by R. J. Jagger
“Teff, your weakness is women and it always will be. We both know that. But this time you’ve gone too far.”
“How do you figure?”
“Sleeping with her? It’s against every rule in the book.”
Teffinger disagreed.
“She’s not part of anything,” he said.
“She’s a witness,” she said.
“How? By seeing out of someone’s eyes? Try getting that in evidence in a court of law.”
“She’s a suspect,” Sydney said.
“How?”
“Stop it Teffinger,” she said. “Stop making excuses. However this case turns out, you’ve probably already blown it by sleeping with her.”
“There is no case,” he said.
“Then what do you call Station?”
“Station’s fine,” he said. “There’s no crime involving her. The only possible case at play here involves Tarzan. He’s already wanted. I could sleep with a million women and that wouldn’t get him off the hook.”
Sydney stood up.
“Rein yourself in,” she said. “And don’t come looking to me again for approval. You’re not going to get it. What you’re doing isn’t okay and I’m not going to say it is.”
She left.
Ten seconds later she was back.
“And while we’re at it,” she said, “laying in wait for Tarzan last night without telling anyone and without backup wasn’t very smart.”
“He would have seen backup,” Teffinger said. “Going alone was our only shot.”
She shook her head in disagreement.
“You had a civilian there too,” she said. “You better stop and think about your actions because you’re way over the line.”
Then she was gone.
Ten seconds later she didn’t come back.
He slumped back in the chair, alone, listening to the hum of the ceiling vent. When his phone rang he almost didn’t answer, not needing yet a third thing to bite him. A woman’s voice came through, one with a thick Caribbean accent.
“My name’s Poppy and I’m with the CIA down here in Haiti,” she said. “Leigh Sandt wanted me to give you a call. She said you need some information on a voodoo ritual that took place back in February during Karnaval.”
“That’s right. I appreciate your calling. Thank you.”
“I’m not promising anything other than I’ll sniff around to the extent I can,” she said. “Tell me exactly what it is that you’re looking for.”
He did.
He wanted to know if it was true that a Jamaican woman by the name of Kovi-Ke was abducted and subjected to a voodoo ritual. If so, what happened during that ritual and more importantly who was behind it?
“This is going to sound stupid but is it possible to get cursed so that you see through someone else’s eyes?”
“Yes.”
The answer was without hesitation and wasn’t what he expected.
“You really believe that?”
“It’s not a matter of what I believe,” she said. “It’s a matter of what actually happens. That would be an extreme case but it wouldn’t be impossible.”
“I don’t understand how.”
“I appreciate the skepticism,” she said. “I was where you are ten years ago. I’ll be honest with you; voodoo is not something I like to get around. It’s dangerous. It always knows that you’re there before you know it is. I’ll try to find out what you want but it might take some time.”
“I understand.”
“One more thing,” she said. “Appreciate that Leigh pulled out a stop for you. This isn’t the kind of thing we normally do.”
“I won’t forget her, or you,” he said.
“I’ll be in touch. Don’t try to contact me, even through Leigh. When I get something I’ll contact you. If I can’t get anything I’ll let you know that too. Either way I’ll be in touch at some point.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Wait, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I almost forgot to tell you, there’s a guy called Tarzan who might be involved in all this. I have a full file on him.”
“Send it to me through Leigh.”
17
Day Three
June 6
Friday Morning
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that’s what everyone said. Teffinger didn’t know which side of that equation Kovi-Ke fell on, but either way there was only one option. He dialed her and said, “Where are you?”
“A café across from Station’s work.”
“You’re staking her out?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there. I’m coming over.”
He made the trip on foot in ten minutes, finding the woman at a table near the window with a cup of coffee waiting for him. He slid in, took a sip and said, “I’ll be honest, I don’t know if you killed Alley Savannah or not. I’m not going to lie to you. I owe you that much.”
She shrugged.
“That’s your dilemma, not mine.”
“I had a crazy thought after you left this morning,” he said. “Maybe you did it and you’re blocking it out.”
She shook her head.
“You just won’t let it go, will you?”
“It happens,” he said. “It’s a psychological defense mechanism. Has anything like that ever happened to you, you know, where you found out after the fact that you did something but had no recollection of it?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She exhaled.
“I should never have told you that I’d been to the Blackbird. I thought we had a bond and that you trusted me. I thought I could open up.”
“You can,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m taking this guy down with or without you,” she said. “I don’t care if you don’t help, but don’t get in the way.”
Teffinger took a sip.
“Alright, let’s do this,” he said. “About ten times now you were going to tell me about some of the other killings. Tell me now. I’ll see if I can run them down and figure out who they are, just like with Alley Savannah. If it turns out you have a good alibi for any one of them, then I’ll know you’re telling the truth. You still don’t have an alibi for Alley, right?”
“From two years ago? Nothing that I remember as I sit here—”
“It was summer,” Teffinger said. “Maybe you were doing a dive. Would there be papers, you know, a dive log or credit card receipts or something like that?”
“We’re pretty loose on that kind of stuff but I could check when I get back to Jamaica,” she said. “Right now I’m more interested in saving Station than trying to convince you of anything.”
Teffinger nodded.
“Tell me about the other murders.”
The woman retreated in thought—possibly deciding whether anything she said could be used against her?—and said, “I think I might know about three others, besides Alley Savannah. Like I said before, I don’t think I was there in real time. I think he was thinking about them after the fact and that’s what flashed over to me, visions in his memory.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, for one of them, there was a woman on the floor, laying face down on an oriental rug, a blond woman, youngish, early 20s or thereabouts, not moving, in an awkward position and looking very dead,” she said.
“Did you see her face?”
“No, it was covered by her hair. I did see something else though. She had on black panties and that was all. So her back showed. She had a large tattoo back there.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t remember it that clearly,” she said. “It was big and had a lot of color. It could have been a phoenix rising from the ashes, or possibly a dragon, something like that. Here’s the funny part. Remember with Alley Savannah, where the guy wrote on a piece of paper? Well, he did the same thing here, only he didn’t put
it in the body.”
“What’d he write?”
“If I recall right, it was the letters N O I Z.”
“N O I Z?”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“There was a whole wall filled with bookshelves and books,” she said. “I actually think they were in a home library or study or something like that. Anyway, he reached up to the top shelf, pulled out a book, opened it, stuck the paper inside, and put the book back.”
“What was the name of the book?”
“I didn’t see a name.”
“What color was it?”
“Red.”
“A hardcover?”
“I think so. I don’t recall it being flimsy.”
She hesitated as if reaching for more and not getting it.
“What else do you remember?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m surprised I remember that much to tell you the truth.”
“Where were you when you had the vision?”
“Diving.”
“Like before?”
“Yes.”
“Same place?”
She nodded.
Teffinger looked around.
“N O I Z,” he said. “If it’s an acronym for something it’s not one I’m familiar with.”
“I Googled it and there’s a Japanese cartoon rock band with that name,” she said. “They supposedly play real energetic music. If that means something it’s way beyond me.”
“Maybe IZ means EYES,” Teffinger said. “Same sound.”
“So, no eyes?”
“Right.”
Kovi-Ke’s face tensed.
“Maybe she could see through his eyes the same way I can now,” she said. “Maybe that’s the reason he killed her. No eyes—he didn’t want someone else’s eyes seeing through his.”
“We’re getting way ahead of ourselves.”
She looked at him, deeply, and said, “I’m next.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Maybe he’s not after Station at all,” she said. “Maybe he’s just pretending to be after her to lure me here. No eyes then, no eyes now.”
18
Day Three
June 6
Friday Afternoon
The thought of Tarzan being close enough to bring down sent bark and bite into Teffinger’s brain. It made him hop in the Tundra and point the front bumper towards the man’s lair to see if he could figure out what was so important to risk a trip back to Denver. En route, he called Leigh Sandt, thanked her for tapping her CIA contact in Haiti, Poppy, and asked her for yet one more favor, namely to help him identify the back-tattoo victim, if indeed there was such a person.
“Hey, I have a good idea Mr. Nick-Man,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Why don’t I come to Denver and set up shop right at your desk so you don’t have to bother with all these pesky little long-distance phone calls.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I know better than anyone that I wore my welcome out a long time ago. I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, at least you’re putting a lot of thought into it.” She chuckled and said, “Blond, big tattoo, black panties, Oriental rug. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m also going to figure out what you can do to pay me back. I’ll let you know what it is.”
He smiled.
“Any chance it will involve Little Nicky?”
“None.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He hung up and called Station to make sure she was okay and keeping her security guys close. She was; still reporting for work and sleeping at her loft, but otherwise laying low exactly as Teffinger suggested. She said, “When this is over, I want you to take me out and get me drunk, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Tarzan’s place was huge, four stories and filled with shadows, not to mention it had long ago been thoroughly combed by both Denver forensics and the FBI. Finding something new would be problematic at best, unless Tarzan had left fresh scratches. Armed with a 4-battery flashlight, Teffinger set to work starting on the top floor, looking for ductwork that had been cut open, cinderblocks that had been chiseled out, or whatever.
The going was slow.
Then it got slower.
Then it stopped.
Nothing showed up; not a single little iota of anything.
It could be that he was just missing it. It could also be that Tarzan didn’t come back to Denver for anything tangible. He came back for Station and decided to taunt Teffinger in the process.
His phone rang and Kovi-Ke’s voice came through, sounding like she just stepped off a roller coaster. “Nick, he left Denver. He’s heading west, driving on an interstate, I-70 I think.”
“How do you know?”
“His eyes. I had a flash. He’s given up on Station. He’s going after someone new.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know that, or where,” she said. “From what I figure, he spotted you or me or both of us on his tail—probably me. Plus, Station was suddenly running around glued to two bodyguards. He knew something was up and decided to cut his losses.”
Teffinger’s blood raced.
“Where are you? I’ll pick you up,” he said.
“I’m driving. I’m out of Denver.”
“Tell me you’re not chasing him.”
Silence.
Then she said, “You take care of yourself, Nick.”
The line died.
He dialed back.
She didn’t answer.
He threw a stray piece of rebar against the wall with every ounce of strength in his body. It landed with a dull thud and dropped unceremoniously to the floor.
19
Day Three
June 6
Friday Afternoon
Against all better judgment, Teffinger worked the Tundra over to I-70 and headed west into the ever-elevating and looming Rockies, not calling anybody, not yet, not until he gave himself a chance to come to his senses and get his posterior back to Denver where it belonged.
His senses didn’t come.
He called Sydney.
“I’m pretty sure Kovi-Ke rented a car, maybe earlier but probably sometime today. Find out from where. Get the make and model and license number and find out if it has a GPS. If it does, I want to know where it’s at, and I want to be able to track it in real time.”
“Why?”
“She bolted,” he said. “She’s heading west out of Denver.”
“Why?”
“She’s following the killer.”
Sydney snickered.
“In that case she’s following herself,” she said. “She was feeling your heat and decided to cut her loses. Either that or she’s luring you out of Denver so that Tarzan can do whatever it is that he’s got planned.”
Teffinger didn’t disagree.
The thoughts had already been ricocheting like a diseased bullet inside his skull.
“The GPS,” he said. “That’s critical. Call me the second you have something.”
The miles clicked off.
The mountains got bolder, taller, steeper, more rugged, more able to kill anyone who ventured off the trodden path. Traffic thinned and turned into a rhythm of swinging around 18-wheelers and RVs. He kept the radio off; not wanting to miss a single sane thought that might stray into his brain.
Every five minutes he dialed Kovi-Ke.
Every five minutes she didn’t answer.
Then his phone rang.
He expected her voice but got a different one, one that belonged to the Haiti agent, Poppy. “I don’t have much so far but I have a little,” she said. “The voodoo night was real and, even as things like that go, brutal. Three women were abducted that nig
ht. They were targeted at Karnaval. Someone was passing out free bottled water. The ones they got were spiked. Kovi-Ke was the only one to make it out alive. The other two were sacrificed.”
“Killed?”
“Yes,” she said.
“So why’d they let Kovi-Ke go?”
“Unknown.”
“Who orchestrated it?”
“Again unknown,” she said. “I’m getting the information from people who know people who know people. When the question comes up as to who was behind it all, that’s when things get real quiet. Either people don’t know or are afraid to say. I’m going to keep digging but the easy part’s over and, to tell you the truth, it might all be over.”
“Don’t give up.”
“Never have but I’m also a realist,” she said. “I’ll be in touch either way.”
He passed Idaho Springs and Georgetown, made a pit stop at the restrooms at Vail Pass, and charged farther West, past Vail and ever closer to Grand Junction and the western slope, looking into every car he came upon in hopes that Kovi-Ke was behind the wheel.
She never was.
The FBI profiler called.
“Back tattoo and black panties,” she said. “They belong to Lachey Silk, age 25, murdered six months ago on January eighth, in New York City. Check your emails, I just sent you a photo of her. Ironically, she’s your type; pretty, blond, the whole package. The detective in charge is a guy named Jack Canyon.”
“No relation to Grand, I assume.”
“No. Jack’s a lot smaller. Here’s his number—”
Teffinger checked his emails and opened the JPEG attachment. Leigh Sandt was right; the victim was his type, not that it had any relevance to anything.
Jack Canyon had a few interesting things to say when Teffinger called him. Lachey Silk, a fashion designer, a stunning little blond fashion designer to be precise, had been out clubbing the night she got murdered and had a lot of cocaine in her body to prove it. Her demise came by way of a knife to the heart, three times, abandoned in place on number three, apparently not needed for number four. There were the usual suspects—boyfriends, past and present, and girlfriends, past and present, and the people she’d been around earlier in the evening, plus someone she might have been blackmailing—but none were running to the front of the line.
