by R. J. Jagger
That wasn’t even an issue.
The coffee machine stopped gurgling. Teffinger picked yesterday’s cup off his desk, found it half filled with cold brown goop, and dumped it in the snake plant on his way over for fresh stuff.
Sydney pushed through the door three minutes later and headed toward the pot. Teffinger glanced at the oversized industrial clock on the wall—7:12.
“What are you doing here so early?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, poured coffee, stirred in cream, and then pulled up a seat in front of his desk.
“You don’t remember?” she asked.
He didn’t.
Then did.
Last night he’d asked her to come in early.
“Of course I remember,” he said. “I’m just messing with you.”
She slurped the coffee, getting as much noise out of the act as she could. Then she smiled as if she’d just heard a joke.
“What?” he asked.
“So, I heard you got some head last night,” she said.
He grunted.
“Give me the details,” she added.
He told her what he knew so far. Some woman had made an anonymous call from a payphone last night and said she’d found a head in one of the gravesites down by the railroad spur. She’d said it belonged to Rachel Ringer, a lawyer who disappeared in April. Teffinger took it for a joke but went down to check just in case.
“Sure enough,” he said. “There it was, just the way she said.”
Sydney looked puzzled.
“A fresh one?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No, decomposed. Very decomposed, in fact.”
“But the K-9 Unit had the cadaver dogs there all afternoon,” she said. “They would have found it.”
He nodded. “My guess is the dogs pointed out the grave, but everyone thought they were smelling the old body. No one had any reason to think that there’d be a second body stacked in the same hole.”
“So there was, then? A second body?”
He shrugged. “We’re not exactly sure yet,” he said, “but that’s my guess. It was too muddy last night to be messing around, so I had a unit stay there to guard the scene. We should be able to dig today. In fact, we should probably head over there now.”
“Let’s do it.”
Teffinger walked over to the coffee pot and refilled for the road. “Prepare to get muddy,” he warned her.
She looked at him.
“It’s never easy with you, Teffinger,” she said. “Stuff just finds you. It’s like that bird we hit driving back from Santa Fe.”
He smiled, remembering the way it had come all the way through the windshield and landed in the back seat, blood and feathers everywhere. He still had a vivid picture of Sydney picking it up by one foot and tossing it into the brush.
When they arrived at the old railroad spur, the sun cast long morning shadows and the night chill was lifting. The gravesites still had standing water, but only half as much as last night.
“We can probably get going any time,” Teffinger said.
He called the Crime Unit, and the truck pulled up forty-five minutes later with Paul Kwak at the wheel. He got out, scratched his gut, and frowned.
“Let me see if I got this straight,” he told Teffinger. “Somewhere, someone’s going to work today, and their job is to sit around in a fancy showroom and sell BMWs to smiling rich guys. My job, on the other hand, is to dig a body out of mud.”
Teffinger nodded.
Then said, “Two bodies.”
Kwak looked confused.
“Two?”
“Well, maybe two,” Teffinger corrected himself. “We’re going to check the other hole too.”
“You think …?”
Teffinger held his hands up in surrender. “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out. I’m hoping not.”
In the first hole they did in fact find a body—a body without a head.
Then they checked the second hole.
And found another body.
The fourth.
A woman.
Her eyes were gouged out.
Kwak looked at Teffinger. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Me too,” Teffinger said.
“Good thing it doesn’t happen that often,” Kwak added.
Teffinger nodded. “See if you can find her eyes,” he said. “If you can’t, get some kind of sifter out here and go through every inch of dirt. In fact, do that anyway, for both gravesites. Find whatever it is we haven’t found so far.”
Teffinger pulled Sydney to the side. “We need to find out who made that call last night. She knows something we don’t. Dispatch told me it came from a payphone. What I need you to do is check with them and find out which one, then go down there and see if there are any security cameras around that might help.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “That’s top priority.”
“Okay.”
“Even topper than top.”
20
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY MORNING
On Thursday morning, Aspen’s fourth day of work, every attorney in the firm must have found out that she existed, because they paraded through her door with big smiles on their faces and dropped files on her desk.
“It’s called getting rid of your dogs,” Christina Tam warned. “Everyone’s dumping their crap on you, either because the client’s a no-pay or a slow-pay, or because they finally figured out the case is a loser. The end result is that you’ll work tons of hours but won’t bring any money through the door. That’s not good. No matter what anyone tells you, this firm is driven by the bottom line, so the sooner you learn to say no, the better off you’re going to be.”
More work landed on her desk.
More dogs.
Dogs with fleas.
She didn’t say no, though, not wanting to burn bridges. So instead she smiled and said thanks for the work.
Then Christina walked in shortly before noon. “Want to get some lunch?”
Aspen couldn’t afford it.
Not with only $82 in her account.
But couldn’t afford to not have friends, either.
“Great,” she said.
They milled through the crowd down the 16th Street Mall under a perfect Colorado sky and ended up at the Hard Rock Café, eating salads at the bar.
“So what’s the scoop with Jacqueline Moore?” Aspen asked at one point.
“Cruella?” Christina asked. “Don’t even think anything bad about her. She has radar. And definitely don’t cross swords with her. She’ll gut you like a fish.”
Aspen frowned.
“I may have already done that.”
“Already?” Christina said, slapping Aspen on the back. “Congratulations girl, that’s a new law firm record.”
“Lucky me.”
“Why, what’d you do?”
Aspen explained about how she contacted Dr. Beverly Twenhofel and then got a tongue-lashing from Moore, after which Christina said, “Yeah, you’re on her short list, all right. If I were you, I’d snuggle up to Blake Gray. He’s the only known antidote to Cruella.”
Aspen chewed.
“What’s the scoop with him?”
“Blake?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He seems like a good guy,” she said. “He took me to lunch and told me his door’s always open.”
“It is,” Christina agreed.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“Yeah, you’d think it’s just empty bullshit, but it isn’t,” Christina said. “I had a case during my first year here, where I didn’t get our expert disclosed in time. The other side got anal about it and persuaded the judge to exclude his testimony. We lost the case and the client ended up paying about fifty grand, when we should have had a defense verdict.”
“Ouch,” Aspen said.
“Major ouch,” Christina agreed. “Anyway, there w
as some talk in the halls as to whether I had what it takes to be here. Blake stepped in and brought that to a screeching halt. Even more than that, he paid the client a chunk of change out of his own wallet.”
“Damn.”
Christina nodded.
“I’d be washing dishes right now if it wasn’t for him.”
The TV monitors over the bar interrupted the current programming with a newsbreak. Two more bodies had been discovered at the abandoned railroad spur north of town, bringing the total now to four. Footage of the Crime Unit working the scene filled the screen, and then switched over to reporter Jena Vellone interviewing a man.
The detective in charge, apparently.
Aspen had seen him before somewhere.
He had one of those faces you don’t forget.
“We’re very interested in talking to the person who called us last night,” Teffinger said. Looking straight into the camera, he added, “If you’re that person, please call us as soon as possible.”
Aspen dropped her fork.
“What?” Christina asked.
She tried to not appear shaken. “Nothing, just clumsy. Scary stuff, all those bodies.”
Christina made a disgusted face. “There’s no shortage of sickos in the world, that’s for sure.” She wiped her mouth and added, “I love that guy’s eyes.”
Aspen studied them.
“They’re two different colors,” she said.
“I know,” Christina said. “He should be in that Right Said Fred song, I’m too sexy for my eyes, too sexy for my eyes, that’s no lie.”
Aspen laughed.
But stayed focused on the news update to see if they mentioned that one of the new bodies was Rachel Ringer’s. They didn’t, probably because they still needed to verify it conclusively.
So, who was the fourth victim?
No doubt someone who had also disappeared in early April. With a little work on the Internet, Aspen should be able to figure it out in short order.
She paid for lunch, for the both of them.
$22.00, including the tip.
Meaning $60.00 left.
21
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY MORNING
Draven was pissed that Gretchen smashed in the dumb-ass biker’s skull, not really needing to be connected to too many things like that right now. “I didn’t know I was going to do it until I did it,” she apologized. Then, to make up for it, she gave him a long, slow blowjob.
They hid out all night in the canyon at the Pueblo Reservoir.
Now, as the morning sun rose with a warm orange glow over the rocky ridge, Draven’s anger waned and they laughed about it.
“He did deserve it,” he noted.
Gretchen locked her arm through his as they hiked back to the car. “Screw him,” she said. “Now what?”
Good question.
One he’d been wrestling with all night.
“The biggest liability is my car,” he said, “in case anyone saw it parked in the area. I doubt that anyone got a license plate number, but they might have a general description. So I need to get it out of Pueblo, starting now.”
She squeezed his arm.
“Take me with you.”
He shook his head.
“You can’t break your routine,” he said. “That’ll draw attention. You need to get back to your hotel room and turn tricks like nothing happened. What’s today? Thursday?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have some Thursday regulars?”
“There’s this one guy …”
Draven cut her off. “You need to be there then,” he said. “But here’s the most important thing. Don’t tell a single person about last night, ever. Do you understand?”
She did.
He stopped, grabbed her arms and made her look in his eyes. “Tell me.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Ever.”
“Ever.”
He found no lies and continued walking.
When they got to the car, they drove north on I-25 for fifteen miles, until they came to a rest stop. Draven pulled in and killed the engine. An identical rest stop sat on the other side of the freeway. They used the facilities and then found a shady spot with a picnic table.
“Here’s the plan,” he said. “Be sure there are no cops around, then go over to that other rest stop and get a trucker to give you a ride back to town. Then just follow your normal routine.”
Her forehead wrinkled.
“What about you?” she asked.
He laughed. “Me? I’ll be fine.”
“No, I mean, when will I see you again?”
He thought about it and said, “I got some stuff going on, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, probably within a week, two weeks max. Be at the hotel where I can find you.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Do you promise you’ll come?”
“Yes, I promise,” he said, and meant it. “As soon as I can.” He gave her his cell phone number and said, “That’s for emergencies only. If you have to call, do it from a payphone, preferably one with no security cameras around.”
A pack of Harleys—ten or more—flew past the rest stop, heading north toward Denver with a serious twist on the throttle. No biker-bitch passengers meant they were on a mission—probably headed to Draven’s.
He and Gretchen held each other for a long time and then parted.
He drove north on I-25, taking more hits of Jack than he should, keeping an eye in the rearview mirror for bikers or cops.
Shit.
Now everything was screwed up.
One of the main goals of coming to Pueblo, namely nabbing Mia Avila—the tattoo woman who inked the warrior band on his arm—had slipped away. Still, he and Gretchen now had a history, and he wouldn’t trade that for six miles of women, tattooed or otherwise.
He flicked the radio stations.
The music shook his brain away from the fact that Gretchen would be sucking other men until he got back.
Maybe he should turn around before it was too late.
An exit popped up and he pulled off. A gas station appeared and he instinctively checked the gauge, surprised to find he was riding on fumes. “Damn you’re an ass.” He pulled in, filled up with 87, and then went inside to pay.
A toothless old lady worked the register with agonizing slowness while truckers three deep bit their lips and tried their best to not jump over the counter and rip her arms off.
Draven stepped to the end of the line and shifted from foot to foot, watching the old woman’s every move. A cheap black-and-white TV monitor in the corner caught his eye. A newscast reported that the number of bodies found at the old railroad spur north of Denver now numbered four.
Who could possibly give a shit about something so trivial?
“Hey! Hurry it up, will you?” he said.
The trucker in front of him turned, as if ready to get in Draven’s face, but looked in his eyes and didn’t say anything.
The gas bill was $36.50.
Draven stepped to the front of the line, threw two wadded-up twenties on the counter and said, “There, you happy?”
Then he stormed out.
Someone mumbled something behind his back. He walked back in and looked everyone in the eyes, one by one. No one made a sound.
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
Then he left.
22
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY
Teffinger was still working the crime scene at the railroad spur when Davica called. “I saw the news,” she said, “about finding two more bodies. So I’m ready to accept your apology for thinking I was involved with any of it.”
Teffinger smiled.
“Who is this?”
“Not funny,” she said. “Come over tonight. I have something to show you.” She hung up before he could say anything.
Sydney showed up a few minutes later, walking toward him with a Cheshire Cat gr
in on her face. “Good news,” she said, handing him three pieces of paper—black-and-white printouts of a young woman talking on a payphone. “That’s your anonymous caller.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” she said. “This is definitely the phone used for the call, and the time on the security camera tape exactly matches the time of the call, from start to end. Plus she looks stressed.”
Teffinger was impressed.
“Good work,” he said. “I suppose now you think I owe you lunch or something.”
She punched him in the arm.
“Lunch? Dinner at a minimum,” she said. “Got some more news for you too. The head definitely belongs to Rachel Ringer, like our caller-friend said.”
“Any word yet who the other one is? The one without the eyes?”
“Nada.”
Teffinger studied the caller’s face again.
“Let’s get a press conference set up ASAP,” he said. “I want her photo on the five o’clock news. She’s up to her eyeballs in this and I want to know how.”
Sydney shook her head.
“If all I’m getting out of this is a lunch …”
“You’re also being paid, don’t forget.”
“Right, but I would be extra motivated if there was a dinner involved.”
Teffinger held his hands up in surrender.
“Okay,” he said. “Fine. But this is blackmail, for the record.”
She smiled. “Black female, actually. I choose the restaurant.”
Ouch.
“Just be sure they have a two-for-one special.” He looked at his watch for the first time in hours: 3:25. Shit. “I got to run,” he said over his shoulder. “Be back in an hour.”
He headed over to see how Marilyn Black was coming along. It was turning out that she was more alone in the world than he first thought. Her father skipped out when she was just a baby. Marilyn ran away from home when she was fifteen and had been on the streets ever since.
When he walked into her room she was asleep.
He held her hand for a half hour and then told the orderly, “Be sure she knows I was here.”
