Caribbean Hustle (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
Page 1
CARIBBEAN
HUSTLE
R.J. Jagger
1
Four Months Before it all Began
Port-au-Prince, Haiti
February, Karnaval
Twilight washed over Haiti with an evil beat, cloaking Port-au-Prince in ever-deepening shadows and drumming the streets and sins and sounds and smells and gyrations of Karnaval to an even edgier level. In another half hour it would be full dark and that was fine with Kovi-Ke. That’s when the senses sharpened, the men went on the hunt and the women got wicked. That’s when things that shouldn’t happen did.
That’s when life became alive.
Dancers, music, floats, hands in the air, bodies shaking, smiles too big for faces, brains on fire, hormones over the edge, an out-of-control bonfire attitude—that’s what Karnaval was. It would go on until every wanton soul got its fill and the whole crazy thing imploded of its own exhaustion on Fat Tuesday.
Although she was born and raised and lived in Jamaica a mere puddle jump away, this was Kovi-Ke’s first encounter with it, in fact her first visit to Haiti. Twenty-seven, with a friendly smile and a strong body toned by sand sprinting and coral diving, she was well equipped to take advantage of everything it had to offer.
Right now she was solo.
Tomorrow Rea would fly in and then the party would start in earnest.
She bought a bottle of water from a street vender and twisted through the crowd deeper into the guts of the city, looking for a bar or club where she could sit down and see who approached her. If the right man did, well, that would be fine; or the right woman.
Life was for living.
The bodies were thick around her, hot and sweaty and full of energy. Pot hung in the air. Hands held red solo cups, filled with beer or wine or rum or whatever. Several blocks up ahead a group belted out Reggae on a large stage of flashing lights and thundering bass. They must be good because the crowd was jammed in for blocks.
She headed that way.
Halfway there something happened she didn’t expect.
Her brain clouded.
Her feet wobbled.
She was on the verge of collapse.
Suddenly a man was by her side, a strong man with a heavily tattooed right arm, a rugged face and long black dreadlocks.
“Pretty lady, are you okay?”
Before she could say, “Yes,” her legs collapsed.
The man caught her before she hit the ground.
Then everything turned black.
2
Four Months Later
Day One
June 4
Wednesday Evening
In his garage after dark Wednesday night, Nick Teffinger, the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide department, did one of his favorite things in the world, namely sat behind the wheel of the ’67 and stared through the windshield as a wicked storm ripped the sky with lightning and did its best to tear the world apart. It was a good scene, an ancient one. Dinosaurs had seen it, so had pharaohs and gladiators and the little birds that fought for breadcrumbs down on the 16th Street Mall, that were right now huddled wherever it was that they went to at a time like this.
Two Buds were in his gut and a third was in his hand.
He lived on the side of Green Mountain up near the top where the asphalt stopped, third house from the end. Traffic was minimal so it was unusual when headlights punched up the street through the weather. It was even more unusual when they pulled in front of his house and went out.
The driver got out, hunched against the weather and trotted up the driveway for the front door.
It was a woman, a black woman.
Teffinger shouted, “I’m in here.”
She entered the garage, saw where he was and said, “Are you Nick Teffinger?”
The words were broken English, Jamaican maybe.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Kovi-Ke Gray,” she said. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. Do I know you?”
“No.”
She hopped in and came into better focus. Her face was nice, her body was strong; down below were simple jeans and up top was a white T, a short one that let her bellybutton show.
“You want some wine or a beer?”
“No. Do you mind if I smoke though?”
He shrugged.
“Go for it.”
She lit up, not a cigarette, a joint, taking a deep drag, holding it in and then passing it to him. He hesitated, then took it and did the same.
“A man’s in Denver,” she said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name but he’s going to kill someone named Station Smith,” she said. “I warned her but she thought I was crazy.”
“Why?”
“Because the way I know, I can see through his eyes.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I get flashes,” she said. “It’s like I’m him, looking out of his eyes. I see what he sees. What I saw was him stalking her.”
Teffinger shook his head.
“Lady, you’re pretty, I’ll give you that—”
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” she said. “Even I don’t believe me. What’s happening isn’t possible. There’s no explanation for it. All I can tell you is it’s true.”
Teffinger frowned.
“Nothing like that can happen,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Station Smith, she works at Channel 8.” She took another drag, passed the joint to Teffinger and got out. “I’m staying at the Sheraton downtown.”
Then she was gone.
3
Day Two
June 5
Thursday Morning
Teffinger woke before the sun Thursday morning, threw on sweats and headed out into the crisp dark air for a three-mile run. The exotic little beauty, Kovi-Ke, ricocheted inside his skull as the streetlights clicked off and the neighborhood dogs barked their little warnings. What she said wasn’t true. No one could see out of another person’s eyes. So, why was her pretty little kissable mouth claiming she could?
What was her game?
Whatever it was, it came in a nice package; a package he wouldn’t mind unwrapping. He could spend a week in a secluded lagoon with her, no problem; get rum in his gut and put the world on hold, hell, throw it away for that matter—never come back.
The Sheraton.
He’d find himself down there at some point today for some reason, even if he had to make one up; he already knew that. First though, he wanted to talk to Station Smith, the supposed target, arguably to be sure nothing weird was going on in her life, but just as equally because it was an opportunity to meet her. Half of the male population of Denver had a crush on her. In his honest moments, which luckily weren’t many, Teffinger would have to admit he was a part of that group. Station Smith came onto the scene two years ago as the Channel 8 weather announcer and, since that day, storms had never looked so good.
A phone call and explanation got him an appointment with her mid-morning at the TV station, in a large lobby area overlooking Civic Park, replete with coffee. Abstract art hung on the wall, looking like a car had slammed into it at a freaky speed. The woman turned out to be a good size, five-eight or thereabouts to Teffinger’s six-two. With no makeup and slightly ruffled hair she looked like health itself, a surfer girl maybe, the kind that got the Beach Boys all riled up and made them write songs.
“Your eyes are two different colors,” Station said.
He nodded.
“Either the blue one’s supposed to b
e green or the green one’s supposed to be blue,” he said. “I’ve never figured out which. Tell me about the Jamaican woman.”
Her face grew serious.
“Am I in danger?”
“You tell me.”
“No.”
“Does anyone have a reason to kill you?”
“No. You can’t be taking any of this seriously.”
“Even a little?”
She tightened her brow. “I get emails, we all do. Some of them get a little weird. The really strange ones we run down just to be sure a real life boogieman isn’t on the other side. That doesn’t happen often and nothing too serious has ever taken shape.”
“Has anyone been following you around?”
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” She took a sip of coffee, stared over the edge and said, “Send your application in.”
He smiled.
“Can I get better weather that way?”
“Not on the first date.”
He smiled.
The more she talked, the less Teffinger found anything to be worried about. No crazies were in her life, she hadn’t witnessed a murder or come across sensitive information, she didn’t owe anyone money, she didn’t do drugs, she didn’t know the Jamaican woman prior to being approached yesterday, she didn’t have a dungeon in her basement, or even a basement for that matter; she was just a surfer girl living a surfer life under a sky full of rays.
He handed her his business card and said, “If you see anyone following you, call me. If you see the Jamaican woman again, call me. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“I’m going to go back to the office now and start working on that application.”
She handed him her card.
“That’s my cell number. Call me when it’s done.”
4
Day Two
June 5
Thursday Morning
Outside, the Denver sun went straight to Teffinger’s brain and put a spring in his step. Station was interested in him, at least to the point of initial curiosity. She could end up being a big part of his life if he wanted her badly enough and made a serious play for her. She made sense on almost every level and was built of long-term material. He could make little Teffs and be a happy guy. Still, when he closed his eyes, the deep nasty part of his brain gyrated to Kovi-Ke. He kept getting an image of slamming her against the wall and taking her like the devil himself.
Why?
He needed to kill that thought.
The woman made no sense, not on any level other than physical, not to mention that she was deep adrift in some kind of dark game.
Suddenly something happened he didn’t expect. He spotted the woman; a distance away and cloaked behind oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap and baggy clothes, but it was her. He already knew the body and the posture and the way she tilted her head slightly to the left.
He headed that way.
His heart raced.
“Are you waiting for Station to come out?”
“Yes.”
“Why, do you have something else to tell her?”
“No. I want to see who follows her.”
“And then what?”
“Then I’ll know whose eyes I’m seeing through.”
Teffinger shifted his feet.
“Tell me about that, how you see through his eyes.”
“I thought you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t but tell me anyway,” he said. “Maybe I’ll change my mind.”
She studied him and saw it there in his eyes, the fact that he’d never change his mind. She also saw that he wasn’t patronizing her. He really did want to hear what was going on with her.
“I get flashes,” she said. “They’re there in my brain all of a sudden, sort of like in a peripheral way. It’s not like I suddenly stop seeing through my own eyes. I don’t. They’re more like a thought and the more I concentrate on them the clearer they get.”
“How long do they last?”
She shrugged.
“Ten seconds up to a minute or two; never very long.”
“How often do you get them?”
“There’s no pattern,” she said. “I’ve had as many as a dozen in a week and other times nothing for weeks on end.”
“Are they in real time?”
“I don’t know for sure. I think some are in real time or close to real time and others aren’t. Let me give you an example. On Saturday he came into my head. He was driving a car. It was twilight and the sun was in front of him, meaning he was heading west. He was on a freeway but the traffic was minimal.”
“What else?”
“He was listening to the radio.”
“What kind of music?”
“Some kind of alternative thing. Have you ever heard The Cure?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“Friday I’m in Love.”
“Yeah, I know that song. It was something like them.”
“Was it them?”
“It could have been. The point is that he came into my head on Saturday evening driving a car, heading west. The next time he came into my head was a little before noon on Monday. He was following a woman; stalking her, there was no doubt. She was a blond wearing a white skirt and a white blouse and carrying a yellow purse. She was headed for a large building that said TV 8 near the entrance.”
“Where she works.”
She nodded.
“I was able to figure out that he was in Denver. I flew here Tuesday. Yesterday morning I kept the building under surveillance until a blond with a yellow purse showed up. I intercepted her and asked her if she was wearing a white skirt and white blouse on Monday. She said she was. I told her she was being stalked. You know the rest.”
“Interesting.”
She tightened her brow.
“You don’t believe me.”
Teffinger shifted his feet.
“Do you still have your plane ticket?”
She pulled it out of her purse.
It was legitimate, a one-way ticket for Kovi-Ke Gray from Jamaica to New York and a second from New York to Denver. She also had registration papers for the Sheraton, checking in Tuesday night.
He handed them back.
“Where were you Monday when you had the vision?”
“Jamaica. Underwater, diving. I own a dive shop in Montego Bay called the Ugly Tuna. I was escorting four divers when the vision came. We were in the Throne Room, actually.”
“What’s that?”
“The Throne Room? It’s an underwater cavern about sixty-five feet down. The walls are covered with yellow sponges and coral. You get to it through a crack in the reef about eight feet wide. There’s a large elephant ear sponge on the bottom that looks like a throne.”
Teffinger pictured it and winced.
“Sounds claustrophobic.”
“It’s not for everyone. You need to be wired for it, which is why I usually take it, that and the Widowmaker’s Cave, where you enter eighty feet down and then come up and out through a ten-foot-wide chimney. Or you can go the other direction, although that’s not my preference. I have other divers who work for me that primarily only take groups to the City that Sank.”
“Which is what?”
“You’re not a diver, are you?”
“Not exactly.”
“The City that Sank is the old Port Royal,” she said. “It used to be a pirate hub way back in the day, frequented by the likes of Anne Bonney and Mary Read. Pirates congregated there from as far away as Madagascar. In 1692 an earthquake destroyed the city and caused about two-thirds of it to sink into the sea, including several pirate ships. It’s a relatively open dive if you want it to be, so you don’t have to be as experienced to do it. It’s my bread and butter.”
“So you have people who work for you?”
“We have three boats and several dive leaders,” she said. “We’re in negotiations with the government to harvest the pirate sh
ips I told you about.”
“So, archeological work?”
“If it pans out.”
The sunshine hammered down.
“I need coffee,” he said. “You want some?” She hesitated. “Don’t worry about Station. She won’t be out for at least a couple of hours.”
5
Day Two
June 5
Thursday Morning
They ended up down at the BNSF switchyard, sitting on the tailgate of his Tundra with a thermos of coffee and disposable cups in hand. The clanging of couplers and the power of the engines were their wind chimes. Teffinger pointed to a nearby building, an abandoned, boarded-up four-story brick job, and said, “A guy named Tarzan used to live there.”
“Who was he?”
“A guy with ambition, but not the right kind. More the kind that gets you dead.”
“He’s dead?”
“No but he will be someday. I like to come here now and then to remind myself he’s still walking the earth.” He took a long sip and said, “So how do you know this guy’s a killer? Have you seen him actually kill anyone?”
“No but I’ve seen his handiwork.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
She retreated in thought.
Her face grew tense.
“A woman was lying on the ground on her back,” she said. “She wasn’t moving. Her stomach was exposed and he was staring at it—meaning I was staring at it through his eyes. It wasn’t moving, the way it would be if she were breathing. It was totally and absolutely still.”
“So she looked dead.”
“No, not looked, was,” she said. “What happened next is that he wrote something on a piece of paper. I saw his hands in front of him as if they were my own. They were wearing latex gloves.”
“What’d he write? Did you see?”
“Yes. He was using a pencil. He wrote, 16 Weeks. He did it in block lettering, not his normal handwriting, real slow, as if forcing himself to not use his usual writing. What happened next is the freaky part.”
“Why, what happened?”
“He folded the paper until it was only about two inches long,” she said. “Then he rolled it up until it was shaped like a cigarette, and he put it inside a glass vial about three inches long. He screwed a cap on. Then he cut a slit in the woman’s stomach and shoved the vial in.” She exhaled. “That’s when my vision stopped.”