Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (7 page)

She got off at the Union/Simms stop, which still left her a two-mile peddle to her Lakewood apartment. Twilight had given way to darkness, causing the streetlights to kick on ten minutes ago.

She flicked the switch for the Trek’s rear light.

Nothing happened.

She jiggled it.

Still nothing.

The batteries must be dead.

SIMMS WAS A FAIRLY MAJOR LAKEWOOD ROAD, two lanes in each direction, and well lit. She hugged the edge, like always, and kept a good lookout for idiots armed with cars as she got the bike going as fast as she could. Unfortunately, she seemed outnumbered tonight.

Then, damn!

Headlights were right behind her, coming fast, not giving her space.

She sensed an impact. Some primitive survival gene from a deep part of her brain made her twist the handlebars to the right. The front tire hit the curb and sent her flying over the side of the bike. A white-hot pain immediately exploded from her kneecap and her forearm scraped against something jagged.

She focused on the car as soon as she stopped tumbling. There was no good reason for it to come so close. It was the only one heading this direction. There were no vehicles in the lane next to it. Either the driver completely didn’t see her or didn’t give a rat’s ass.

“Idiot!” she shouted.

The vehicle suddenly decelerated at a dangerous rate, squealed around the corner, and disappeared down a side street.

Her forearm, raw and bloody, throbbed with pain. She brushed dirt and gravel out of the wound and knew that it would need a serious cleaning once she got home.

Her kneecap felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

It didn’t want to bend, but it had been banged plenty of times in the past and she recognized it as a temporary injury in spite of the pain.

The front tire of the bike was flat.

Home was a mile down the road.

She started to walk it home, limping, keeping her right leg stiff at the knee.

When she got to the side street, the vehicle was thirty yards down, sitting there with the lights on, almost as if it was waiting for her. She hurried across the street and kept going as fast as she could.

When she looked behind her, the vehicle was at the corner.

It paused as if watching her.

Then it squealed to the left and disappeared in the opposite direction.

WHEN SHE GOT BACK TO HER APARTMENT she called Venta and said, “Remember when I said first blood this morning?”

Venta remembered.

“Well now we have second blood.”

Then she told Venta the story.

“It could have just been some drunk,” Venta said. “Hell, I almost get run over three times a day.”

“Maybe,” London said, “but watch your back tonight. If they’re after me then they’re after you too.”

“Nothing strange has happened at my end,” Venta said. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

London studied her forearm in the mirror and said, “You better believe it.”

Then she sat down at the computer and drafted a Complaint.

Venta Devenelle v. Vesper & Bennett, Denver District Court, Denver, Colorado.

Third blood.

18

Day Three—June 13

Wednesday Evening

AN HOUR AFTER ALL THE SANE PEOPLE in the office had gone home, Teffinger’s stomach growled and his concentration waned. He twisted a pencil and, for a second, considered shoring himself up with another cup of coffee, but when he held his hand out to see how bad the caffeine shook his fingers, he figured he’d probably had enough. So instead he called Venta and asked where she was.

The answer surprised him.

“In your kitchen.”

“My kitchen?”

“Cooking you dinner,” she said.

When he walked in the front door twenty minutes later, rap music came from the radio and a mouth-watering garlic aroma wove through the air. Venta was in the kitchen, singing, barefoot. She wore thin, flimsy white shorts that did little to hide an incredibly taut ass.

“Spaghetti,” she said.

He shook his head and looked at her strangely.

“What?” she asked.

“You know the words to this song?”

She did.

“I’ve never even heard it and you know the words to it,” he said. “How did you get such bad taste in music?”

She stuck her tongue out.

“This dinner comes with a price,” she warned.

“What kind of price?”

“After we eat, you have to take me somewhere to do something that I’ve never done before.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s for you to decide. Take me on a new adventure. Expand my universe. It doesn’t have to be anything big or mind-blowing, just something I’ve never done before. I’ll be putty in your hands.”

He came up behind her, reached around and put his hands on her stomach.

“You don’t feel like putty,” he said.

“Try some of the other places,” she said.

AFTER GETTING A GUT FULL of the best spaghetti and garlic bread in the universe, Teffinger made Venta sit on the couch and promise not to watch as he carried mysterious stuff from the lower level and threw it in the back of the Tundra, plus two bottles of wine.

Then they took C-470 east, exited at Wadsworth, and pulled into the parking lot of the Chatfield Marina shortly before dark. They carried sleeping bags and overnight items to a 30-foot Hunter sailboat moored at the end of E-Dock.

The boat rocked as Teffinger stepped on board and held his hand out to steady Venta. “This isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to a friend.”

Venta was impressed.

“I need a friend like that,” she said.

Teffinger fired up the inboard diesel but left the sails wrapped. They motored over to the no-wake zone at the south end of the lake and dropped the anchor in 15 feet of water and let out 150 feet of rope. A sunset began to form over the Rocky Mountains, no more than a mile or two to their west. Not a wisp of wind disturbed the air and the water didn’t show a ripple.

Venta had never anchored out in a boat overnight so Teffinger’s debt to her for dinner was officially satisfied.

The lake was pretty much theirs and theirs alone.

The fishermen were either over by the dam or heading to the loading ramps.

They nestled into the cushions and watched the sunset, sipping white wine from plastic glasses. Teffinger told her about the Tessa Blake case and his frustration of not being able to find someone with a motive.

“My guess is this,” Venta said. “She either snooped around while she was cleaning someone’s house and ended up seeing something she shouldn’t have, or else she just flat out took something.”

Teffinger had already thought of that.

“We got the names of the owners of all the houses that she had cleaned for the last three months,” he said. “None of them filed a police report or complained to Molly Maids regarding anything stolen or missing. As for her seeing something she shouldn’t, I can’t think of a good way to ferret that out.”

Venta tried to think of a way and couldn’t.

“Unless she was blackmailing someone,” he added. “But we haven’t found any tangible evidence to suggest that.”

“No big deposits into her bank account, no new cars, nothing like that?” Venta asked.

“Nada,” he said.

“Was she out shopping for anything expensive?”

“Same thing,” he said. “Not that we know of.”

“Weird.”

“She might be pregnant,” he added. “If she is, maybe some rich married guy is responsible and doesn’t want the wife to find out, much less pay child support. But again, that’s just a theory. We have no evidence.”

He studied the sunset as the last of the color disappeared.

Then Venta said, “I have another thought.”

Suddenly Teffinger’s cell phone rang.

IT TURNED OUT TO BE DR. LEANNE SANDERS, the FBI profiler from Quantico, Virginia. He pulled up an image of a classy woman, about fifty, with shapely step-master legs. The kind of legs on the covers of noir crime books, the kind of legs men killed for.

“I’m heading to Denver,” she said. “I thought it only fair to warn you.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

She exhaled.

“It’s a long story and I’ll fill you in when I get there,” she said. “In a nutshell, INTERPOL has their sights on a Frenchman named Jean-Paul Boudiette. He’s headed to Denver and so am I.”

HE HUNG UP, looked at Venta and said, “Sorry for the interruption. You were telling me that you had another thought.”

She nodded.

“Two thoughts, actually,” she said.

“Shoot.”

“Your whole premise about Tessa Blake may be wrong,” she said. “You’re looking for someone with a motive to harm her.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, maybe she isn’t the target at all,” Venta said. “Maybe she’s just a pawn to get someone else to do something.”

“What do you mean? That she’s being held for ransom or something?”

“Right, something like that. She’s not the end, she’s the means to the end.”

Teffinger was impressed, very impressed, and said so.

“Then you’re really going to like my second thought,” Venta said.

“Which is what?”

“Which is this.” She stood up, pulled her T-shirt over her head, unfastened her bra and tossed it behind her. The tiny bit of light that was left from the sunset landed on her breasts and stomach and arms with a warm golden patina.

She ran her hands through her hair.

Teffinger swallowed.

He had never seen such a perfect body.

Well, that wasn’t true.

He had; but he had never wanted a woman so badly.

That
was
true.

She took a long sip of wine—no, not a sip, a drink—and then set the cup to the side and straddled him. Her weight felt so incredibly perfect, so very right.

And when she brought her mouth to his, and held her lips an inch away, so teasingly, her essence filled the universe.

There was nothing else.

Only her.

19

Day Four—June 14

Thursday Morning

THURSDAY MORNING, WITH THE EXHILERANCE of yesterday’s successful climb still flowing through his veins, Jekker let Tessa Blake use the facilities, fed her, gave her a sedative and waited until it took effect. Then he carried her into the boxcar, chained her left ankle to the inside just for good measure, locked the door from the outside, and pointed the Audi out of the mountains towards the Denver skyline.

He bought a cup of leaded at Starbucks and sipped it on the way back to his LoDo loft.

The Rocky Mountain News reported a short article about the death of Samantha Rickenbacker and the disappearance of Tessa Blake on Tuesday night.

Photographs of both women were provided.

He hadn’t gotten a very good look at the surprise woman—Samantha Rickenbacker—on the night in question.

She was pretty.

Too bad she made him kill her.

The coffee pot gurgled with the unmistakable sound of the last drops of water falling into the pot. He filled a cup and fired up the Gateway to work the net, looking for anything that would disclose the identity of his European counterpart—the person most likely to be sent to kill him if the decision was made to take him out.

Mid-morning his phone rang.

A FRENCHMAN NAMED VARDON ST. GERMAINE said, “I was asked to contact you. The word is you’re nervous about what happens when the relationship ends.”

The man spoke good English, with an accent but not much.

Jekker paced.

He hadn’t expected an actual call.

“Go on,” he said.

“I retired five years ago,” St. Germaine said. “They went their way and I went mine. It was as if neither of us ever existed. That’s all there is to it.”

Jekker walked out onto the terrace.

Down below people moved like ants.

“How do I know you’re legitimate?” he asked. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

St. Germaine laughed.

“You don’t,” he said. “And you above all people know that I’d never tell you anything that would associate me, or them, with an event.”

“Would you trust you, if you were me?” Jekker asked.

The man didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said, “and neither do you. So the point is moot. I will say this, though. I was told since day one to never, ever have or create any documentary proof or evidence of what I’ve done or who I’d done it for. I assume you’ve been told the same.”

Jekker had.

“They take that obligation very seriously,” the Frenchman said. “When I first retired, I had the same concerns as you, namely that they would be much better off if I was dead, quietly dead. That’s the big concern in your mind right now, if I understand the situation correctly.”

True.

It was.

“At first,” St. Germaine said, “I thought about setting something down in writing, you know, dates, names, events, stuff like that—an insurance policy, in effect. You know, make the kind of document that would create a lot of collateral damage if someone decided to take me out and the police found it after the fact, say in my safe deposit box or mailed anonymously to the police by one of my relatives or friends. But I resisted the urge, and in hindsight that was the best decision I ever made.”

“So stick with the rules is what you’re telling me,” Jekker said.

“Exactly,” St. Germaine said. “Stick with the rules.”

Jekker grunted.

“What?”

“That’s exactly what they would want me to do if they were going to take me out,” Jekker said.

“That’s true,” St. Germaine said. “Ironic, isn’t it? The best way to stay alive is to make yourself fully vulnerable and then sit back and hope you made the right decision. The question is, do you have that kind of trust?”

“No,” Jekker said.

St. Germaine laughed.

“Neither did I, but I did it anyway.”

His voice trailed off as if the conversation was concluded.

“Tell me one thing,” Jekker said. “Who replaced you?”

The Frenchman hesitated, clearly deciding, and then said, “That goes against the rules. I’d be putting myself in jeopardy.”