by R. J. Jagger
“I’ve already worked the Internet to exhaustion, which has been a giant dead-end. So we need to get a grassroots search going. We talk to her old friends and find out if any of them have heard from her or know where she might be. We need to find out if she has any family and whether they’ve heard from her.”
“I know a lot of the people she hung with.”
“That’s what I was hoping.” She took a swallow. “The first thing we have to do is get you a car.” She reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope and pushed it across the table. “There’s five hundred dollars in here, for gas and stuff. Go to the Budget on Colfax in the morning, I’ll have a car rented by then for you to pick up. You have a driver’s license, right?”
“Sort of . . .”
“Sort of?”
“It’s not really real, but looks real. Jack got it for me after the DUI.”
Kelly shook her head.
“Well, whatever. You’re going to need a driver’s license to pick up the car. See if it’ll work. If it doesn’t give me a call.”
“Yeah, sure.” She looked outside, nodded in that direction and added, “It’s getting worse.”
Kelly looked outside. The man in the windbreaker was across the street now, looking in their direction as he passed.
She bit her lower lip.
“I want you to sleep at my place tonight.”
Dannenberg laughed.
“Listen, you’re cute and all, but girls really aren’t my thing.”
Kelly ignored it and pulled her car keys out of her purse. “Come on. We’ll be safe there. See if you can get Raymond to walk us out to the car.”
“Hey, Raymond. Feel like getting drenched?”
“Not really.”
“Well too bad, because you are.”
Chapter Ten
Day Three - April 18
Wednesday Night
____________
Ganjon came to a stop at the 7-Eleven gas pump and killed the engine. The night was dark and water fell out of it, lots and lots of water, from one of those pent-up spring storms. He pushed the emergency brake down, threw a lightweight jacket over his head and stepped out. The storm immediately pounded him, bouncing off his jacket and smashing onto his pants. He selected Pay Inside, removed the nozzle, stuck it in the gas tank, and flipped the lever up. Nothing happened. He stood there for a moment and then mashed the green start button with his thumb. A second later the pump hummed and then the hose bulged and shifted like a startled snake. He ducked back into the car, slammed the door and waited.
It was almost midnight.
He was a balloon on the verge of busting.
The gas shut off with a loud clank and the humming stopped.
He got out, put the handle back, screwed in the gas cap, and trotted towards the store with the jacket over his head, kicking up puddles of water with his feet. Inside, an old fart with white hair told him the bill was $26.93, which he already knew. He paid with a twenty and a ten, pocketed the change, and headed back to the car. No credit cards, no traces. On the other side of the street sat a Total. He drove over, parked at the left corner in front of the pay phone, and killed the engine. The phone was slightly protected by the overhang of the store but not by much. The security cameras were over by the pumps and shouldn’t be a problem. He got out, threw the jacket over his head, which he kept pointed away from the cameras, scurried over to the phone and dialed Megan Bennett’s number.
She answered on the forth ring.
“Hello?” She’d been asleep.
“Megan Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“Listen carefully and do exactly what I say,” he said. “This is FBI Special Agent Ron Stokes. We met on the 16th Street Mall on Monday. Do you remember me?”
“Yes . . .”
“Good. That meeting wasn’t an accident. I’m in Denver because I’m following a man by the name of Sam Arnold, who we think is linked to the OSU murders that we talked about the other day. We believe that he’s after you. We think he’s getting ready to make a move tonight and we need to get you out of there and get a decoy set up in your place. What I want you to do is throw some clothes on and meet me out front. I’m going to be there in three minutes to pick you up. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She sounded panicked.
“Is anyone else in the house with you?”
“No, they’re in Breckenridge.”
“Okay. I’m going to pull up in front of your house and flash the bright lights. I’m driving a black Toyota Camry. Come out your front door and run straight to the car and get in the passenger side. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be there in three minutes. And don’t worry, you’re safe.”
Ganjon wiped his prints off the receiver with his jacket, ran back to the car and got in. He was drenched, absolutely soaked.
This was it.
There were two cars parked in front of Megan Bennett’s house, big silhouettes, barely visible. The rain beat down like a madman. He pulled up next to the car closest to her driveway and flashed the lights. A pause for a half-beat; nothing. He stared at the front door. Nothing.
Damn it!
Was she having second thoughts?
Calling 911?
Then suddenly the front door opened, she ran out, slamming the door behind her, now racing towards him. A second later the passenger door opened, the sound of the rain intensified, then she was in, a spray of water following her.
He immediately took off down the street.
“You’re okay now,” he said, with as much a sigh of relief as he could muster. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“God, I’m shaking,“ she said. Her voice was full of nervous relief.
He looked at her.
She was beautiful; absolutely gorgeous.
“You have a lot of questions and I’m going to answer every one of them, but right now just let me concentrate on the driving, I want to be sure no one’s following us.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a safe-house. It’s out in the country. In about two minutes a swat team and a body-double are going to be moving into your place to set up.”
“Jesus.”
He quickly glanced at her, then back to the road.
“I’m sorry we have to do it this way, but catching him in the act is our only option.”
The storm pounded against the windshield and flew into the headlights. She occasionally looked over at him, then back out. After a time he said, “Here’s what’s going on. We recently came across information that led us to believe that this Sam Arnold was involved in the Beth Williamson murder at OSU. We think he’s still targeting people from the psychology class you were in. When he came to Denver three days ago we followed him here. That first night, he parked his car on your street and sat there for about an hour. We ran the list of people from the psychology class and found out that you live there.”
“Why me?”
“Who knows? But there’s no doubt at this point what he’s up to,” he said. “Tonight, just a little while ago, we lost him.” He paused. “When that happened we couldn’t take any chances and had to get you out of there, even if it meant blowing our cover. Which, hopefully, it didn’t because if he figures out that we’re on to him, he’s gone.”
He felt her staring at him. “What happened to your face?”
He nodded, as if expecting the question.
“We had a complication. When those three men tried to break into your house, I was on stakeout that night. I went over, I had to, things got out of control and I had to defend myself.”
“So that was you?”
He nodded.
“Unfortunately.”
“You saved my life. Thank you, thank you so much.” She scooted over and hugged him. After a moment she added, “They were high on crack. The detective called me later and told me. I know for a fact that they would have raped me.”
He expected her to m
ove back over to her side but instead she stayed where she was. It felt so strange, good strange though. “That complicated things,” he went on. “We weren’t working with Denver at the time, on the surveillance, and they started investigating it before we got the inter-departmental notification in motion.”
They were silent for a few minutes, then she asked, “So what happens, if you don’t catch him tonight?”
“We’ll get him,” Ganjon assured her. “You’re safe, so don’t even think about it.”
He could feel her breathing, deep, and she said, “I’m probably crowding you here . . .”
He patted her knee.
“You’re just fine.”
After what seemed like a long time the traffic thinned and the city lights lost their individuality and clumped together in little groups like far away galaxies. The Camry had taken them off the freeway and into the country now. At one point on what appeared to be a long lonely road, Ganjon made a right-hand turn.
The asphalt rose and fell and twisted, not unlike the last hundred yards of a roller coaster. Ganjon stared straight ahead, concentrating on what he could see of the nightscape through the wipers. He tried to think of a joke, something to lighten the mood, but nothing came to mind except a few bona fide duds. It was so weird having her this close. He’d played the whole thing over in his mind a million times, and it had never been like this.
“Are you okay?” Megan questioned.
He looked her way.
She wore white cotton shorts.
They took on a pale green glow from the dashboard lights.
“Fine. Another fifteen minutes or so. Do you want some music? I can . . .”
“No, I like the sound of the rain.”
He nodded.
She added, “It reminds me of camping trips, when I was a little girl.”
A dormant memory rose up for Ganjon. “I used to do a lot of hunting in the San Juans, down by Durango, up around Rock Lake, Moon Lake, way off the beaten path,” he offered. “The most spectacular country you ever saw but the rain could drive you crazy.”
“I love the rain.”
“Sometimes you wouldn’t see the sky for three days straight. You end up in a tent playing Hearts and drinking Everclear.”
“I’d trade for that, right now.”
She shifted back to her side of the car. A side road approached from the right. Ganjon turned off, drove a hundred yards, killed the lights, waited a good minute, saw no other cars following, and then came back up to speed.
The road crested and then slipped into a deep valley.
The pressure was building in his loins, so much so that he had to fight to keep it out of his voice. He’d forgotten about that part. Out of the corner of his eye he studied her legs, those strong, perfectly sculptured legs.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “We’ve got hot chocolate to microwave if you want.”
When they finally got to the turnoff they found a slalom course of mud where there should have been a dirt road. Ganjon studied the puddles, picking his way through as best he could while keeping his speed up. The Camry was way out of its element and could get stuck if he didn’t keep the momentum going. At the end of the road he stopped. The farmhouse sat dark and sullen, without a single light on. He blew a sigh of relief and killed the engine and the headlights. The sound of the rain immediately intensified, pounding on the metal over their heads.
“This is it,” he said. Then, “Sorry, no umbrellas.”
She sat there, staring at the house.
“I thought there’d be other people,” she said.
“There will be,” he said. “Right now they’re all busy at your house.”
She was barely visible next to him but he could feel her looking his way. “So what’s standard procedure? Do you check it out first, or what?”
“Of course,” he said. “You wait here.” He opened the door and said on his way out, “I’ll get a towel or something for your head.”
“Thanks.”
Outside the rain was cold, damn cold. It pounded on his already-wet clothes and pushed the chill straight into his bones. The front door was a barely perceptible shape and he fumbled with the key . . . at least it was on it’s own key ring . . . there . . . got you . . . you little shit.
He shoved the door open, stepped inside, and removed the key. Almost immediately he heard water at his feet, draining off his clothes. He walked through the house, turning on lights as he went, letting Megan Bennett see that he was checking all the rooms like a good little agent.
He shivered.
In the upstairs bathroom he grabbed a towel for the woman’s head. Then headed down the creaky wooden stairs.
He’d keep her in the house tonight, tie her up on the bed and do a little exploring, spend two or three hours of quality time with her.
There was no reason to move straight into the grand finale.
Suddenly he heard noise.
It came from outside.
He stopped dead on the last stair and focused on the sound. It was an engine. He bounded out the front door just in time to see the back end of the Camry swinging around in the mud.
The bitch was leaving!
A crowd of thoughts jammed into his head, all at the same time, the things that might have tipped her off.
She expected other people at the house.
He never showed her a badge.
A safe-house would never be this far out.
He killed two men.
She saw him staring at her legs.
The place was too creepy.
He was too creepy.
All these thoughts jammed in his brain in no more than a second, all while he ran as fast as he could towards the car.
He had to catch her.
Catch her!
So damned stupid to let her stay in the car!
So damned stupid to leave the keys in there!
She was panicked. He could tell by the way she hammered the accelerator, spinning the tires, out of control, jerking the car all over the place.
He ran.
He ran like the madman that she’d turned him into.
Mud splashed into his face and eyes. He fought the burn and pushed it out. His pants got heavy, weighed down by the water and mud, and he pushed forward even harder to keep his speed up. He was gaining on her . . . if he could just get along side . . . get to the door handle . . . get a hand inside . . . wrap his fingers in her filthy hair . . .
If she got away he was screwed!
No car.
Out here in the middle of nowhere.
Fingerprints everywhere.
Bitch!
Come here you bitch!
He concentrated on bringing his knees up even higher, like a sprinter, igniting an even deeper burn in his quads. Screw the pain. He was even with the back bumper now. Faster, faster asshole. Now he was right next to her. He reached for the door handle.
Then suddenly she looked right at him.
He could read the panic on her face.
It was there in her eyes when she screamed and jerked the steering wheel at him.
Chapter Eleven
Day Four - April 19
Thursday Morning
____________
Teffinger as usual was the first person to show up for work in the morning, getting there while it was still dark outside, before all the pandemonium kicked in. He flicked on the fluorescents, kick-started the coffee machine and headed for his desk, weaving through the gray space dividers, past the mismatched metal filing cabinets and around the desks suffocated with paper. His space was over by the windows, overlooking Cherokee Street and a rat’s nest of old two-story houses that had been converted into bail bond dens, painted in cartoon colors. His predecessor, the prior person in charge of the Homicide Unit, kept an office down the hall; a real office with four walls and a door that you had to knock on to get in. So had the person before that. Three years ago, when Teffinger was promoted into the position, he sat in tha
t room for two miserable days before reclaiming his desk back out on the floor.
“Closer to the coffee machine,” he told everyone.
When they actually paced it off though, it was one step farther.
This month’s edition of Old Car Trader sat on his desk, dog-eared to the 1967 Corvettes. He didn’t much care for the new Vettes, but the old ones, the midyears from 1963 to 1967, were works of art. The 1953s to 1962s were nice, too, but he really couldn’t picture himself driving a single-axle car with drum brakes. And he would drive it, if he ever got one. No trailer queens for him. Yes, the midyears were the ones to have. And of those, the 1967 was the keeper—dual brake solenoids, parking brake in the center console instead of up near the dash, and the last good Vette made before the Sharks came out and ruined everything in 1968. A major step backwards, that, if you asked him. But the 1967s were pricey, even the small blocks.
He spotted Paul Kwak’s forensic report in the D’endra Vaughn case sitting next to the Old Car Trader, a pleasant surprise, and started thumbing through it while the coffee machine gurgled.
A considerable amount of trace evidence had been collected from the scene. A large number of hairs had been collected from hairbrushes, the bathrooms, the shower drain traps, the carpeting, clothing, the victim’s car and other locations. Items that may have come in contact with a person’s mouth had been collected. A large number of fingerprints had been lifted. The bedding, of course, had been bagged. It contained blood, urine, saliva and semen. Three footprints had been lifted from one area in the backyard where the ground sunk down and held the moisture. Because of that, Kwak had coordinated with the scribe, obtained the names of everyone who had been at the crime scene, including the medical responders, and taken imprints of their shoes, so as to be able to rule them out.
Now the ball was in Teffinger’s court.
What items, if any, did he want DNA tested at this time?
Did he want the testing expedited?
Obviously much of the DNA evidence would point to the boyfriend, Aaron Whitecliff. But they already had his statement that he was there the night the woman was killed. Plus, he reported having sex with her.
