Lawyer Trap (17 page)

Sydney cocked her head.

“I think you might be going a tad too far,” she said. “That doesn't necessarily mean he knew he was going to kill her. It could just mean he knew he was going to kill someone.”

Teffinger understood her reasoning but didn't buy it.

“I really don't see him planning a future date for a random target,” he said. “But I do see him planning a future date for a specific target.”

“Possibly,” Sydney said. “But maybe his specific target petered out for some reason and he went to Plan B.”

Teffinger hadn't thought of that.

She was right.

“Either way,” he said, “we need to recreate March 15th in the life of Brad Ripley, which is the day he knew he would kill someone two weeks later. If we have multiple killers, they obviously coordinated and communicated with each other. It looks like one of those communications took place on March 15th. So I want to know the details about every phone call he made or received on that day. I want to know everyone he met with and everywhere he went that day.”

He combed his hair back with his fingers and read the discouragement on their faces.

“I know,” he said. “We're looking at tough, tedious work.”

After the meeting broke up, he went straight to the restroom. He was standing at the urinal when his cell phone rang, and he wasn't sure whether to answer it or not.

He did.

The voice of FBI profiler Leigh Sandt came through. “We're about 99 percent sure at this point that the guy in your snuff film is who you thought, Brad Ripley, based on body size and posture. We'll know a hundred percent after we get his clothes.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate you getting to it so fast.”

She hesitated and then said, “Where are you right now?”

He shook his head.

“You don't want to know.”

“Are you taking a piss?”

“Maybe.”

“This is so gross,” she said. “You have me in one hand and Mister Happy in the other. I feel downright violated.”

Before he could zip up, the phone rang again. This time it was the coroner, Robert Nelson. “I looked at that film like you wanted,” he said. “I don't think the guy in there killed Catherine Carmichael or Angela Pfeiffer. As to the other woman, I don't know one way or the other.”

“Why not Catherine Carmichael or Angela Pfeiffer?”

“Well,” Nelson said, “unless I'm totally reading things wrong, the guy in the film is left-handed. The slit on Catherine Carmichael's throat appears to be from someone who's right-handed. So do the stab wounds to Angela Pfeiffer.”

“What makes you think he's left-handed?”

“That just seems to be his dominant hand,” Nelson said. “But you should be able to ask a few people who knew him and confirm it fairly easily, one way or the other.”

That was true.

But if Nelson was correct, then they were definitely dealing with more than one killer. Meaning that Rachel Ringer's killer was still on the loose. Which also meant that Aspen Wilde was still in potential danger.

47

DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12

MONDAY

A
spen felt pretty good following her lunch meeting with Tef-finger, until he called later and told her he had a solid reason to believe that Brad Ripley hadn't killed Rachel after all, meaning she should continue to take every safety precaution.

“Gee, you really know how to cheer a girl up,” she said.

He didn't lose his serious edge.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?”

“At Christina Tam's house.”

“Give me the address.” She did. “That's actually not far from my place. I'll try to drive by a couple of times.”

“Stop in if you do.”

She worked her little billable ass off all afternoon, intent on having the right numbers at the end of the month. Then Christina walked in shortly before five and closed the door.

“So what's the plan?”

“The plan's changing,” Aspen said. “Earlier today, I thought it would be best to snoop around and find out if this Brad Ripley guy had any connection to Rachel, or Derek Bennett or Cruella. But now Teffinger is thinking that Ripley isn't Rachel's killer.” She twirled a pencil in her fingers. “So instead I'm thinking we should focus on Derek Bennett.”

“Focus how?”

Aspen shrugged.

“I don't know. Maybe we start in his office, tonight after everyone leaves.”

Christina put her hand up.

“That's too risky.”

“Not really,” Aspen said. “I'll go inside with my cell phone set on vibrate. You stand lookout down the hall and call me if anyone's coming.”

Christina didn't seem impressed.

“Bad idea,” she said. “It's too risky. And if he actually is involved in Rachel's death somehow, he's not exactly going to draft a memo about it and leave it sitting on his desk.”

Aspen considered it.

Christina was probably right.

“So we need to look outside the office, is what you're saying.”

“I don't know what I'm saying.”

“Like a good old-fashioned stakeout or something,” she added.

Derek Bennett lived in a Greenwood Village mansion and drove a silver BMW flagship. That night, after dark, Aspen and Christina parked down the street from his house, not really expecting anything to happen.

But it did.

Bennett pulled out shortly after eight-thirty, and they followed.

“We're officially crazy at this point,” Christina said.

“You watch,” Aspen said. “He's going to lead us straight to more bodies.”

“Yeah, ours.”

Bennett wound his way to I-25, headed north, drove all the way through Denver and out the other side, and finally exited at 56th Avenue. A mile or so later, he pulled into an industrial park. Aspen continued down the road and then circled back.

“There it is,” Christina said, pointing.

Sure enough, Bennett's BMW was parked in front of a detached brick building, in the company of eight or ten other vehicles. They killed the lights and drove past. The only signage consisted of small white lettering on the door.

Tops & Bottoms.

“What the hell is this?”

Aspen backed into a dark deserted area about fifty yards away and killed the engine. Then she pulled out her cell phone, called information to get the number for Tops & Bottoms, and dialed.

She got a recording.

A sexy female voice.

She listened and then looked at Christina. “The best I can tell, it's some kind of a dungeon.”

Christina slapped the car seat.

“Do you mean to tell me that Derek Bennett, senior partner in our prestigious law firm, is in that building over there, even as we speak, chained naked to a cross and getting his cock whipped by some lady?”

Aspen grunted.

“No more visuals, please,” she said. “Or it could be the other way around. He might be a top, working some woman over. Or a guy, even.”

They waited.

Just to see how long he stayed.

It turned out to be an hour.

“The old Richard's got to be hurting a truckload,” Christina said.

“All red and irritated,” Aspen said.

“Wondering what it ever did to justify all this.”

After Derek Bennett pulled his BMW into the night and disappeared, Aspen started the engine and pointed the Honda towards the street, but instead swung into a parking space in front of Tops & Bottoms at the last second.

“I'm going in,” she said.

Christina unbuckled her seatbelt. “Then I'm coming with you.”

“No,” Aspen said. “That'll look too suspicious, like we're cops or something. Just wait here.”

The door opened into a small waiting room with barren white walls, no chairs or furniture, a red door, and a sign that stated this is not a place of prostitution and that it is against the law to solicit a sexual act. Aspen hadn't been in the room more than ten seconds when the red door opened and a woman walked in.

She was strikingly beautiful, young—younger even than Aspen—and wore her breasts falling out. She looked Aspen up and down, then hugged her and said, “‘I'm Jasmine. We don't get many women.”

Aspen shifted from one foot to the other, nervous.

“I'm Aspen. I'm not sure you have me yet,” she said. “I just stopped in to get more information.”

“Have you visited our website?”

“No. I didn't even know you had one.”

Jasmine turned, opened the red door with one hand and grabbed Aspen's hand with the other.

“Follow me,” she said.

They entered a hallway and walked past several doors, each painted in a different cartoon color. Aspen felt weird, holding a woman's hand, but didn't pull away. They entered the room with the green door. And Jasmine said, “This is our green room.”

It was a well-equipped dungeon with a hospital smell.

“It's fully soundproof and totally private,” Jasmine said. “Are you a top or a bottom?”

Aspen knew she better have an answer.

Quickly.

The thought of surrendering control to a stranger terrified her.

“A top,” she said.

Jasmine smiled. “No problem. We have three subs working tonight. None of them have any problem surrendering to a woman. I think you'd especially like Antoinette. She'll do bondage, light spanking, cum control, obedience training, submissive wrestling, and just about anything else you might have in mind.”

Aspen pictured it.

“The room's totally soundproof,” Jasmine added. “And totally private. There are no cameras or anything like that. Whatever happens in here is between you and your sub. The rate is a hundred dollars an hour for the room, which goes to the house. The girls work for tips. The minimum tip rate is a hundred an hour. So, would you like to meet some of the girls?”

Aspen nodded.

“Sure. Why not?”

48

DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12

MONDAY AFTERNOON

O
n the way back to Denver, Draven swung by the stripper's apartment. She scrunched her face as she looked at the Granada and almost didn't get in, but changed her mind when he handed her the remaining eight hundred dollars.

“Nice ride,” she said, sliding over on the bench seat until she was next to him.

“My Porsche is in the shop.”

Her face brightened.

“You have a Porsche?”

“A 911 Turbo,” he said, which was true. That, his house on the beach, and his whole other existence was in Malibu, all under his real name, Jack Brentwood.

“Red, I hope.”

“That's the only color,” he said. “If it ain't red, it's dead.”

She rubbed her hand on his thigh. “Do you want to know what I have in store for you, for paying me so well?”

He pulled into traffic.

“Sure, why not?”

She moved her hand to his cock.

“Okay,” she said. “But don't come before we get there.”

He drugged her on the way to the cabin, then carried her into the second bedroom, stripped her down to her thong, and secured her spread-eagled to the bed, double-checking the knots to be absolutely sure there was no way she could escape.

Then he walked into Mia Avila's room, carrying the logbook that he'd gotten from her tattoo shop, and bitch-slapped her across the face before she could make a sound.

“You screwed with me,” he said. “That was a very wrong career move.”

She mumbled something through the gag.

He could pry the safe combination out of her, but he really didn't care about it anymore. He already had the logbook, which was the main thing. Without that, the police wouldn't be smart enough to tie him to the other woman getting the tattoo, Isella Ramirez. And without her, they wouldn't get a description of him.

Plus he'd had enough of that stupid town.

It stunk.

It stunk with biker heat.

It stunk with cop heat.

Better to just stay away.

His phone rang, and Swofford's voice came through.

“How you coming on that stripper?”

“Done deal,” he said. “She's already at the destination.”

“Good. What'd you decide to do with the other woman?”

“She ended up pissing me off, so I've got something special planned for her. Something slow.”

“As long as she doesn't turn into a problem.”

“She won't,” he said.

49

DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12

MONDAY EVENING

T
effinger had been the only one in homicide for some time now. When the windows turned black and started to reflect the fluorescent ceiling lights, and he had to fight to stay focused, he knew the useful part of the day had come to an end.

He headed to Davica's.

She fed him.

Then they ended up in the garage, sitting in the ′67 Vette in the dark, drinking Bud Light from the bottle.

“Heaven,” he said.

“Rough day?”

“Not really,” he said. “A rough day is when I'm the victim and someone else is doing the investigation.”

She smiled.

Headlights came up the street and swept a pattern of light across the garage walls. Then they disappeared and everything returned to black. Teffinger held his hand up in front of his face and couldn't see it.

“Dark,” he said.

“Sort of weird,” she said.

He agreed.

“Good weird, though.”

Halfway through the second round, he told her about the day.

“This Brad Ripley guy is getting more and more interesting,” he said. “It turns out that the woman he killed, Tonya Obenchain, the real estate agent, disappeared between two house showings, sometime between one and three in the afternoon. Today we found out that Ripley was in a meeting during that time period, all afternoon in fact.”