“I have the money,” Jekker said, which was true.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy,” the voice said. “Now write down these directions—”
“No,” Jekker said. “You listen to my directions. Meet me at the Red Rocks Park Amphitheater at two o’clock. I’ll be sitting on the 20th row, which is nice and public. Neither one of us will be able to kill the other one. We’ll make the exchange face to face. That’s the only way I’m going to do it. Be sure you bring the pictures and don’t be late.”
Jekker flipped the phone closed.
There.
Done.
Now to see what happens.
FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE THE APPOINTED TIME, Jekker parked the rental in the lower lot, hiked up to the Amphitheater, walked up to the 20th row and sat down. A light wind shuffled black-bellied clouds in from the west, warning of possible rain this evening.
He sat down and faced the stage but kept the brown leather briefcase on his lap.
He didn’t look around.
Either the guy would come or he wouldn’t.
At exactly two o’clock a man walked down the rows from above and took a seat next to Jekker. He held an envelope.
“Nice day,” the man said.
Jekker recognized the voice.
It was the voice from the phone.
“I don’t know,” Jekker said. “It looks like rain.”
He turned and looked at his blackmailer—a skinhead covered with tattoos, about twenty or twenty-one, no more than 150 pounds. Jekker could grab the man’s throat with one hand and choke the life right out of him without even breaking a sweat.
“This was a good idea,” the man said. “Meeting in a public place and all.” He held his hand out to shake and said, “My name’s Paul.”
Jekker shook his hand and said, “Paul what?”
“Paul Youngfield.”
“Show me your driver’s license,” Jekker said.
“Why?”
“Because this whole thing is going to be even. You know where I live. Now I’m going to know where you live.”
The man grinned, unafraid, and slapped Jekker on the back.
“Sure, why not.”
Jekker studied the license.
Paul Youngfield.
Marion Street.
Denver.
“Did you bring the photographs?”
“We had a complication with the photographs.”
JEKKER FELT HIS CHEST TIGHTEN.
He did his best to not kill the man with his bare hands right then and there.
“What kind of complication?”
“Well, when I stole your car, I found them under the front seat,” the man said. “But I threw them out the window while I was driving down C-470. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I saw the picture of Tessa Blake in the Rocky Mountain News, that I realized who she was. I went back to get them but they were already gone.”
“You’re lying,” Jekker said.
“I’m not and the pictures don’t mean a rat’s ass anyway,” the skinhead said. “What you’re buying is my silence. Hell, even if I had the pictures and gave them to you, I could have made a hundred copies first. The actual pictures don’t mean squat. But since I don’t have them, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to cut the price in half.”
“Meaning fifty thousand,” Jekker said.
The skinhead nodded.
“I know who you are and now you know who I am,” the skinhead said. “What we’re going to do is both walk away from this a winner. You got a little sloppy and left the pictures in your car, but I’m giving you a chance to correct that mistake. I got a little lucky finding those pictures, but I’m not a greedy man. You give me the fifty thousand and you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll take this whole thing to my grave. Honor among thieves and all that.”
Jekker considered it.
“What did you do with my car?”
“We just rode around in it for a while,” the man said. “It’s parked on Clarkson Street, just north of Colfax.”
Jekker knew the location.
“So do we have a deal or not?” the skinhead asked.
Jekker opened the briefcase, kept the money hidden from stray eyes, counted out fifty thousand and gave it to the man.
Then they walked away in separate directions.
Jekker stopped and said over his shoulder, “You caught me in a good mood. Don’t catch me again because your luck won’t be as good.”
The man laughed, blew him a kiss and walked away.
JEKKER WALKED BACK TO HIS CAR, simultaneously relieved that it was over and infuriated that he let some punk steal his car, get his money and then blow him a kiss.
“You shouldn’t have done that kiss,” he muttered.
In any event he was now free, free to kill Tessa Blake and get on with his life.
59
Day Eight—June 18
Monday Afternoon
LONDON WAS TAKING AN ORDER at Cactus Dan’s from a man with two kids when her cell phone rang. She didn’t answer. Men with kids were the best tippers and she didn’t want to spoil it, so instead she let the phone ring and smiled at the man as if he were the most important person in the universe. After she got his order in the cook’s hand, she went to the restroom where the boss couldn’t see her, checked the missed number, didn’t recognize it and punched Call.
“Sarah Woodward,” a woman said.
London didn’t know the voice or the name.
The woman turned out to be one of the senior partners at Vesper & Bennett. “I’d like to meet with you and Ms. Devenelle if that’s possible.”
London looked at her watch.
3:30 p.m.
She was scheduled to work until 9:00 with a break at 5:00.
“When?”
“The sooner the better,” the woman said. “You name the time.”
“How about 5:15?”
“That’ll work just fine.”
“Subject to my client’s availability,” London added. “If you don’t hear back from me, we’ll be there.”
OF COURSE, LONDON GOT JAMMED UP with orders exactly when her break came up. She finally got out of the Eatery at ten after five, pulled off her apron and peddled the Trek as fast as she could through the rush hour mess into the heart of the city’s financial district.
When she arrived at the bottom of the elevator bank at 5:30, Venta was already waiting for her.
Pacing.
Nervous.
“We’re late,” Venta said.
“That’s okay, it’s their turn to cool their heels.”
On the elevator ride up, Venta pulled a brush from her purse and worked on London’s hair. Then she wiped a stray splash of mustard from London’s chin.
“There, all pretty again,” she said.
“Yeah, right,” London said. “Just point me to the beauty contest.”
Venta hugged her.
London wore jeans, a T-shirt and tennis shoes, none of which were exactly pristine. As she stepped off the elevator and pushed through the doors into the reception area of Vesper & Bennett, she felt more like someone arriving from a cleaning crew than an attorney about to have a meeting.
The receptionist was still at her post.
A surprise.
She smiled and waved as they walked towards her, then punched a button and said, “Sarah, your guests are here.”
Thirty seconds later a woman appeared.
SHE TURNED OUT TO BE A PLEASANT LOOKING WOMAN, about forty-five, dressed crisp and nice but not in-your-face expensive, with long brown hair that she tended to flick with her head.
London liked her immediately.
The woman smiled, introduced herself as Sarah Woodward, said “Thanks for coming,” and shook their hands warmly with both of hers.
They ended up in her office, a corner unit three times larger than it needed to be with incredible views of both the Rocky Mountains and the
city.
Diplomas hung on the wall.
Two from Brown.
One from Harvard.
A paperback book sat on her desk.
“I understand that you had a rather unpleasant meeting with Thomas Fog this morning,” she said. “I apologize for that. Tom’s an alpha-male. In this business that’s usually a good thing, but not always. I’m going to be heading things up for the firm from this point on.”
London nodded.
“Good.”
“This is a Rule 408 settlement negotiation, by the way,” Sarah added.
“Agreed.”
“Tom’s filled me in on all the details,” Sarah said. She leaned across the desk, patted Venta’s hand and said, “My heart goes out to you.”
Venta said nothing.
Her eyes were moist.
“Mark Remington is in Bangkok right now,” Sarah said. “We had a chance to talk to him this afternoon. He denies everything.” Sarah looked directly at Venta and said, “But I’m going to proceed at this point as if he’s lying. I’m going to assume that you’re telling the truth and that he really did do what you said he did.”
Venta looked grateful, as if someone besides London finally believed her.
“Thank you.”
Sarah patted her hand again.
“You’re welcome.” Then to London, “What we need right now is some time to investigate the matter. And I’m going to make a promise to you, right here and right now. If we find out that there are other women in Bangkok, and that they’re still alive, we will find a way to get their freedom and bring them back to the United States. We’ll do that whether or not Mark Remington was involved, simply because it’s the right thing to do and we’re positioned as well as anyone else to get it done. Is that fair?”
Both London and Venta nodded.
“In the meantime,” Sarah said, “we ask that you hold off on any lawsuit. Is that fair too?”
Yes.
It was.
They shook hands.
“I’m going to keep you informed every step of the way,” Sarah added.
OUTSIDE, AN RTD BUS THREW A PLUME OF DIESEL at them. They backed out of it and Venta asked, “So what do you think? Do you trust her?”
“Right now, yes,” London said. “At least enough to hold off on filing a formal lawsuit.”
“So are you going to give her Rebecca Vampire’s name, like she wants?”
London nodded.
“I’m going to talk it over with her sister first,” London said. “If she says okay, then I will.”
“She’ll definitely say okay if there’s even one chance in hell that Rebecca can actually be found alive,” Venta said.
London nodded.
She knew that.
“But if all this is just another layer of lies and deceit, and Rebecca Vampire is actually located alive, she’ll be killed so the firm won’t ever have to worry about her dragging them down.” London looked at Venta. “It all comes down to whether Sarah Woodward is being honest or not.”
“We almost have to assume she is,” Venta said, “because if Rebecca Vampire is actually alive, it isn’t by much in any event.”
“Agreed.”
60
Day Eight—June 18
Monday Afternoon
PRIOR TO LUNCH WITH VENTA TODAY, Teffinger had two curious connections to Bangkok: the pilot, Alan English, returned from Bangkok the night he got stabbed to death in his bedroom; and the Frenchman’s target, Mark Remington, recently boarded an airplane to Bangkok.
Now he had even more connections.
Serious connections.
Namely Venta got enslaved there.
And Mark Remington abused her during that enslavement.
The freak.
In some sick twisted way everything was intertwined. It had to be. But the more Teffinger tried to figure out how, the further away he seemed from an answer.
MID-AFTERNOON, HE FILLED A THERMOS with decaf and headed over to the D.A.’s office. Clay Pitcher, Esq., a man with a barrel chest and yellow cigar teeth, looked up from his desk when Teffinger walked in and closed the door behind him. Clay used to be a tireless prosecutor but now had half an eye on retirement. Still, he could get riled up and cross swords with the best of them when he got motivated enough.
Six apples sat on his desk.
“What’s with the fruit?” Teffinger questioned.
Clay rolled his eyes.
“The wife keeps putting them in my lunch,” he said. “She says they’re good for me.”
“But you don’t eat them?”
“No. I hate apples.”
“So why don’t you tell your wife to not pack them anymore?”
“Because she thinks I’m eating them.”
“But you’re not.”
“Right, but she thinks I am. That translates to less flak when I eat a cookie or something like that.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
Clay shrugged.
“I don’t know. You want ’em?”
Sure.
Why not?
Then Teffinger told him about Venta’s enslavement in Bangkok and the fact that a Denver attorney named Mark Remington paid her a visit in Bangkok, a very rough visit. “My question is this,” Teffinger said. “Can we bring charges against the lawyer here in Denver? For assault or rape or something?”
Clay scratched his head.
“I haven’t come across a situation like this before, where one American assaults another one in a foreign country,” he said. “I’d have to dig into it a little. My gut tells me no, but like I said, let me do the research. The bigger problem is this—even if the U.S. courts have jurisdiction, there’s no proof. It’s a he-said she-said case. No judge in his right mind is going to let it get to a jury.”
“Thanks. Keep this conversation private, especially the part about what happened to Venta.”
Clay pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips.
Teffinger scooped up the apples and headed for the door.
“Teffinger, wait a minute,” Clay said.
He stopped and turned.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You mean like put on a ski mask some dark night and beat the life out of Remington myself?”
Clay shrugged.
“Yeah, that.”
“It never crossed my mind,” Teffinger said. “Thanks again for the apples.”
HE DROVE BACK TO HEADQUARTERS with the radio on, getting a string of good songs—“Hungry Like the Wolf,” “Beat It,” “Like a Rolling Stone.” Halfway through yet another good one—“Cheeseburger in Paradise”—a disturbing thought entered his brain.
If Mark Remington visited Venta in Bangkok, maybe the pilot—Alan English—did too.
Maybe Venta somehow traced him to Denver and then killed him for doing whatever it was that he did to her.
He pulled up a picture of Venta hiding in the dark in English’s bedroom and then stabbing a knife into his back, again and again and again.
61
Day Eight—June 18
Monday Afternoon
JEKKER WAS FEELING GOOD, better than good, actually. Everything was falling into place. Porter Potter was dead. The blackmailer was history—at least short-term. And Tessa Blake would be dead by midnight.
Yeah, baby.
He went to Clarkson Street and found the Audi parked where the blackmailer said it would be. The passenger window had been busted in with a rock and a slew of wires had been pulled out from under the dash. Otherwise the vehicle was in good shape. He had it towed to the Audi dealership on Broadway, greased the guy behind the counter fifty dollars to get it fixed by the end of the day, and picked it up shortly before six.
There.
Another issue resolved.
Bethany called while he was driving up Highway 74 through Bear Creek Canyon. “Come by the club tonight,” she said.
“Sure.”
“Really?”
&
nbsp; “Yeah.”
“You promise?”
He did.
“Will you take me home, afterwards?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
“Then done deal.”
“I’m horny as hell,” she said.
“Good. Stay that way.”
“You’re not messing with me about taking me home, are you?”
“No.”
“Because I’m going to take a cab to the club, if you’re going to take me home.”
“Do it.”
“Okay but I’ll be really bent if you don’t show up.”
“Relax,” he said. “I won’t let you down but I probably won’t get there until about midnight. Is that guy still stalking you?”
“I don’t know, I’ve been sleeping all day.”
AT THE BOXCARS, Jekker let Tessa Blake cook supper—a simple chili with ground meat, kidney beans, onions and celery. They ate outside on the deck stairs as a westerly wind pushed increasingly darker clouds across the sky.
“I’ve made up my mind,” Jekker said. “I’m going to let you go. But remember, no cops—ever.”
She studied his face.
Searching for a trick.
“Really?”
“Yes really.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
She hugged him and he hugged her back.
An expression washed over her face that actually made Jekker jealous. He couldn’t remember ever being as happy as she was at this moment.
Later he had her take three sleeping pills.
“Just to keep you relaxed,” he said. “When you wake up you’ll be somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know yet exactly. I have to play it by ear. You’ll be safe though, so don’t worry about it. Remember, no cops.”
“Don’t worry.”
SHORTLY BEFORE DARK, he put her sleeping body in the trunk of the Audi and headed down the road.
Soon she’d be dead.
Her body would never be found.
Jekker would be at the club getting drunk by midnight.
It started to rain, a drizzle at first, then heavy.
Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Page 17
