Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (8 page)

Two blocks later, the woman stopped and studied something in the window. Tripp hung back and assessed the situation. Then the woman grabbed a man walking past, handed him her cell phone and stuck a pose. The man pointed the phone at her, obviously taking a picture.

She said Thanks and kept walking.

Tripp followed.

Suddenly a sinking feeling grabbed him.

Had the woman spotted him?

Had she asked the man to actually take a picture of Tripp instead of her?

Had she already emailed it to someone with a text message?—This man is following me.

He broke off.

And walked the other way.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Evening

______________

THE VW SAT IN THE DRIVEWAY. Rave walked around nervously inside the house, occasionally adjusting the windows and repositioning the curtains, making it apparent that she was home in case anyone was watching. If she was going to be prey, she needed the predator to see her.

Parker sat on the floor in the bedroom.

Leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out.

Hidden.

Waiting.

On the floor next to him sat a large survival knife.

And a baseball bat.

Both purchased with cash this afternoon. Rave would feel better if he had a gun, but when she mentioned it, Parker just laughed and told her not to worry about it. He occasionally flipped the knife in the air and caught it by the handle. Billie Holiday came from the CD player, barely audible so it didn’t become a communications barrier.

Rave flopped down on the couch and lit a joint.

Parker must have smelled it because he said, “That’s not a good idea.”

“Probably not,” she said.

And then took another drag.

The world softened.

A layer of stress peeled off and floated away.

She wasn’t sure she should approach the subject on her mind but decided to just go for it. “So are you and London sleeping together?”

“Why?”

“No reason,” she said. “Just curious.”

“No.”

“Not now? Or not ever?”

“Both.”

Rave exhaled.

“And no to your next question too,” Parker added.

“Which question is that?”

“Whether I have a girlfriend.”

She chuckled.

“Well someone’s a little full of himself,” she said.

“Are you saying you weren’t going to ask?”

“I don’t know if I was or not,” she said.

“How about you?” he asked.

“No and no.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah, good,” Parker said.

SHE FINISHED THE JOINT and looked at her watch—seven o’clock. “I should probably start getting ready,” she said, referring to the evening gig at the Old Orleans.

“I want you to get ready exactly as you always do,” Parker said.

“Exactly?”

Right.

“But you’re in the room.”

“Forget I’m here,” he said.

She swallowed, pushed herself off the couch and walked into the bedroom. She stopped next to the bed, pulled the T-shirt over her head and tossed it on the covers. Then she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra and threw it on top of the T-shirt.

Next her socks came off.

Then her jeans.

Then her panties.

She walked over to the closet, opened the door and sifted through her wardrobe, feeling sexy and looking for something to match her mood. She chose a short black dress with a plunging neckline, pulled it off the hanger and laid it on the bed. She pulled a white thong from the top dresser drawer and tossed it on top of the dress.

Then she walked into the bathroom.

Left the door open.

Adjusted the shower temperature.

And stepped in.

Parker could see her from where he sat. The shower doors were clear glass. She’d be partially distorted by the water, but not much.

She put her head under the spray until her hair was soaked.

Then shampooed.

Imagining how she looked with her arms up and her breasts stretched high.

She had a good body.

She knew that.

But was it good enough for Parker?

With the shampoo still in her hair, she grabbed the bar of soap and worked it over her body.

Wishing that the door would suddenly open.

And that Parker would step inside.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Evening

______________

TECHNICALLY, TEFFINGER didn’t have jurisdiction to investigate Jena Vellone’s disappearance, so he and Geneva filed a missing-person report with Cherry Hills P.D. and asked for permission to run a “parallel” investigation, meaning that Teffinger would take the lead and keep them in the loop. At first they were hesitant, since Teffinger had been the last person to see Jena safe and alive. But Teffinger’s chief called and staked his personal reputation on the fact that Teffinger wasn’t involved in any way, form or shape.

That tipped the scales.

Of course, Teffinger still couldn’t take possession of physical evidence, so Cherry Hills took the bloody sheets. They’d use the CBI to run a DNA analysis and determine if the blood belonged to Jena, a third-party, or a combination of the two.

None of Jena’s neighbors saw anything.

Or knew anything.

The prints lifted from Jena’s house didn’t trigger any database matches. Trace evidence got collected, but nothing that could identify the perpetrator.

Squat.

Squat.

Squat.

Rule out robbery, though.

Lots of good stuff in plain sight didn’t get taken.

Whoever came in wanted Jena.

Not her things.

Jena’s emails, computer files and personal effects didn’t point towards stalkers or weirdos in her life. Plus, that’s the kind of thing she would have told either Teffinger or Geneva about in any event.

No ransom calls came in.

Teffinger was alone in homicide, wondering what to do next, when darkness fell on the city. He looked at the coffee pot—usually his friend—and determined that his hands were already shaking too much.

Not good.

He grabbed his sport coat, walked down the stairwell to the parking garage and headed home.

On the way his cell phone rang.

And London’s voice came through.

“I thought we were going to get together tonight,” she said.

“Tomorrow might be better,” he warned. “I’m not very good company right now.”

She didn’t care.

“We can just hang out at your house if you don’t feel like doing anything.” He gave her directions and then tried to remember if his house was a minor or major disaster area.

Major, he decided.

And stepped on the gas.

LONDON SHOWED UP just as the streetlights kicked on. She wore a sleeveless white dress, short enough that it would lift up to her cheeks if she reached above her head. Teffinger couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman so beautiful. She handed him a bottle of white wine and said, “This is in case you decide to get me drunk.”

“Actually, that sounds like a pretty good plan,” he said. “You want to grab a glass? They’re in that top cabinet right there.”

She walked over.

Then gave him a sideways look. “You better turn your head,” she said.

“Towards you or away?” he said.

She chuckled.

Then waited until he looked away.

“Did you wear that dress for me?” Teffinger asked.

“Actually it’s for me,” she said. “Otherwise I’d be nude.”

He made a concerned face.

“We certainly don’t want that,” he said.

Alley walked into the room.

London picked him up and said, “He’s like a little, furry you.”

“Or I’m like a big him,” Teffinger said. “It’s a raging debate.”

Teffinger lived in a split-level ranch near the top of Green Mountain, third house from the end, on a cul-de-sac. The mountain slanted down to the back of his property, leaving almost no backyard. But he built a redwood deck off the side of the mountain that was higher than his roofline. Up there, at night, you could see the city lights all the way from Boulder to the Tech Center.

That’s where he took London, after getting her a sweater.

She was impressed but said, “I’ll bet it’s even better from the top of the mountain.”

“True,” Teffinger said.

“Show me.”

“It’s a half hour hike,” he said. “In the daylight.”

“Are you scared?”

He chuckled.

“Okay, but remember, you asked for it.”

He stuffed a blanket, three cans of Bud and the bottle of wine into a small backpack and then led London up the draw towards the transmission tower at the top of Green Mountain. Each step brought them closer to the barking of coyotes.

“Remember, if they attack, you don’t have to be able to run faster than them,” he said. “You only have to be able to run faster than me.”

“I heard that joke before, except with bears.”

“It works with anything that has teeth.”

“I see.”

“I tried it once with chickens,” he said. “It didn’t work.”

“Because they don’t have teeth.”

“There you go.”

When they got to the top and settled down on the blanket with drinks in hand, the trip was worth it. It seemed like they were in an airplane, coming in for a night landing.

They laid on their backs and looked at the stars.

Teffinger knew this was the point where he was supposed to roll over and take her, but he couldn’t get Jena Vellone out of his head. Wherever she was, Teffinger was to blame. Not fully, but at least partially.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Afternoon

______________

AFTER BREAKING OFF FROM LAUREN LONG, Tripp headed back to his car, which was parked on the south edge of downtown not far from the library, two rows over from where the woman had parked. Cotton clouds floated in from the mountains, typical for an April afternoon in Denver. The temperature was nice.

Tripp felt good.

But being around all the women downtown had made him horny. Maybe he should call that escort—the one he partied with at The Church on Tuesday—and collect what she owed him.

That sounded good.

But a fresh woman sounded even better.

Lauren Long would be perfect.

But he dared not take her today.

She’d be incredibly fun, once the time came. As soon as she disappeared, the activity would be deafening. Mr. Daddy Big-Shot would launch an army to find his precious little baby. That was the beauty of the thing. It reminded Tripp of when he was a kid and spotted a pile of ants on the sidewalk, thousands of them, all in one spot for some stupid reason, just asking to be stepped on. As soon as he did that, every single little black spec went into a panic, scampering this way and that way as fast as possible. But not a bit of it did any good. Nothing could undo what had already been done.

That’s what Lauren Long would be like.

After he took her.

He walked south.

Coming up on the library and the art museum.

The Denver Public Library was pretty cool from an architectural viewpoint. It looked like several different buildings joined together, which could have turned out terrible, but didn’t. The Denver Art Museum, on the other hand, was a disaster. It was a silver titanium abstract shape with non-vertical walls that came to triangular points. It looked like a Picasso cube on acid that had fallen out of the sky, which could have turned out cool, but didn’t.

The parking lot came into view.

One more block and he’d be there.

Suddenly footsteps approached from behind.

TRIPP TURNED TO SEE TWO MEN. They were tall, muscular, and walking fast. They both stared directly into his eyes as they approached, like predators.

Vampires?

He could take either one of them by themselves, but wouldn’t have a chance against both at the same time.

“Hold up buddy,” one of them said.

Tripp stopped and turned all the way around.

Facing them.

His heart racing.

“Why were you following Lauren Long?”

Then it made sense.

They must be the woman’s bodyguards.

They must have been walking behind her, giving the woman space, and spotted Tripp.

He turned and said over his shoulder, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turned away and continued walking.

Then one of them said, “Hey, wait a minute, one more thing.”

When Tripp turned, the man was already swinging at his face. Then Tripp’s head exploded in colors, he fell, and his forehead bounced off the concrete.

Seriously hurt.

Disoriented.

“We’re not going to be as friendly next time. Do you understand?”

A minute later he was muscling himself into a standing position when a woman ran over.

“I saw what those two men did!” she said. “I got a picture of them with my cell phone.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Night

______________

AT THE OLD ORLEANS, the stress made Rave drink more than she should, but it didn’t affect the performance. If anything, it loosened her up and let her get further out on the edge.

The people noticed.

And hollered and hooted to prove it.

The place was dark and packed with sexual tension.

Perfect.

Well, not totally perfect.

Parker wasn’t there.

His theory was that the slayers wouldn’t make a move in public, so she was safe inside the club. And it would be better if Parker wasn’t seen in Rave’s vicinity any more than necessary. So he hung around outside the club, in the shadows, watching the entrance. If Rave spotted anyone conspicuous inside—say a man by himself, not drinking, studying her every move—she was supposed to call and describe the guy. So far, however, that hadn’t happened.

She was belting out a spirited version of Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” when she spotted a familiar face at the bar.