever want to leave. She wanted to spend every day of the rest of her life right here. She wanted to run on the beach all day long and stay up all night gyrating to a nightclub trance with a man who couldn’t keep his hands off her.
She could do it if she really wanted.
She had the looks.
She had the smile.
She could wear a bikini and, if she got a few months
of time in a gym, she’d be able to rock it.
She knew how to make a man see nothing but her. She’d never exercised those particular skills, not yet, not to their fullest extent, but they were there. They were in the quiver of her fingertips and in the warmth of her breath and in the blood just under her skin.
She had the pedigree, too.
She had the Harvard law degree, not to mention her current law clerk position at One First Street, the golden ring itself, working under the coveted wing of Nelson Robertson, no less—the swing vote and by default the most powerful judge of the nine.
With that pedigree she could walk in any social circle, especially here in Miami, which was a rung or two down from D.C.
She should do it.
She should go out tonight, meet a man and make a new life happen.
She should simplify.
She should forget.
She should get a wild side.
She should change directions.
The thought was wine in her blood, so much so that she got a beach towel from the lobby, bought a white bikini and jaywalked her way across the boulevard to where the sand and the water and the bodies were.
She jogged at the water’s edge, where her feet splashed and the sand was smooth.
She jogged until she had no more jog left.
She turned.
Her peripheral vision warned her of something approaching.
It was coming fast.
It was coming through the air.
Her head ducked.
A Frisbee swished past.
“Sorry about that.”
The words came from a man trotting her way, a man who looked like he belonged on a surfboard, or in a rock band, or on the cover of a magazine.
His skin was golden.
His hair was blond and hung past his shoulders.
His arms and shoulders and chest were built for handstands.
His smile was without a worry.
She must have had a look on her face because the man slowed down, stopped just short and said, “Do you believe in fate?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.”
35
Day Five
July 12
Saturday Afternoon
Teffinger got bad news late Saturday afternoon. It came from the FBI profiler Dr. Leigh Sandt who called and reported in a beaten voice that the bird ripper wasn’t on their radar screen; if he was buried in a file somewhere, he wasn’t coming to the surface.
He was a ghost.
Ten minutes later Randy Johnson called from D.C. homicide to report that the district attorney wanted more evidence before going for a search warrant against either the lawyer, Leland Everitt, or the investigator, Oscar Benderfield.
Until then everything was in stall mode.
When the phone rang a third time Teffinger didn’t answer.
Instead he called Del Rey.
“Are you still alive?”
“Alive and billing hours.”
“At the law firm?”
“Right.”
“With the front door locked?”
“Yes, master.”
Okay.
Good.
“I have my gun with me,” she added.
Teffinger pulled up an image of the weapon firing a hot yellow explosion into the eye of a mountain lion in the thick of black night.
“I never asked you before but is that thing registered?”
“I don’t know. It’s not mine.”
“Whose is it?”
“Someone left it here.”
“Who?”
“Trouble.”
“The woman from the dungeon?”
“Right. Your threesome friend.”
Teffinger frowned.
“Well, don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“That’s a person who would be hard to find.”
When he hung up the office was too small, the walls were too close, the ceiling was too low and the chatter was too choked. He needed space, needed it fast and needed it hard. Five minutes later he was two blocks away, walking aimless on a cracked sidewalk with too many thoughts eating the tails of too many other thoughts.
That was the problem.
The monster had too many heads.
Teffinger couldn’t keep them straight.
He needed to bring down the Harley-riding, iron-walking, money-bored boxer, Danny Rainer, for getting his kicks killing Portia Montrachet.
He needed to bring down the fancy-pants lawyer, Jack Colder, for setting a hit in motion against Susan Smith, as well as his prior work on the dancer, Seth Lightfield.
He needed to bring down the D.C. links, Leland Everitt and Oscar Benderfield, for their role in the hit parade.
He needed to keep Susan Smith from being murdered.
And now, on top of it all, he needed to keep Del Rey out of the grasp of the bird ripper, whoever he was and whatever his motive might be, including the possibility that Teffinger himself might be the target.
It was too much.
He couldn’t concentrate on one ugly face long enough to memorize it.
He was spread too thin.
He needed to prioritize.
Del Rey would be the priority.
Susan Smith was nice, she was interesting, she was too young to die, but she wasn’t Del Rey. If Teffinger could save only one of them it would be Del Rey.
Not to mention he owed her one for saving his life.
His phone rang. He checked the number to find it belonged to the same caller as a few minutes ago, the third call, the one he didn’t take.
He answered.
It was Bob Nelson, the coroner.
“I’m finding some suspicious post-mortem bruises on Portia Montrachet’s body,” the man said.
“Suspicious in what way?”
“Suspicious in that they could be read to suggest she was moved after she was killed.”
Teffinger wasn’t impressed.
“The guy probably dragged her back farther into the alley. That’s what I would have done.”
“These are more suggestive that she was carried and dropped.”
“Same thing.”
“You’re right.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. Even a monkey at a typewriter spells a word sooner or later,” Teffinger said.
Nelson laughed.
“Yeah, well, keep pecking.”
“Got to. It’s a volume thing.”
Del Rey.
She was going to die tonight; either her or Teffinger.
He could feel it in his bones.
36
Day Five
July 12
Saturday Afternoon
The beach god who believed in fate had a name, Sanders Tripp, which meant he was technically no longer a stranger, which was good because Jori-Lee wanted him to be anything but that. She let him walk her in the aqua froth of the waves and tell her jokes and stories until the white of his smile and the toss of his hair washed over her and made her pull up nasty flashes of the two of them together.
He wasn’t real.
He couldn’t be.
Yet every time she looked over, there he was.
He was a diversion, a fantasy, a quivering between her thighs, a moment in the sun, until he said something that suddenly made him three-dimensional. “At the risk of blowing my surfer-boy patina, I’m going to tell you a secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone though.”
She pulled a zipper across her lips.
“I know you from Harvard.”
“You do?”
Yes.
He did.
“You were a freshman in the law program when I was in my last year there. I tried to get your attention about a hundred times. It never worked. You always had your nose in a book.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
He nodded.
“Guilty, going on two years. In fact, I’m billing you for my time right now.” He smiled. “Ju
st kidding about that last part.”
“You don’t need to be. I’ll pay.”
“In that case I’ll take it out in trade.”
37
Day Five
July 12
Saturday Evening
Early Saturday evening Teffinger had a thought that shook him to the core, namely that the ripped bird was a diversion rather than a warning. It was a strategic move perpetrated by the person who was going to kill Susan Smith; it was done to misdirect Teffinger in the wrong direction.
He had no proof of course, but the logic resonated with a thunder he couldn’t ignore.
He called Sydney and said, “We going to a Plan B for tonight.”
“Which is what?”
“Which is, instead of my staying with Del Rey at her place, I want you to. Don’t get too concerned though. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Why not?”
He explained his diversion theory and the fact that Del Rey wasn’t in any real danger.
He expected pushback.
She didn’t give any.
In fact she said, “I can’t believe that you figured this out when Leigh didn’t. That’s a first.”
“And a last,” he said.
“Does this mean you’ll be with Susan Smith?”
“Every minute.”
“Well keep the little guy down and your guard up.”
“The little guy?”
“The Little Guy, Bob, Rolling Thunder, whatever it is that you call him and, please, don’t tell me what it is.”
“Andy Conda.”
“I said not to do that.”
He hissed his best snake hiss.
“I’m hanging up now,” she said.
The line went dead.
He had half a mind to dial her back and hiss when she answered but didn’t. Instead he called Susan Smith and told her his diversion theory and his conclusion that the man would probably strike tonight while the diversion was fresh.
She was silent.
Then she said, “I’m not running.”
“I know.”
“We already talked about it.”
“Right, I know. I’m not asking you to. I’ll be inside your apartment with you tonight unless you have an objection. We’ll have people outside too, good people.”
They talked about details.
Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 9
