Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (4 page)

Chapter Eleven

Day Two—April 13

Wednesday Morning

______________

TEFFINGER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO with Alley, so he brought him up to homicide, found Chief Tanker’s office empty, and stuck him in. Then he wrote “Free Cat Inside” on a piece of paper and taped it to the door. An hour later he got notified that the computer geeks got Cameron Leigh’s laptop opened.

He was at his desk, drinking coffee and checking out the victim’s files, when Alley jumped up and stared at him.

“This isn’t going to happen,” Teffinger said.

The cat curled up on a manila file.

And closed one eye.

Then the other.

Teffinger almost picked it up and put it back in the chief’s office, but noticed a file called Passwords and pulled it up. It had a list of passwords, PINS and lock combinations. The one of most interest was the woman’s AOL email address with the password DENVERVAMP.

He logged on to the net and pulled up the victim’s emails.

What he saw he could hardly believe.

Sydney walked into the room and Teffinger waved her over. She made a pit stop at the coffee pot and focused on Alley as she headed over.

“No pets allowed in the office,” she said.

“Not funny.”

She slurped the coffee.

“You look too happy,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re in Cameron Leigh’s emails. Here’s the last one she sent, which happened to be at 8:07 on Sunday night—the night she got killed. Read it.”

She did.

It was to someone named Pamela.

The important part of it said, I saw some guy twice today in different locations. I got a creepy feeling that he was following me because the first time I saw him was downtown and then next time was in the parking lot of my grocery store an hour ago. If I turn up dead, be sure they put KILLED BY A SKINHEAD WITH LOTS OF TATTOOS on my gravestone.

Sydney looked at Teffinger.

Stunned.

“You got to love technology,” she said.

“Yes you do.”

“And karma,” she added.

“What do you mean?”

“You adopt Alley and now good luck’s coming your way.”

“I did not adopt that fur ball,” Teffinger said.

“Then why is he on your desk?”

Teffinger ignored her and typed an email to Pamela, whoever she was, asking her to call him. With any luck, she knew more about the skinhead than just this email.

TWO MINUTES LATER, he was in a conference room with Sydney and Sergeant Katie Baxter, who wore her hair short and her smile big. Alley scooted in just before Teffinger closed the door. Teffinger looked at the cat, said “I’ll be right back,” and stepped out. Thirty seconds later he returned with a cup of coffee.

There.

Better.

“You’re not going to be happy about my latest and greatest plan because it’s going to be 99 percent grunt work and 1 percent fun,” he said. “But here it is. First, we find out where Cameron Leigh did her grocery shopping. My guess is that it’s the King Soopers or Safeway closest to her house. Then we find out if the store has any surveillance tapes from Sunday that show the skinhead.”

“Doable,” Baxter said.

Teffinger looked at her, nodded, and purposely kept his eyes off her world-class chest.

Which wasn’t easy.

“The next part is harder,” he said. “She also got followed by Mr. Wonderful quote-unquote downtown. We need to call everyone programmed into her cell phone and see if they know where she went downtown. Then we need to locate all the surveillance cameras that may have shined on her and our skinhead friend, see if they have any tapes, and check ’em.”

“Ouch,” Sydney said.

“I want this guy’s face on the six o’clock news,” Teffinger said.

“Six o’clock of what month?” Baxter asked.

“That’s a lot of work,” Sydney added.

True.

It was.

But the woman would be dead a lot of years.

“I just had another thought,” Teffinger added. “This guy may have been hanging around the victim’s house. We need to find out if any of the neighbors saw him.”

“What about her work?” Baxter questioned.

Teffinger didn’t get excited. “She’s a teller at the Wells Fargo Bank in Lakewood, on Union, and didn’t work on Saturday or Sunday. My gut tells me that she didn’t start to get stalked until Sunday, so the bank will be a dead end. We’ll keep it on the list, but at the bottom for now.” He paused. “That’s the plan unless someone has a better one.”

No one did.

So they divvied up the work.

ON THE WAY OUT OF THE ROOM, Sydney said to Baxter, “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“What do you mean?”

“He actually kept his eyes up where they were supposed to be,” Sydney said. “Now he knows what your face looks like.”

Baxter laughed.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” she said. “I actually reached under my blouse and squeezed myself once to see if the air had come out.”

“I can hear you,” Teffinger said. “I’m right here.”

“We know,” Sydney said.

“We just don’t care,” Baxter added.

They split up.

The fur ball followed in Teffinger’s wake down the three flights of stairs to the parking garage.

And ended up riding shotgun.

“This is a one-shot deal,” Teffinger said. “Don’t get used to it. And don’t think I talk to animals, because I don’t.”

Chapter Twelve

Day Two—April 13

Wednesday Night

______________

TRIPP LANDED at Denver International Airport just as the sun went down. He grabbed a Westword from a newsstand, rented a nondescript Dodge and checked into a rat-under-the-bed hotel on Colfax, paying cash. He found a high-end escort service in the back of the Westword that seemed promising.

He dialed.

Talked.

And gave a credit card number.

An hour later he was at a wildly insane downtown nightclub called The Church, dancing with an incredibly sexy dark woman who called herself Kanteese.

Tripp liked her smile.

And her body.

And her perfume.

And the way she stayed so close.

Unlike Rozeen, who was cute-beautiful, Kanteese was stately-beautiful—a modern day Sophia Loren. Tripp couldn’t figure out her ancestry, but pictured her jogging on a Mediterranean beach.

Greece, maybe.

Or southern Italy.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get the opportunity to consummate the relationship, because Jake VanDeventer called shortly after eleven and said his flight from Johannesburg had just landed at DIA.

VanDeventer wanted to meet immediately.

And what VanDeventer wanted, VanDeventer got.

After all, he was paying the bills.

Tripp made Kanteese a deal—he’d give her an extra $500.00 cash now, which she would have earned later this evening, but she would owe him a free hour of first-class sex later and would need to give him her phone number. Otherwise, she could just keep the money he’d given her already and call it even.

She opted for the $500.00.

Tripp took a picture of her with his cell phone, programmed her number in, called, listened to the phone in her purse ring, and smiled. Then he gave her a kiss and headed into the night to meet VanDeventer.

Chapter Thirteen

Day Two—April 13

Wednesday

______________

RAVE AND LONDON CRUISED SOUTH on I-25 at two under the speed limit, with the skinhead’s body in the trunk and Billie Holiday on the CD player.

They were nervous.

But not overly so.

The biggest thing was to not get pulled over or get a flat or get in an accident. The second biggest thing was to not do something stupid if one of the first biggest things happened.

So far, no problems.

The weather was clear and sunny.

The vehicle—London’s dark-blue Camry—had only 5,500 miles on the odometer and ran great.

They passed Colorado Springs, Pueblo, Trinidad and a bunch of one-store towns, but the population really dwindled after they crossed the line into New Mexico.

Twenty miles later they turned off the highway and headed into a rolling untamed terrain filled with arroyos and sagebrush. Ten miles later—after not seeing a single sign of civilization—they stopped on the asphalt and killed the engine. They put on baseball caps and dark sunglasses and stepped out.

Not a sound came from anywhere.

Two large black birds floated on silent wings high above them.

Not a wisp of air moved.

They could see a long ways down the road in both directions.

Miles.

Many miles.

They were alone.

No question about it.

“What do you think?” London asked.

“Let’s do it,” Rave said.

THEY CARRIED THE SKINHEAD’S BODY a good fifty yards off the road and dumped it in a deep arroyo. No one would be able to see it from the asphalt in a million years.

When they got back to the car there was still no one in sight.

They turned the vehicle around, being careful to stay on the asphalt and not get the tires in the dirt.

Then they headed back towards the freeway.

And didn’t encounter a single vehicle.

They headed north on I-25.

Miles later they made another diversion off the freeway.

And came to another stop.

Rave stayed at the car and kept watch.

London walked into the terrain holding the gun in a plastic bag. They had already wiped their prints off the weapon multiple times while wearing Latex gloves, to be absolutely sure that there were no remnants.

Five minutes later London walked back, waving the empty plastic bag, and said, “Done.”

“You didn’t touch it, did you?”

London rolled her eyes.

“Are you nuts? I just opened the bag and let it fall into the hole.”

“How deep is it?”

“About a foot,” London said.

“That should do it,” Rave said.

“That’ll more than do it.”

They turned around and headed back to the highway.

Not encountering a single vehicle.

Then pointed the front end of the Camry towards Denver.

Feeling good.

Singing to Madonna’s “Open Your Heart.”

If nothing unexpected happened, Rave would make it to her gig at the Old Orleans tonight just in time.

Chapter Fourteen

Day Two—April 13

Wednesday Night

______________

MOST PEOPLE ALONG THE FRONT RANGE knew Jena Vellone as the roving TV 8 reporter with the charismatic personality, the thick blond hair and the scintillating green eyes. Teffinger knew her from the high school days back in Fort Collins, when she was the ticklish tomboy down the street.

Teffinger was at his desk, alone in homicide, when she called.

“Got a proposition for you,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

The large industrial clock on the wall, the one with the twitchy second hand, said 8:02, and made Teffinger realize that he had been going nonstop on the Cameron Leigh case since six this morning.

And that his brain was fried.

“What kind of proposition?” he asked.

“There’s a blues singer down at the Old Orleans tonight who’s supposed to be incredible,” Jena said.

“Who?”

“I don’t remember her name, some woman,” Jena said. “Geneva saw her and says she’s really hot. She was even chatting her up on her show this morning. Anyway, I’m going to let you take me to see her. And if you get me drunk enough, I’m going to let you come back to my place afterwards and wrestle me.”

Déjà vu.

Teffinger had gotten this proposition before.

Lots of times.

Three or four times a year, in fact.

Always tempting.

But never good timing.

He almost said no but surprised himself and said, “I’ll make you a deal. I sort of got stuck with a cat and need a place to put him short-term, until I can find him a home. If you’ll take him for a week or so, then I’ll get you as drunk as you want tonight.”

“Really?”

Yeah.

Really.

JENA VELLONE GOT PAID WELL and her 5,000 square foot Cherry Hills ranch reflected it. When Teffinger knocked on the maple entry door, Jena gave him a quick kiss and then focused on the cat. “My God, look at those eyes! It’s like a little, furry you!” she said, taking the animal out of Teffinger’s hands. “I’m keeping him.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I mean, look at him. This is so cool.”

“His name’s Alley,” Teffinger said.

“Alley Cat,” she said.

She gave her new pet a can of tuna and a bowl of milk. It turned out that Alley’s front claws were clipped, so Jena let him roam the house as she made a makeshift litter box.

Then she took Teffinger’s arm and said, “Get me drunk, cowboy.”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER they walked into the Old Orleans and got charged $15 each at the door. Teffinger paid and said, “I expect you to defend me when people call me the cheapest guy on the face of the earth.”

“Defend you? I’m the one who’s been warning them.”

Teffinger had never been here before.

It turned out to be a large dark place with a cozy New Orleans feeling. An extremely tight band played on a stage at the far end, not overbearingly loud, letting the singer do the work—a singer who was giving an incredibly perfect interpretation of “Black Velvet.”

Considerably better than the original.

Teffinger couldn’t believe the woman’s voice.

Soulful.

Lamenting.

Modernly hypnotic.

The room was packed but Teffinger spotted some daylight between a couple of people seated at the bar and squeezed in to order.

A screwdriver for Jena.

A Bud Light for him.

Suddenly he noticed that the person sitting to his right, watching the singer, was a woman.

A black woman.

An exceptionally beautiful black woman.

With light brown skin and an exotic, island look.

She wore white shorts and an aqua tank, with her bellybutton showing. Perfectly-straight, raven-black hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist. Teffinger swallowed and debated whether he dared make a move. Then he decided he had to.