Body of Shadows (6 page)

Sydney cocked her head.

“Me?”

Drift took a sip of coffee.

“Right, you; you and Pantage. I’m beginning to wonder if she was the target all along.”

“If that’s the case, why would the guy do it at someone else’s house, with that someone else actually home?”

Drift shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he was looking for his first two-fur.”

“Two-fur?”

“Right.”

“You ever had one?”

“I’ve had two of ’em,” Drift said. “Two two-furs are different that one four-fur though, just for the record.”

“Maybe not,” Sydney said. “You’d have to have a four-fur first before you could say that with authority.”

“And what makes you think I haven’t?”

“Had a four-fur?”

He nodded.

“Right.”

“Well, have you?”

He nodded.

“Two of ’em,” he said. “Two four-furs are different than one eight-fur though, just for the record.”

Sydney punched him on the arm.

Drift stood up, drained what was left in the cup and said, “Come on. Let’s go find our longhaired friend.”

He filled a thermos.

Then they were gone.

Drift was pretty sure
the guy lived somewhere in the neighborhood and had been out taking an innocent walk last night when he ended up in the wrong place at the right time. If that was the case, someone should know who he was.

They split up.

Drift took the west side and Sydney took the non-west side.

The sidewalks were ovens.

The lawns were brown.

An hour of motion went by.

None of it turned out to be forward.

Sydney called and said, “Cowboy, I’m starved. Feed me.”

“As in me pay?”

“Yes. Shock my heart.”

They ate at McDonald’s then re-hit the pavement, intent on getting a witness. Drift had visions of landing a composite sketch of the killer on the evening news.

That didn’t happen.

The afternoon slipped down a never-ending slippery slope of nothingness before they finally resigned themselves to the fact that only more slips were to be had.

Drift looked at his watch.

It was 5:02.

He called Pantage.

“Are you still at the law firm?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m going to pick you up.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to let you be alone tonight,” he said. “What time do you want me there?”

A pause.

“How about six?”

“Six it is.”

On the way back
to the office he asked Sydney if she had any energy left.

“I do if you want me to,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

She was.

“Okay, then, go into my emails and get the files Leigh sent me,” he said. “Email ’em over to yourself and pull ’em up wherever you want, on your iPad or Mac or whatever. Go through ’em and find the common denominators.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

“Somehow he picks his victims out beforehand,” Drift said. “Figure out where he hunts. Then we’ll trace Jackie Lake’s footsteps and see if we can spot him on a surveillance tape.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.”

She cocked her head.

“What are you going to be doing while I do all the work? Repeat,
all
the work.”

“You want the honest answer or lies?”

“Lies, like always.”

“I’ll be protecting Pantage.”

Sydney gave him a look.

“You’ll be protecting her from having a night without an orgasm,” she said. “That’s what you’ll be protecting her from.”

15

Day One

July 18

Monday Afternoon

Deven’s magic fingers
were rubbing Yardley between the legs, on the outside of her panties, when the phone rang. Deven pushed the cotton to the side, inserted a finger and said, “Don’t answer it.”

Yardley hesitated.

Then she grabbed it and said, “Hello?

The voice of her boss came through. She listened intently, memorizing the words, feeling the muscles in her neck grow tighter and tighter, all the while being worked between the thighs by Deven.

The massaging was starting to slow.

Yardley grabbed Deven’s hand and held it in place.

“Don’t stop.”

The woman didn’t.

Yardley hung up.

Then she said, “Hold it a minute.”

She flipped the light switch off.

The room fell into total blackness.

She got down on the floor flat on her back and spread her legs. Deven rubbed her on the outside of the cotton, slowly, gently, the ultimate tease.

Yardley’s hips responded.

“I’m going to teach you something,” Deven said.

“What?”

“How to lick a pussy.”

Yardley hesitated.

She’d had visions.

She’d had thoughts.

She’d never done it.

“Yes or no,” Deven said.

A beat.

“No.”

“Stay where you are.”

Deven stood up. There was a rustling of clothes as she removed her pants and panties. Then she straddled Yardley’s chest, grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms up over her head.

“You’re my slut,” she said.

Yardley’s heart pounded.

“Say it!”

“I’m your slut.”

“That’s better,” Deven said. “Now prove it.”

She inched up until her pussy was on Yardley’s mouth. “You’re going to get what you give so make it as good or as bad as you want,” she said.

Yardley stuck her tongue out.

It touched flesh.

The flesh pushed back, increasing the contact.

It was moist.

It felt like a deep kiss.

Sanders Cave
was a private investigator with a second-floor office on Larimer Street between 14
^th
Street and 15
^th
Street in downtown Denver. Yardley pushed into his office at 4:45 p.m., set a briefcase on his desk and said, “I need to have a man investigated.”

Cave opened the briefcase and took a quick look.

Inside was money, flat and green.

He closed the lid.

He wasn’t overly big, five-nine or ten, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own. His 29-year-old waist was non-existent, his abs were rippled, and his arms, while not overly bulky, could do pull-ups and pushups until dawn. Even though he smoked he could still run a mile under five minutes, three or four of them if he got motivated enough.

Face wise, he was the closest anyone could look to James Dean without actually being James Dean.

He wore a gray summer-weight suit with the jacket hanging on a rack over in the corner. Next to it was a Fedora.

At feet level he wore spit-shined wingtips, almost impossible to find nowadays but worth the hunt. He had four more pair just like them in his closet back home.

He looked at Yardley.

“How thorough of an investigation are you looking for?”

“As thorough as you can make it.”

He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, tapped two out, lit them from a match and handed one to Yardley.

“You look liked you just got screwed,” he said. “Who do you want investigated?”

“His name’s Peter Smyth. He lives in Miami.”

Cave blew smoke.

“How soon do you want a report?”

“Yesterday.”

He cocked his head.

“I’ll leave tonight.”

16

Day One

July 18

Monday Evening

Pantage’s thoughts
were fatigued and losing focus, which wasn’t unusual for this late in the day. On her credenza was a photograph of her and another young woman with their arms around each other, tanned, wearing summer attire, on a beach with crashing surf in the background, smiling and facing whoever it was that was snapping the lens. Wind was blowing their hair. Their eyes twinkled.

Clearly they were good friends.

Pantage was three or four years younger then.

She had no memory of the person she was standing with.

She had no memory of where they were.

She removed the photo from the glass to see if there was an inscription on the back.

There was.

It said,
London and Chiara, Big Sur.

It was dated four years ago.

The handwriting wasn’t hers.

The other woman had dark features, possibly Italian. Chiara sounded like an Italian name. That name must refer to the friend, meaning London referred to her. She studied her face to see if it was a twin sister she had no memory of. If the woman was a twin, she was an identical one.

No.

That was Pantage.

It wasn’t someone else, even if identical.

So why did the inscription say London instead of Pantage?

Was London a nickname?

She stuffed the photo in her purse and the frame in the credenza.

The Noblia on her wrist said 5:55.

It was time to meet Drift.

Suddenly a figure appeared
in the doorway, Renn-Jaa Tan, the Hong Kong flower from next door. She was stylishly dressed in expensive threads tapered to show off a tight little waist. Her hair was thick and black, parted in the middle and cascaded halfway down her back. At five-two she wasn’t big and had a chest to match. Her face had a hypnotically erotic edge. Pantage doubted that there was a guy in the firm who wouldn’t lay down a twenty just to give it a good lick.

“Knock, knock,” she said. “You okay?”

Pantage nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What are you up to tonight?”

“The detective’s going to pick me up.”

“What for?”

“Ostensibly to protect me.”

Renn-Jaa stepped closer and put a devious look on her face. “You better lay him like you own him because if you don’t I will.”

Pantage smiled.

“You’re such a poet.”

“I’m serious.”

“Hey, let me ask you something,” she said. “Does the name London mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, it’s a big city in England.”

Pantage rolled her eyes.

“Get serious for a minute,” she said. “Does anyone around here ever call me that?”

“No, lots of other things, but not that. Why?”

“No reason, I guess.”

She headed for the door.

“Remember what I said about that detective,” Renn-Jaa said.

“Don’t worry. It’s indelibly imprinted in my brain.”

17

Day One

July 18

Monday Night

Monday night after dark
a heavy thunderstorm swept out of the mountains and rolled over Denver with an evil intent. Drift grabbed a fresh Bud Light from the fridge, topped off Pantage’s wine, and said, “Follow me.” He took her to the garage and rolled up the door. Thick bullets of water shot down on the driveway.

The sound was like music.

The wetness of the air tasted like candy.

Backed into the garage, facing outward, was a 1967 Corvette convertible, red over black, a driver more than a trailer-queen, with one headlight stuck in the up position. There was supposedly a way to manually wind it down but Drift hadn’t figured it out yet. Under the hood was the standard 327, not the insane big-block by any means, but not exactly a sleeper either. The numbers matched and the wheels were the original knock-offs.

Drift held the passenger door open for Pantage, then scooted behind the wheel and took a long swallow of beer. Watching the storm from this vantage point in the world was the equivalent of a Brian de Palma movie, say “Body Double.”

“This is my favorite thing in the world,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone. It clears your head.”

“So does slamming into a fire hydrant,” Pantage said.

Drift smiled.

Pantage exhaled and put her hand on Drift’s arm.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

Her voice was serious.