Lawyer Trap
Page 7
On his way back to the railroad spur, Teffinger called Leigh Sandt, Ph.D., the FBI profiler who had proved to be so invaluable on both the David Hallenbeck and Nathan Wickersham cases. She was a Supervisory Special Agent assigned to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) at Quantico, Virginia. Luckily, he actually got her on the line. As usual, she listened patiently as he explained the situation.
“The thing that puzzles me the most is the four different methods of murder,” he said, referring to stabbing, beheading, suffocation, and slitting of the throat. “Oh,” he added, “I almost forgot to tell you, the last one we found—the one with the slit throat—had her eyes gouged out too. We haven’t found them yet. The guy ate them for all we know.”
She asked a number of questions.
The ages of the victims.
Physical descriptions.
Similarities.
“This is a tough one,” she said. “Given the widely divergent causes of death, I’m leaning towards multiple murderers, maybe a cult of some kind, or a gang initiation. But I’m also not inclined yet to totally rule out one murderer—maybe someone with multiple personalities, or one personality but multiple fantasies.” She cleared her throat and added, “Looks like you’re going to be all over the news again.”
Unfortunately, that was true.
“It’s already getting big,” he said. “And they don’t even know yet that a head was cut off and that eyes were gouged out.”
“That’ll leak out,” she said.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“I haven’t seen an agency yet that can keep that level of noise under wraps, including my own,” she said.
As soon as he hung up, Sydney called.
“Where are you?” She sounded panicked. “You said you’d be back in an hour.”
“En route.”
“Well, hurry up, the press is here.”
23
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY EVENING
Aspen was already in her pajamas when someone knocked at the door. Through the peephole she saw a stranger, a man about fifty wearing glasses. With hesitation, she opened the door as far as the chain would allow.
“The firm needs you at a meeting, right now,” the man said. “I have a limousine waiting.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.”
She checked outside and saw a limousine in the parking lot.
“Give me ten minutes,” she said.
“I’ll be in the car.”
She dressed and threw on a face while a feeling of nausea grew in her stomach. The two glasses of wine might be on her breath, so she gargled as long as she could with mouthwash.
Thirty minutes later she was at the firm, sitting in one of the conference rooms with Blake Gray, Jacqueline Moore, and another attorney she hadn’t met before named Derek Bennett.
Jacqueline Moore took the lead in what appeared to be more of an interrogation than a meeting. “You’re all over the news; you know that, right?”
The words shocked her.
“No. What are you talking about?”
They powered up the flat-panel TV on the wall and played a videotape of the evening news for her. A detective by the name of Nick Teffinger wanted to talk to the woman in the photograph in connection with the case involving the four bodies found at the railroad spur. If anyone knew who the woman was, they should call the number at the bottom of the screen.
Shit.
She looked at everyone.
“I had no idea,” she said.
The looks on their faces indicated they didn’t care.
“So what’s going on?” the woman asked.
Aspen put a confused look on her face. “I don’t know.”
The woman slammed her hand on the table. “We don’t have time for bullshit!”
A pencil bounced, rolled, and fell to the floor.
“You’re dragging the law firm into something negative and we’ve struggled too hard and too long to get blindsided by something like this. So you can either tell us what this is all about or you can march down to your office right now and clean it out.”
In spite of herself, Aspen stood up. “Who in the hell do you think you’re talking to?” She walked to the door and then turned around. “As far as the job goes, shove it up your ass. No one talks to me like that.”
“Aspen! Wait a minute!”
The words came from Blake Gray, chasing her down the hall.
She was in no mood.
She opened the door to the stairwell and bounded down, taking two steps at a time, while he called for her to come back.
24
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY
When Draven got back to Denver, he parked a couple of blocks away from the apartment and then walked back through the field behind the building to see if any bikers were hanging around. Good thing, too. A few of the scumbags were milling in the parking lot and several more buzzed the neighborhood.
They better be careful.
The assholes.
They think they’re all macho when they’re in a pack. Get them alone, though, and they were nothing. In fact, he had half a mind to pick one of them off from the herd right now, just to show them who they were messing with.
Instead, he drove over to Avis, rented a van, and spent the next two hours driving back to Pueblo. When he got in town, it took all his strength to not knock on Gretchen’s door and screw her silly.
She couldn’t know he was in town, though.
It would be better that way.
Against his better judgment, he drove by the dead biker’s house, just to see what was going on, if anything. The body was gone and the place was deserted. Whatever investigation had taken place was already over.
Then he swung by the tattoo shop.
Good.
The woman—Mia Avila—seemed to be alone.
He parked in front of the building, killed the engine, and walked in.
She looked just as good as he remembered, with those big eyes and that thick brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Ample breasts filled a flimsy white tank top, seriously sexy. When she smiled, he just about melted. She would definitely do.
“Hey there,” she said, recognizing him. “Nash? Right?”
“Very good,” he said, remembering he had given her a fake name.
“Back for the other arm?”
“Actually, something better than that,” he said, pulling out his wallet and laying twenty hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “How would you like to earn that today?”
She counted it.
“That’s two thousand dollars,” she said.
He nodded.
“That it is.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“I have a friend up in Denver,” he said. “The guy’s got more money than God. I showed him my tattoo and he went nuts. He wants one just like it. He wants you to do it.”
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“Fine, tell him to come in.”
Draven shuffled. “Well, there’s this one small problem,” he said. “This guy doesn’t have time to be driving down here so he wants you to come to Denver. That’s what the money’s for.”
She pondered it.
And looked interested.
“When?” she asked.
“Now, if possible,” Draven said. “I’ll drive you up and bring you back. He’s got someone delivering some tattoo equipment so you don’t need to worry about that. Just bring the pattern and your hands.”
She picked up a pencil and twisted it in her fingers.
“You can bring your other body parts too,” he added.
She laughed, and said, “Men.”
Then set the pencil down.
“Okay,” she said. “Let me put this money in the safe first.”
She disappeared to the back, packed a bag with latex gloves and other small items, grabbed a bottle of
water, flipped the window sign to Closed, turned off the lights, and locked the door.
“You’re going to make his day,” Draven said.
“I need to be back by seven,” she said.
Draven loved the arid landscape on the stretch of not-much-but-road heading north out of Pueblo. Civilization hadn’t cluttered it up yet and, because there were hardly any trees, you could see the sagebrush-covered hills roll all the way to the mountains. Mia talked her head off as they drove, telling Draven story after story in that bubbly optimistic voice of hers, taking small sips of water every few minutes.
He didn’t mind the chatter.
She was bubble-gum for the brain.
It was almost a shame about what was going to happen to her.
She didn’t deserve it.
But who did?
They stopped at a rest area after they passed Monument Hill. He spiked her water while she used the facilities. By the time they reached Denver, she was asleep.
When they pulled up to the cabin, the beautifully desolate cabin, she was still out cold.
He carried her inside, chained her to the bed, played with her hair for a few moments, and pictured her dead.
25
DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY EVENING
Teffinger worked his ass off all day until eight o’clock. He felt like a three-legged, broke-dick dog that someone had entered into a horse race, but wasn’t too tired to walk down the stairs to the parking garage and point the Tundra toward Davica’s house.
Come over tonight. I have something to show you.
That’s what she’d said this morning and the words hadn’t left him all day.
He’d pretty much dismissed her as a viable suspect in the murder of Angela Pfeiffer as soon as they found the second body. Now, with four, he couldn’t picture her involved even in his wildest scenarios. And he certainly couldn’t get a mental image of her cutting someone’s head off with a hacksaw, or gouging someone’s eyes out.
Men use hacksaws.
Not women like Davica.
When he arrived, Davica answered the door wearing only a thin long-sleeve white blouse with rolled-up cuffs, barely long enough to cover the top of her thighs. She must have just showered because her hair hung wet. An expensive fragrance floated around her. When she hugged him, he hugged her back.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she said.
“How could I not?”
Two steps into the atrium, he found what she wanted to show him. The four pieces of modern art that had been on the walls were gone. In their stead hung four of Teffinger’s paintings.
“You like them?” she asked. “Apparently they’re done by some local guy.”
Teffinger smiled and walked over to the closest one, a twelve-by-sixteen landscape, looking up a hill into a clump of Ponderosa pines, backlit by an early morning sky. “I painted that one at Lair of the Bear,” he said. “I remember the wind kicking up halfway through it and almost driving me nuts.”
“So it’s plein air then?”
He nodded.
“Right. I’m not good enough for fancy air. Look right here,” he said, indicating.
She obliged.
He pointed out a small bug imbedded in the paint.
“There’s your proof,” he said.
“Very impressive, a painting with protein. You don’t charge extra for those, I hope,” she said.
He nodded. “Afraid so. Five bucks each.” He studied the background and found another one. “To support my coffee addiction. How’d you find out that I paint?”
“I know lots of stuff about you.” She linked her arm through his and led him off. “Come on.”
They ended up taking a walk through the neighborhood, carrying plastic glasses of wine, as a bright orange Colorado sunset hung over the mountains. Teffinger had a few questions to ask and knew if he didn’t get to them soon, he never would. “Just out of curiosity, where do you get your legal work done?”
“I stay away from lawyers for the most part.”
“Smart move,” Teffinger said. “Have you ever used Hogan, Slate & Dover for anything?”
She nodded.
“A minor matter, a couple of years back.” Teffinger tried to not appear surprised. He didn’t really expect to find a connection. “Why? Are you going to pump them for secrets about me?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Do you happen to know Rachel Ringer, of that firm?”
“Not that I recall—I basically only dealt with one of the senior partners, Jacqueline Moore. Why?”
He swallowed.
“She’s one of the bodies we came across,” he said. “Actually, we found her buried under Angela Pfeiffer.”
She stopped and studied his face.
“You found her under Angela?”
He nodded.
She looked confused.
“That is so freaky.”
He agreed.
“So you only dealt with that other lawyer, what’s her name?”
“Jacqueline Moore,” she said.
“Right, Jacqueline Moore.”
“Even that was fairly brief,” she said. “She has a pretty abrasive personality.”
“Is that the only connection you have to Rachel Ringer that you can think of?”
“Right,” she said. “Except I wouldn’t call it a connection.”
Teffinger sipped the wine.
The sunset, so spectacular just a few minutes ago, was already losing its intensity.
“How about Catherine Carmichael?” he asked. “Do you know her or have you ever heard of her?”
“No.”
“She was also found at the site,” Teffinger said.
“The only one I know is Angela,” she said.
“Okay.”
In another ten minutes, it would be dark. Up ahead, a sprinkler oscillated, shooting onto the sidewalk at the end of every arc. Teffinger paused while Davica ran through it. “Come on,” she said. “You can do it.”
So he did.
When he caught up, he had one more question. “I don’t suppose that you or Angela were ever part of any cult or gang or anything like that,” he said.
She gave him a startled look.
“Teffinger, you come up with the weirdest questions, I swear,” she said. “No, we weren’t. Now I have a question for you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And what might that be?”
She stopped and put her arms around his neck.
“When we get back to my place, are you going to screw me silly, or what?”
“To be honest,” he said, “it’s about the only thing I’ve been thinking about all day. But I can’t.”
She made a face.
“You’re such a tease,” she said.
He got serious.
“Believe me, it’s worse for me than you.”
She slapped his ass.
“I doubt that,” she said.
When they got back to her house, she uncorked another bottle of wine and they sat in front of the fireplace and talked until midnight. Then Teffinger retreated to the spare bedroom and tossed for ten minutes before falling asleep.
26
DAY FIVE–SEPTEMBER 9
FRIDAY MORNING
After a fitful night of twisting and shifting, Aspen woke early Friday morning to a cold and cloudy dawn. She didn’t have a job, but she did have her dignity. Who would hire her now, though, after being fired on her fourth day of work?
No one, that’s who.
Still, she wouldn’t take back her words last night even if she could. Maybe she didn’t have a paycheck or a career, but at least she could look in the mirror without disgusting herself.
She showered and ate cereal.
Then she headed to Einstein Bros and drank coffee alone at a table as she pondered her options. She remembered turning off her cell phone last night, pulled it out of her purse and powered it up.
She had a half-dozen voice messages.
“We need to talk.”
As soon as she erased the last message the phone rang. When she answered, Blake Gray’s voice came through. Before she could hang up, he said, “First, you’re not fired. Second, Jacqueline Moore was way out of bounds. Third, we need to talk and get this straightened out.”
She almost powered off but didn’t.
“Talk about what?”
“Last night, the future, everything,” he said. “Where are you?”
She told him.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”
She tried to warn him that he was wasting his time, but he had already hung up. So instead she got in her car and left.
When she got home, she changed her mind and went back. Blake Gray arrived three minutes later, wearing a wool-blend suit worth more than her entire wardrobe.
He hugged her around the shoulders and said, “Give me two minutes, I need coffee or I’m going to be cranky all day.” She nodded and felt queasy. Whatever happened in the next ten minutes would be a turning point.
He came back, sat down, and took a noisy slurp from the cup.
He looked good.
Powerful.
Yet compassionate.
She wished she had dressed in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Good stuff,” he said.
She muttered something and waited.
“First,” he said, “Jacqueline told me to tell you she’s sorry. She’ll tell you herself when you see her.” He lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, she’s a damn fine lawyer—one of the reasons the firm even exists, to be honest with you—but she also has her moments. Between you and me, I’m trying to keep her in the firm but she’s making it more and more difficult every day. I don’t know what’s going to happen, if this keeps up.”
Aspen sipped her coffee.
“It’s more than just her attitude,” she said. “I don’t understand why I was called into a meeting to begin with. It felt like the KGB had come to get me.”
He nodded and understood her viewpoint.
“Outsiders see big law firms as rock-solid institutions that have been there forever and always will be,” he said. “In reality we’re very fragile. Personalities, egos, money and a million other things take their toll every day. I know, because my primary responsibility as the head of the firm is to keep it healthy, so we can all make a living and pay our bills.”