Hit List (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  “So what are you saying, that white guys can’t fight?”

  “No, no,” Jackson said, “White guys fight just fine.” Then added, “In fact, in my humble opinion, every bit as good as they dance.”

  Teffinger smiled.

  “Oh, so now white guys can’t dance, either?”

  “No, no,” Jackson said, “White guys can dance real good. In fact, as good as they play basketball.”

  Teffinger grinned.

  “So what you’re saying, if I have this right, is that a white guy in a fight is a lot like a black guy on a polo field.”

  Jackson slapped Teffinger on the back.

  “Yeah, there you go, now you’re starting to get the picture.”

  Teffinger turned his attention back to the bodies, wanting to burn the scene into his mind before things got crazy. A baseball cap lay on the ground and a Crime Lab Detective by the name of Liberman was in the process of putting a photo marker by it. About a foot away lay a long screwdriver. The side window had been jimmied open, no doubt with the screwdriver; you could see the gouges in the wood. It was a garden-variety break-in. Maybe the white guy was part of it, and it turned ugly for some reason—wait, no, not with Crips. Maybe he was just some poor slob passing by, finding himself in hero mode and now wrapped up in a double homicide. Or maybe he was someone with a score to settle and took an unexpected opportunity. Both of the dead men were a good size and in their primes, probably no older than twenty-two or twenty-three. They weren’t the kind to go down easy.

  He looked around for weapons but didn’t find any.

  There didn’t appear to be any blood on the screwdriver or stab wounds on the bodies.

  Someone had beaten them to death with his bare hands.

  A white guy.

  One white guy.

  It was a good forty-five minutes before he finally got a chance to sit down with the person who had been home when the killings occurred. She turned out to be Megan Bennett, a young woman bravely struggling to appear unaffected.

  Teffinger liked her immediately.

  She was one of those people who come across as genuinely good and wholesome. She wore glasses, which became her, and had changed into a pair of sweatpants and a thick sweater. The house was starting to get cold from the constant opening and closing of the front door.

  After a few words in the downstairs kitchen, they went up to her second-floor bedroom, partly for a quiet place to talk but mostly because that’s where the window was that she watched the fight from.

  Teffinger wanted to see the scene from her vantage point.

  The window, it turned out, was directly over the fight.

  He suddenly remembered that the inside of the house wasn’t part of the crime scene and that it was fair game to drink coffee in here. He excused himself, ran outside, and returned about thirty seconds later with his Styrofoam cup and thermos.

  “Just start at the beginning and run through it in as much detail as you can remember. I’ve got coffee, if you’d like some,” he said, indicating.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “God, no,” he said. “You can get a cup or . . .”

  “I’ll just take a little of yours,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

  He handed her the Styrofoam cup and she took a sip, then another, and handed it back. “I just want to kill the chill,” she said with a smile.

  He nodded.

  “I have plenty. So what happened?”

  “Okay. I’m home alone this week because both of my roommates are in Breckenridge. I went to bed around a quarter to ten, my usual time when I have to work the next day. Then sometime after I fell asleep, I heard this scream outside, like an Indian war cry or something.”

  Teffinger pictured it.

  “A war cry?”

  “Like someone running towards the house, attacking.”

  “Attacking, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I never heard anyone do a war cry.”

  “Me either. It scared the crap out of me.”

  Teffinger tilted his head.

  “I’d imagine. What next?”

  “I went over to the window and looked out and could see a fight going on,” she said. “So I grabbed my glasses off the nightstand and looked back out. There were four men fighting. After a moment I could tell that it was three against one, three black men against one white man, but the white man was winning. Two of the black men went down, it seemed like within seconds of each other. I opened the window and screamed that I was going to call the cops. Then the other black man ran towards the back yard. The white man looked up at me, for just a second, and then went after him, but he was moving kind of slow, and I could tell he was hurt. I watched for a second more then went to the phone and called 911. When I got back, no one was there, except the two men still on the ground.”

  Teffinger picked up the thermos, refilled the cup, took a slurp and handed it to her.

  “Could you identify the white man, if you saw him?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “He looked up, I could tell he was white, but it was dark. I never got a look at his features. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “No, really, that’s okay.”

  “I could tell that he was big, though.”

  Teffinger’s eyes narrowed.

  “How big?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bigger than me?”

  “I think so, but it’s hard to tell with you up here and him down there.”

  He had an idea. “I’ll tell you what. I don’t want to mess up the scene right now or turn off the lights. But tomorrow night, if you’re available, I’d like to bring some guys over and let you see them from your window. Maybe you can pick a guy close to the size of the guy you saw.”

  “Sure, if you want.”

  “Good. Actually, a detective by the name of Richardson will coordinate that. So, what was the white guy wearing?”

  “I don’t know.” She scrunched her face. “Dark clothes, I guess.”

  “Was he fat, thin, regular?”

  “He wasn’t fat. The way he moved, he was all over the place. He impressed me as being strong.”

  Teffinger couldn’t help but grin.

  “There are two dead men out there that would probably agree with you.”

  The bedroom was spartan, economically speaking, and Teffinger could tell she was just barely making ends meet. The closet door was open and he could see five or six good dress suits, about one for each workday, but no more. The mattress was lumpy and the dressers were cheap painted pine. His curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “So what do you do for a living?”

  “Me? I’m an industrial hygienist with RK Safety Consultants. We help employers develop programs to comply with OSHA regulations, things like asbestos, noise control, air monitoring, ergonomics, stuff like that.” He looked around and she added, “The pay really isn’t that bad. But I’ve got some student loans I’m trying to get behind me.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’d you go to school?”

  “Ohio State University, for my undergraduate degree. Then got a masters at CSU.”

  “Hey, my Alma Mater. I heard they totally remodeled the library, after the flood.”

  She nodded. “I never saw it beforehand, but it’s really nice now. They have a couple of hundred computer stations on the first floor. You can pop in, check your e-mail, get on the web, print things out, whatever you want.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that in my day.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “We had abacuses,” he added.

  They talked for another fifteen minutes. Teffinger brought her around full circle a couple of times until the story stopped getting bigger. When it looked like they were just about to wrap up, she asked him a question, “So what happened, in your opinion?”

  He looked away for a moment, then back.

&n
bsp; “This is preliminary, but a drug dealer used to live in this house. My guess is that the guys breaking in were after drugs or money or both. The white guy’s a mystery. My suspicion is that he just happened to be passing by and for some reason he interceded.”

  “Like a good Samaritan, or something?”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair and grew serious. “Are you going to run a toxicology test or whatever on the dead men, to find out if they were on drugs?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, that’s standard.”

  “Do you run a criminal background check too?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  She paused. “I’d like to know what you get.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m just curious to know how close I came to . . . well . . . I mean it’s pretty obvious they were going to end up in my bedroom sooner or later.” She looked a little embarrassed. “Morbid, huh?”

  He looked at her. “Yeah, a little. But you’ve earned it. I’ll let you know what we find out.” He reached for his wallet. “Look, in the meantime, I’m going to give you my card and put my home number on the back. You can call me anytime, day or night.”

  Suddenly his cell phone rang.

  Who the hell could that be at this hour of the night?

  Chapter Eight

  Day Three - April 18

  Wednesday Morning

  ______________

  The morning after the fiasco at Megan Bennett’s house, Ganjon woke up with a tight, achy face and a sharp pain in his lower back. There was dried blood on the pillow. He crawled out of bed, took a long heaven-sent piss and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. The cuts had all stopped bleeding but his nose was swollen and cocked slightly to the left. He touched it to get a feel for the pain, then braced himself and pushed it over to the right, until it was just about straight. When he looked back in the mirror tears steamed out of his eyes.

  “Goddamn wimp,” he said.

  He called room service to have some band-aids, antiseptic, gauze, scissors and a newspaper sent up. Five minutes later a bellboy in a monkey suit showed up with everything, damned impressive. The Adams Mark Hotel was good that way, but for the money they ought to be. Not that he cared about the money; he wasn’t paying. He tipped the monkey a five and then set to work doing what he could to fix the mess. If he had his choice, he’d just stay in the room all day and let himself heal, maybe work the laptop a little. But Yorty would be expecting a phone call later and, after all, Yorty was footing the bill.

  He found the incident of last night reported in a short story about halfway through the paper.

  So, both of the assholes died.

  Too bad, but it was their own sorry-ass fault.

  At 10:30, appropriately dressed in fresh Dockers, a crisp white cotton shirt, soft black leather shoes and a lightweight wool-blend blazer from Brooks Brothers, he left his hotel room and took the fire stairs down to the parking garage. There he got into a black Toyota Camry—a rental from Avis with five thousand miles on the odometer and more door-dings than wheels—and set a map of Denver on the passenger seat. Donald Vine, the man he was going to meet, lived in Cherry Hills Village.

  So far he didn’t know much about Vine, other than he had a 1959 Porsche Speedster for sale. All these guys were the same, though—in their fifties or sixties, living in big houses with frigid wives—the bad news—but rich enough to keep a rental somewhere in the city under a different name—the good news.

  Pulling into Vine’s driveway a half hour later, it looked like he pretty much fit the bill.

  The house itself, from the outside, was a contemporary study with an abstract water-feature in the front yard. Getting out of his car and heading towards the entry, he estimated the place to be worth somewhere just under the two million dollar mark, assuming the Denver market wasn’t too different from Cleveland. It was a respectable dwelling but definitely not the biggest on the street.

  A well-dressed, medium-sized man in his fifties opened the door.

  He had the indoor look of a bean counter.

  “You here about the Porsche?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Donald Vine,” the man said, extending his hand in a reflex movement, as if greeting someone on the board. “What happened to your face?”

  Ganjon shook the man’s hand, felt the weakness of someone physically down the food chain, and followed him inside.

  “I got mugged.”

  “You’re kidding, really?” Vine looked shocked, as if muggings didn’t actually happen. “Did he get anything?”

  He smiled and couldn’t resist the urge. “Yeah, more than they bargained for.”

  Vine seemed to be in genuine awe.

  “They? I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “You are a big boy, though, aren’t you?”

  They ended up in the so-called garage—a large dry-walled room with oak trim, fifties-style, black-and-white tile flooring, and a wall of oversized UV resistant windows. “I built this area just for my babies,” Vine offered. He wore black wool slacks and a gray Polo shirt, as if unable to dress down even in his own home.

  “Impressive.”

  There were seven cars in the space, with room for an equal number more if you wanted to jam them in. He recognized them all immediately: two Ferrari Testerossas, late eighties vintage, plain vanilla but marketable; a Viper, fast but relatively worthless; a ’55 Corvette convertible, a really gorgeous car that he definitely needed to look at closer; a ’57 Chevy in beautiful condition; a burgundy Prowler that looked like it had no miles on it; and, of course, the Speedster, Guard’s Red, thank God.

  “So, just the Speedster’s for sale?” he questioned.

  “Technically, but hey.”

  The way Vine said that, Ganjon could tell he needed cash.

  They walked over to the Speedster, one of the world’s all time most beautiful vehicles, best known as the car that killed James Dean. Porsche hadn’t built that many to start with and the ones that were left were definitely classics. You’d see one on the road every now and then but those were kit cars. This particular one was an original, a 356 Super 90, powered by a 90 horsepower flat-four engine and capable of 110 mph.

  “Everything’s original,” Vine said. “The paint, the interior, everything.”

  “A survivor, huh?”

  He felt under the front fender, looking for signs of body damage, found nothing, proceeded to the rear and, under the driver’s side rear panel, felt a jagged edge.

  “Do you have a flashlight?”

  Vine looked hesitant.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Have you had some body work done back here?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Vine left for a minute and returned with a flashlight. Ganjon got down on his back under the car and Vine joined him. “See this rough edge? That’s not supposed to be like that. This back quarter panel’s been replaced at some point.”

  “Couldn’t be.”

  They got back up.

  “You didn’t know about that?” he questioned, with a tone like he’d be really pissed if Vine was being less than honest.

  “No, honest to God.”

  “Okay,” he said. “In the future, be more careful when you buy these things. Did you ever get a full documentation of the history?”

  “Yes, I think so . . .”

  Ganjon shook his head.

  “That’s the problem, when cars are passed on like this with a blank title. You’re never sure, unless you got someone like me doing the research for you. This one’s been damaged, at least to some degree, at some point.”

  The shock on Vine’s his face was tangible.

  “Screw me.”

  “That obviously affects the value,” he said in his most sober voice. Vine said nothing. “That panel’s aftermarket.”

  He continued the inspection.

 
; “Well, you still have the original manufacturer’s plate in the door jam,” he said. “At least that part wasn’t involved in the accident.” Always give them something positive, it increases your credibility. He looked around some more underneath with a flashlight. “The numbers are matching up, that’s good. At least it’s a numbers car.” He found the books and maintenance records in the glove box and thumbed through them.

  The paint did look like the original lacquer, but it was faded a little too much and had road rash on the nose. The passenger seat had a water spot in the leather that would never come out. The back taillight had a crack but that could be replaced. The outside mirror was aftermarket.

  “As far as everything being original,” he said, “that used to be the way people looked at cars like this. Now, unless it’s an absolute pristine survivor, they want it original, but restored to Concours standards. This particular unit is a long way off the mark. Good paint alone will run thirty grand. The interior needs to be gutted; you’re looking at big bucks there, to get it right. The whole car needs to be torn down to the frame, sanded and painted. We don’t know what condition the engine is in without doing a diagnostic. And we still have the major problem of the accident.”

  Vine looked distraught, beautifully, wonderfully distraught. They stood in silence for a couple of seconds, then Vine said, “So what do you propose?”

  Ganjon looked as if he was perplexed.

  “Honestly, I don’t think my client’s going to be interested in this particular unit, he doesn’t like to mess with fixing them up too much. Let me call him though, you never know.”

  “Do you need a phone?”

  “No,” he said. “I have a cell, if you could just give me a moment.”

  Vine went back in the house, leaving him alone in the garage.

  He dialed Jay Yorty’s cell, his red one, and got connected immediately. Yorty was a 28-year-old Miami brat who spent all his energy on the club scene, being visible, snorting coke and getting laid. His money came from a combination of old family trust funds, plus well-timed real estate investments. For the past few years he’d been busy buying and selling classic cars, having a lot of fun and making some good money at it. Ganjon was his eyes and ears, his personal broker, the man who flew around the country, kept him away from the bad eggs and made the good ones come home. Ganjon had a dozen more clients just like Yorty, which was more than he needed.