Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (25 page)

Sure.

That would be okay.

Hannah straddled her and kneaded her shoulder muscles. “Feel good?” she asked.

Yes it did.

London kept her eyes closed and her head in the pillow. The bed felt so incredibly good. Hannah felt like an old friend. Nothing else in the world existed.

Hannah’s hands were under London’s shirt now, so nice.

It rode up higher.

Then Hannah said, “Let’s get this off.”

London didn’t say yes but didn’t say no.

Hannah pulled it up and over London’s head.

“That’s better,” Hannah said. “Now we have something to work with.”

The woman’s touch became lighter, more like a caress than a rub, and explored London’s sides and underarms. Then she scooted down towards London’s feet and massaged her ass.

London almost said something but didn’t.

It felt too good.

“You may as well get the full body massage,” Hannah said.

“Mmm.”

Hannah went to work on her thighs.

And calves.

And feet.

Then back up her legs to her ass.

When Hannah pulled London’s shorts off, she didn’t protest.

A few minutes later Hannah said, “Time for the front.”

To London’s surprise, she rolled over onto her back.

Hannah straddled her stomach and stretched her arms above her head.

London let her and then left them there.

Vulnerable.

Open.

Curious.

Hannah ran her fingers down London’s arms, slowly, and caressed her underarms and sides and stomach for a long time. Then she ran her fingers in little circles on London’s nipples.

Little sparks fired in London’s brain.

Then Hannah moved down, put her face between London’s legs and used her tongue; her warm, wet tongue. After a few minutes she said, “I’ve never done this before. Does it feel okay?”

Yes it did.

Very okay.

Incredibly okay.

AFTER THE LONGEST AND MOST INTENSE ORGASM of her life, London got a drink of water. When headlights appeared in the parking lot, she took a quick peek to see who was keeping such late hours.

The headlights came from a black sedan.

It slowed as it went by.

London felt mean eyes looking out from behind the deeply tinted windows. Then the vehicle sped up and disappeared out the other side of the lot.

She shivered and said, “We have company.”

75

Day Nine—June 19

Tuesday Afternoon

PAUL KUBIAK CALLED WITH BAD NEWS. Alan English’s safe held car titles, insurance polices, and a small amount of cash, but no bondage CDs. Teffinger said thanks, hung up, and slammed his hand on the desk. The coffee in his cup rippled.

Sydney walked over and took a chair.

She looked tired.

“I got through to about half of English’s passengers so far,” she said. “No one knows what he did with his free time. The way it worked is, they would usually be there anywhere from one to seven days. English was on his own until it was time to leave. A couple of the guys admitted to frequenting the blowjob bars but said they never saw English there.”

“That means he’s dirty,” Teffinger said.

“How so?”

“If he’d been doing normal things like sightseeing, it would have come out.”

Sydney shrugged.

Maybe.

She didn’t know.

When Teffinger told her that English’s safe didn’t have any CDs she said, “Then they don’t exist.”

Teffinger disagreed.

“They exist,” he said. “And the fact that he hid them so well tells me they’re personal—pictures taken by him of his own victims.”

“Come on, Teff,” she said. “We tore that place apart.”

He shook his head.

“He’s got a secret compartment somewhere.”

She looked confused.

“What’s going on here?” she asked.

He ran his fingers through his hair and said, “What do you mean?”

“It’s almost as if you want Venta to be dirty.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Then how come whenever the evidence points the other way, you don’t accept it?”

“Because not finding something isn’t evidence,” he said. “It’s only evidence when you do find it and see what it says.”

She cocked her head.

“That’s bull and you know it,” she said. “Personally I think you’re just scared.”

“Well you’re right about that.”

“Scared that she isn’t a killer,” Sydney said. “Scared that you let her in your life. Scared that you’re not the only one in control of you anymore.”

He raked his hair back.

“I didn’t know you had a degree in psycho babble.”

She patted his hand.

“Well now you know.”

HE ALMOST GOT IN THE TUNDRA and headed back to English’s, but couldn’t think of where else to look. Ten minutes later Kate Baxter cornered him at the coffee pot.

“We may have a break in the Brandy Zucker case,” she said.

Teffinger raised an eyebrow.

“What kind of break?”

“We got a call from someone named Mary Zang who’s a waitress at a truck stop in Grand Junction,” she said. “She saw the news report and thinks that the woman truck driver might be this lady who stops there once in a while.”

“Run with it,” Teffinger said.

“How far?”

“Drop everything else,” he said. “This poor girl’s been missing too long. We either have a homicide or a homicide-in-the-making. Either way I want to nail this guy.”

Kate retreated in thought.

“If you’re really serious, then I’m going to hop in the car and follow the trail.”

“You mean to Grand Junction?”

“Right.”

He looked at his watch.

“If you leave now you’ll be there by dark.”

SHE GOT UP AND HEADED FOR THE DOOR. Then she came back and said, “I almost forgot to tell you. That guy that you and Leanne Sanders were so interested in, Mark Remington, was a lawyer with Vesper & Bennett, right?”

He nodded.

“Yep.”

“Did you know that our latest dead guy, Porter Potter, had his deposition taken by a Vesper & Bennett attorney recently?”

No.

He didn’t know that.

“Small world,” she said.

TWO MINUTES LATER TEFFINGER’S CELL PHONE RANG. It turned out to be the realtor, Jim Hansen, returning his call from this morning.

“This involves the murder of Samantha Rickenbacker at the house you have listed,” Teffinger said.

“I figured that.”

“Before the night in question, did you get any strange calls? You know—someone who wanted to confirm that the owners weren’t living in the house or something like that?”

The man hesitated.

“I don’t recall anything like that.”

76

Day Nine—June 19

Tuesday Afternoon

JEKKER BACKTRACKED A QUARTER MILE, found a place off the road big enough to park the Audi, and hoofed it to the boxcars on foot—a forty-five minute trek. Tessa Blake was apprehensive when he rolled open the door to her boxcar, with good reason—she was supposed to be free.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re still on track to set you free. Unfortunately we had a complication last night.”

He held his hand out.

She took it and he helped her out of the boxcar.

“What kind of complication?”

He told her about the storm and the unfortunate event of running over the biker woman. “After that happened, I had to get the Audi off the road.”

She cocked her head, deciding whether to believe him or not.

“Today we had another setback,” he said. “The road is blocked in both directions.” At first she didn’t believe it, but he gave her so many details that she had no choice.

“As soon as one way or the other opens up and I can get a car in and out of here, you’re free,” he said. “Until then we have to sit tight.”

“I can’t be in the boxcar anymore,” she said.

He understood and said, “You don’t have to while I’m here, as long as you behave yourself.”

“You know I will,” she said. “I’ve already proved that. I’m proving it right now. Can I take a shower?”

Sure.

SHE COOKED SUPPER and they ate on the deck steps. News helicopters flew back and forth. “See,” he said, pointing. “Down that way they’re covering the car that got squashed. The other way they’re covering the news chopper that made the emergency landing.”

She believed him.

After supper they shot the bow.

The woman was actually starting to show some skill.

Then they walked up and down his driveway until their legs ached.

After dark they put on long-sleeve shirts and drank wine.

Then he chained her in the bed with him and closed his eyes.

THE TV 8 HELICOPTER should be off the road by tomorrow, meaning Tessa Blake would be dead 24-hours from now.

“Pleasant dreams,” he said.

“You too.”

He thought about Jena Vernon and wondered if he could recapture his dream about her if he kept thinking about it before going to sleep, minus the flying monkeys this time.

77

Day Ten—June 20

Wednesday Morning

THE RTD HAD NO KNOWLEDGE of what happened to the Trek after the genius bus driver disappeared with it on Monday night, so London took the Wrangler to work as a temporary solution. She parked it on the other side of Broadway in a free 2-hour spot and hoofed it six blocks to the Eatery. Then she spent the morning carrying plates of food to ungrateful people who thought a 50-cent tip was more than fair.

She hated being there but the rent was due in ten days.

During the morning break, she stepped outside and called Venta. Hannah had already told her about the black sedan trolling past the apartment last night.

“Teffinger told me something weird last night,” Venta said.

“What?”

“Apparently there’s a guy named Porter Potter,” she said. “He was changing a light bulb and managed to fall and crack his head open. It turns out that he had recently been deposed by a Vesper & Bennett attorney. Also, he had a daughter who died in a plane crash earlier this year. It turns out that this missing girl who’s all over the news—Tessa Blake—looked a lot like this guy’s daughter.”

London chewed on it.

“So what’s Teffinger’s take on all that?”

“Nothing,” Venta said. “He just thinks it’s really weird that V&B keeps getting linked to bad stuff.”

“He’s right about that,” London said.

“Other than that, there’s nothing new from my end,” Venta said. “I’m at Teffinger’s, he’s at work. There are no black sedans in sight.”

“Watch your back.”

“You too.”

Okay.

They hung up.

Two minutes later London called back.

“Does Teffinger have a copy of the guy’s deposition?”

“Not that I know of, why?”

“It would be interesting to know what it was about,” London said. “Maybe it has something to do with Bangkok.”

“Want me to get a copy of it?”

“You can’t,” London said.

“Why not?”

“Only attorneys on the case can get them,” London said. “They’re not public documents.”

Venta laughed.

“I’ll get a copy for you.”

WHEN LONDON GOT BACK TO HER APARTMENT after work, a copy of Porter Potter’s deposition sat on her kitchen table. Hannah wasn’t there and hadn’t left a note. London took a quick shower, poured cheap white wine from a box into a plastic cup, and then settled back on the couch with the deposition, a pen and a yellow highlighter.

Emily Hand, Esq., took the deposition.

According to the firm’s website, she was a senior associate in V&B’s litigation department, seven years out of law school, meaning she was probably on the verge of becoming a partner.

The deponent, Porter Potter, was the Vice President of the Vanguard Group, a pharmaceutical research and development company. Vanguard was suing the Warren Corporation, a New Jersey company engaged in the research, development and manufacturing of drugs.

Vanguard's position in the case seemed to be that it had hired a Ph.D. professor named Randy Ice on a contract basis to develop a new drug to combat arthritis. It claimed that Ice conducted the research, gave faulty information to Vanguard, and then sold the proper information surreptitiously to Warren who was currently in the process of obtaining FDA approval.

The drug, once approved, would be worth billions.

Both the plaintiff and the defendant claimed entitlement to the drug.

The researcher, Randy Ice, died last year when he drove through a red light and got broadsided by a garbage truck, so his testimony wasn’t available.

Porter Potter had been the primary person at Vanguard to deal with Randy Ice. One of the central issues in the case was whether Potter had fired Ice for nonperformance, thereby freeing Ice to work for Warren. Thus Potter’s testimony as to the nature of Vanguard’s relationship with Ice was critical to the case.

The interesting thing was that Potter’s deposition testimony actually helped V&B’s client, Warren Corporation, a lot more than it helped Potter’s own employer.

In fact, Potter would no doubt be V&B’s star witness at trial.

With Potter’s testimony now nailed down in his deposition under oath, V&B’s client was almost certain to win at trial, meaning V&B would have no motivation whatsoever to have Potter dead—in fact, quite the opposite.

Now, with Potter’s death, V&B could only read the witnesses’ testimony into the record at trial. That wasn’t anywhere near as effective as calling the man live.

Further, there was no mention of Bangkok anywhere in the deposition, not even close.

THE PHONE RANG and Michael Montana’s voice came through.

“You busy tonight?”

No.

She wasn’t.

“Let’s do something.”

“What?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you want—”

“—as long as it ends in sex,” she said.

He laughed.

“You know me too well,” he said.

“Actually, I know myself too well.”

She fired up the Gateway and did some quick research before heading over to Michael’s. The death of Potter’s daughter was totally unsuspicious, the result of a faulty landing gear. Even though she looked like Tessa Blake, there was no connection. Tessa was born to different parents.