by R. J. Jagger
The corner of her mouth went up ever so slightly.
“I’m right here,” she said.
“Figures,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He chuckled. “That’s how my life works,” he said. “Every time I look for something I always find it in the very last place I look.”
She laughed.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
“Fuzzy.”
“Too fuzzy to talk?”
“No. Just don’t use any big words.”
“I don’t know any big words,” he said.
She studied him.
“Your eyes are two different colors,” she said.
He stood up and looked at his reflection on a strip of stainless steel.
“So that’s what’s wrong.”
She laughed again.
THEN HE GOT THE BASIC STORY. She left the Camel’s Breath pretty drunk on Friday night and ended up going down the wrong road. On the way back she got a flat tire. A man was parked on the side of the road. She couldn’t remember what kind of car he had. He offered to help change her tire. He was big—with jeans, a flannel shirt, a baseball cap and black glasses. She remembered that because he looked like he had nothing to lose, which made her have second thoughts about getting out. Other than that she didn’t remember much about him.
“Was he someone from the bar?” Teffinger asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“So he wasn’t someone you talked to in the bar?”
“No. I would have recognized him.”
“Would you recognize him now?”
“I kind of doubt it,” she said. “I was busy freaking out about my car and trying to not trip over my own drunk feet.”
“I’m going to have you look at some videotape from inside the bar that night,” Teffinger said.
“Sure, if you want, but it’ll be a waste of time. I don’t remember him being in the bar.”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,” Teffinger said.
SHE CONTINUED THE STORY. She got out of the car to look at the flat. When she turned, the man grabbed her from behind and held a wet cloth over her mouth, saturated with some kind of chemical.
“Would you recognize the smell?”
She nodded.
“You better believe it.”
“We’ll do a few tests later if you’re up to it,” Teffinger said. “Try to identify what he used on you.”
“Good,” she said. “I want to know what it was anyway and find out if there are any long-term side effects.”
She woke up in some kind of an old house. It was dark outside and she was all alone. Coyotes barked outside, lots of them. She was on a mattress and chained by her ankle. She tore at it as hard as she could but couldn’t get away. She stayed awake all night, cold, expecting someone to show up at any minute and do something to her.
In the morning she found a piece of paper with rules on it. She tore it in half and threw it in the corner. There was a bag of food.
She ate.
There was a bottle of pills. She assumed they were sleeping pills of some sort. She didn’t want to be awake anymore anyway so she took one.
She had a nasty dream about being raped.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in the car.
“What car?” Teffinger asked.
“The one in the parking lot,” she said.
“You mean this parking lot?”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
She woke up in the front seat and had no idea where she was. She thought the car belonged to the man who took her so she got out and ran towards the traffic.
She was naked but didn’t care.
She ran right into the middle of the street and waved her hands for someone to stop. A woman pulled over and let her in; then called the police.
THE CAR TURNED OUT TO BELONG to one Tashna Sharapova. Victim number three. When Teffinger closed his eyes he could see her on the mattress.
He could feel the cold steel on her ankle.
He could hear the coyotes.
The first two women had won the coin toss.
What were the chances of three in a row?
Teffinger didn’t know, but this time—unlike with Tracy Patterson—he smelled death.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Day Eight—May 12
Monday Morning
______________
TARZAN WOKE UP MONDAY MORNING to the sound of Del Rae in the kitchen making pancakes and coffee. He opened his eyes just enough to take a quick peek. She wore a dark green T-shirt that barely covered her cheeks. He closed his eyes and let the image play while he debated whether he wanted to wake up yet.
Everything had gone perfect last night.
By midnight tonight, or tomorrow at the latest, Robert Sharapova would murder his wife.
He’d do it for greed.
He’d do it for lust.
Whatever the reason, the important thing was that Aaron would have the whole dirty little deed on videotape.
The lawyer would get a copy in the mail a week later together with a demand for money.
The rest, as they say, would be history.
Very rich history.
Del Rae looked over. “Hey there, sleepyhead.”
“Hey there back.”
“Today’s the day,” she said.
“I know.”
“I know you know,” she said. “I just like saying it.”
“Say it again.”
“Today’s the day.”
Yeah.
Oh yeah.
And it had been a long time coming.
AARON HAD DONE A LOT OF RESEARCH on the fancy-pants attorney, Robert Sharapova, Esq. He and wifey-poo—Tashna Sharapova—held about five million in joint accounts, most of which was in banks, CDs and stocks—beautifully liquid. But that was the baby money. The real money, about twenty-seven million worth, was owned solely by Tashna, being premarital property. But Robert was the sole beneficiary, meaning his life would be pretty sweet if wifey-poo ever woke up dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
The beauty of the last few days was that the lawyer was fully, irrevocably entangled now. As of last night, to be precise. Even if he chickened out today and didn’t go through with the murder, he had already kidnapped her—with intent to kill.
He was screwed.
At a minimum, Aaron and Del Rae already had enough dirt to convince him to fork over the five million that he had his hands on even with wifey-poo alive. Once he actually killed her, though, he wouldn’t just be screwed, he’d be screwed to the wall.
Plus, he had to kill her.
What else could he possibly do?
Once he did that he’d end up coughing up the lion’s share of everything. Of course it would take time, plus they’d let him keep some of it, maybe three or four million, just so he didn’t do something stupid.
Like put a bullet in his head.
And leave a note for the police.
AFTER BREAKFAST TARZAN GOT THE SHOWER temperature perfect, then picked Del Rae up, put her against the wall and made love to her under the spray, not releasing her until she screamed.
Then they headed outside for a walk.
They opened a garage door and stepped outside. The day couldn’t have been more perfect.
Warm.
Sunny.
Classic Colorado.
Suddenly, without warning, Del Rae backed up.
Aaron looked at her and followed her eyes to the left. There on the ground lay Scotty Marks.
Face down.
Covered in blood.
Not moving.
Looking dead.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Day Eight—May 12
Monday Morning
______________
PAIGE SAT IN THE THIRD ROW of her Environmental Law class, safe for the moment, but not knowing how much longer she could handle the stress. An
image of getting on a Greyhound bus and stepping off at the other end as Susan Smith or Janet Jones kept popping into her head.
Run.
Run.
Run.
Last night didn’t help. She’d been stupid and that stupidity almost got her killed, not to mention Ta’Veya. When Ta’Veya hadn’t answered her cell phone four times in a row, Paige knew something was wrong and headed over on foot. What she didn’t know at the time is that a man had taken a position in the dark not more than thirty feet from Ta’Veya.
Unaware she was there.
But Ta’Veya knew he was and dared not answer the vibration in her pocket.
Paige came around a corner and walked right into the man. At first she thought it was Ta’Veya and started to say, “What’s going on?”
But before she could get the words out, the shape knocked her to the ground and forced her into a tight submission hold.
“Don’t fight me!”
The voice was rough.
The man wasn’t overly big but was incredibly strong. He smelled like marijuana.
She struggled.
Desperate.
Wham!
Colors flashed.
“Stop moving! You hear me?”
He pounded her head.
Wham!
Wham!
She couldn’t get enough air in her lungs and her muscles lost their strength. She kept fighting but knew she had already lost. In a matter of seconds she’d be in total submission.
Then she heard Ta’Veya’s voice directly above them, screaming.
The strength suddenly went out of the man’s body and he shouted something unintelligible. Ta’Veya had done something to him, something drastic, something that hurt him badly.
Paige twisted out from underneath him.
Then they ran.
Later Ta’Veya told her that she’d stuck her knife in the guy’s back.
“How many times?” Paige asked.
“Just once.”
“How far?”
Ta’Veya shrugged. “I don’t know—a ways. Enough that he got off you.”
That was last night.
Now it was morning.
PAIGE WAS IN THE LAW REVIEW ROOM with her umpteenth cup of coffee, doing her best to jam the endless technical nuances of Property Law into her brain, when Ta’Veya called.
“Here’s where we’re at,” Ta’Veya said. “I went back to the electrical shed about ten minutes after you left this morning.”
“Ta’Veya—”
“Don’t worry, I was careful. The guy from last night was gone. Then I headed over to where I saw the headlights last night. I found a car there, sitting by itself without any particular reason.”
“Probably his,” Paige said.
“Exactly,” Ta’Veya agreed. “I did a license plate search. It belongs to a guy named Scott Marks. He’s got a house in Lakewood. I drove past it and didn’t see any activity. I Googled him but didn’t find much other than he posted a couple of comments on a blog about Woodstock.”
Woodstock.
The guy from last night was a hippy.
Paige lowered her voice and said, “So do we know if he’s alive?”
“Not a clue,” Ta’Veya said. “I don’t know if he’s in a morgue or a hospital or vacationing in Bermuda.”
Paige exhaled.
“I’m not betting on Bermuda. This is the second time you saved me,” she said.
Ta’Veya chuckled. “Now I’m one up on you.”
“Yes you are.”
“You didn’t know I was keeping score, did you?”
“I was hoping you weren’t.”
“Now you owe me one,” Ta’Veya added.
Paige put a serious tone in her voice. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep up with all this,” she said.
Silence.
Then Ta’Veya said, “We’re getting close to the end. I don’t know exactly what that end is going to be, but we’re getting close to it. Just hold on.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Day Eight—May 12
Monday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER DIDN’T WRAP UP the Tashna Sharapova crime scene at the museum until the first rays of dawn crept into the sky. There were still lots of people he needed to talk to, including the board members, but they’d be friendlier if he didn’t jerk them out of bed. So he hopped in the Tundra and headed west on 8th Avenue while Meat Loaf’s “Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad” spilled out of the radio, not knowing if he would head home for a nap or go straight to work and start injecting coffee into his veins.
Time was ticking.
That was the problem.
So he decided to go the injection route and headed to the office. Sydney showed up early, around 7:30, and said, “You look like you got dragged behind an 18-wheeler all night. You want my advice?”
“No.”
“Good, because here it is,” she said. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“I’ll sleep in my next life,” he said.
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“No, why?”
She pulled him up by the arm. “Come on,” she said, “before you collapse or something.”
He pulled his wallet out.
It didn’t look good.
Nor had it since he took out that loan to buy the ’67. Not that he would undo that deal, of course.
“Put that away,” Sydney said. “This is my treat.”
“Really?” he said. “In that case I’m thinking Brown Palace.”
“Too bad because I’m thinking Denny’s,” she said.
She grinned as if she just heard a joke.
“What?” he asked.
“Let’s just hope they don’t have your picture up for stiffing that waitress,” she said.
“Hey, that was a total accident,” he said. “Plus I went back.”
AS THE SUN GOT HIGHER and the pancakes dropped into his stomach, Teffinger started to feel more and more like a human being. Now he was glad he hadn’t wasted time on a nap.
He must have had a puzzled look on his face because Sydney asked, “What?”
“There’s a few pieces of this thing that are bugging me,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that Tashna Sharapova doesn’t fit the mold,” he said. “Rain St. John and Tracy Patterson were both younger. Tashna’s thirty-two.”
“A good thirty-two or a bad one?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning is she a MILF?”
Teffinger chuckled.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“You know what that means? MILF?” she asked.
He leaned forward.
“Actually,” he said, “for your information, I’m a lot smarter than you think. In fact, between me and my brother, we know the answer to every single question in the world. If you don’t believe me, just go ahead and ask something.”
She cocked her head.
“Okay,” she said. “What’s the capital of Costa Rica?”
“That’s one my brother knows,” he said. “Go ahead and ask another one.”
She punched him in the arm.
“Got me,” she said.
“Yes I did.”
She slurped coffee and said, “Nothing personal, but I’m not too impressed with your mold.”
“My mold theory,” he corrected her. “Tashna Sharapova doesn’t fit the mold.”
“That either.”
“But it’s more than just the fact that she’s older,” he said. “The first two—Rain and Tracy—were taken from places where there would be choices. In Rain’s case, people would be walking down the street. In Tracy’s case, people would get drunk and head the wrong way after they left the Camel’s Breath—not a lot of people, granted, but some. In this latest case, there wouldn’t be any traffic at all in that parking lot at that time of night.”
She agreed.
“It’s almost as if the first two were ra
ndom,” he said, “but Tashna Sharapova was specifically targeted.”
Sydney shrugged.
“She could be just as random,” she said. “He spots the car and decides to hang out for a while and see who walks over to it. By chance it turns out to be a female. Maybe, since it’s his third time, he decides he needs to be more careful. Hence the dark parking lot option.”
“Maybe,” Teffinger said.
“Plus there’s nothing to say that the guy can’t be both random and have targets,” she said. “You’ve done that yourself with women.”
He nodded.
True.
“She’s filthy rich, you know,” Sydney said.
“So I hear.”
“She donated half the stuff in the museum,” she added. “That’s why she’s on the board.” She smiled. “And why you’re not.”
ON THE DRIVE BACK TO HEADQUARTERS Sydney asked, “What’s the husband’s take on all this? I picture him as some know-it-all who’s going to be calling the chief every five minutes and asking why everyone on the case is such an idiot.”
Teffinger processed the question but put it on the shelf for a second while he gave his attention to a minivan on his tail, driven by a woman with one eye on the road, one on a makeup mirror and the other on her cell phone.
Wait.
That’s three eyes.
The point remains nonetheless.
“I’m going to get killed by lipstick some day,” he said. “The husband’s take on this? Is that your question?”
“Right.”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I talked to him a few times over the last couple of hours. He’s staying as calm as he can and trying to be optimistic.”
“Good for him.”
“By the way, here’s what I want you to do today. Talk to everyone who was at the board meeting last night. See if they saw anything in the parking lot, a car parked there, someone walking around, whatever. Find out what kind of security the museum has. If there are any videotapes, get them and make DVDs. Any prints from Tashna’s car that don’t belong to the victim or to Tracy Patterson need to be run to ground.”
“What are you going to do while I’m doing all the work?” she asked. “Repeat: all the work.”
