Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (20 page)

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?”

“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.

62

Day Eight—June 18

Monday Night

LONDON GOT OFF WORK at 8:00 p.m. to an ominous rainy sky that turned her to a sloppy mess by the time she got halfway to the bus stop. The stop had no shelter so she hugged a building until the RTD came. She put her bike on the front rack as fast as she could and took a seat directly behind the driver, where the weirdoes were less likely to bother her.

Water dripped from her head.

A chill worked its way into her bones as Colfax rolled by.

When she got off at Simms, the bus driver must have forgotten about her bike, because he pulled away with it still in the rack.

Great.

Her apartment was more than two miles up the road, meaning a long walk, in rain no less, not to mention that she had been on her feet all day.

She hung around the stop for a few moments to see if the driver figured out what he did and was swinging back, but no bus came and she headed down the street on foot.

Halfway home her cell phone rang.

The voice of the V&B attorney, Sarah Woodward, came through. “We just got some news and I thought you should know about it right away.”

“What kind of news?”

“Mark Remington hung himself in his hotel room,” she said.

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know yet for certain,” Sarah said. “The word is that he didn’t leave a note.”

London pondered it.

Then she said, “He knew it was all coming his way and took the easy way out.”

“Maybe,” Sarah said. “I’m hoping to have more information tomorrow.”

WHEN LONDON CALLED VENTA and told her the news, Venta said, “I see three possibilities. He’s actually still alive and the whole thing is a charade so that V&B can say it tried to investigate but couldn’t. Or V&B killed him so he couldn’t drag them down. Or he really did kill himself because, as you say, it was all about to hit the fan.”

“So how do we figure out which it is?” London questioned.

A pause.

“I don’t know right at this second,” she said. “I’ll have a better handle on it by the morning. Let’s plan on meeting for coffee.”