Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (14 page)

She had a point, two points in fact.

“So how do you explain the envelope?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“I don’t. I just shoot down your theories.”

SHE PUNCHED THE RADIO SCANNER and landed on The Beach Boys’ “Fun, Fun, Fun.” Teffinger pulled her hand away before she could skip past. She let it play and said, “So what did your new squeeze do with all the money?”

“What money?”

“You don’t know about the money?”

“No.”

“Well, she owns a house in San Francisco. You know about that, right?”

No.

He didn’t.

“Anyway, she took out an equity loan not too long ago.”

“For how much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Thousand?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m still checking up on her for you.”

He gave her a sideways look and said, “I asked you not to do that.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“I don’t know. Two years—”

“So what makes you think I’m going to start listening to you now?”

AT HEADQUARTERS, TEFFINGER TOOK THE STAIRS two at a time to the sixth floor and managed to catch Paul Kubiak just as he was about to escape. Teffinger must have had a look on his face like he needed Kubiak’s help and needed it now, because Kubiak frowned and said, “Two minutes; if I had just left two minutes earlier.”

Teffinger handed him an evidence bag and explained about the envelope and photos inside. “I need everything in here printed ASAP, as in, Do you have it done yet?” he said. “Whoever handled it may be the one who took Tessa Blake.”

Kubiak cocked his head.

“You have no idea how starved I am,” he said.

Teffinger looked at his watch.

5:23.

“I’ll have some pizza delivered,” he said.

“Your treat?”

Teffinger nodded.

“You’re not going to look in your wallet after it gets here like last time and say, Gee, I could have sworn I had a twenty in there.”

“That was a one time deal,” Teffinger said. “Plus I said I’d pay you back.”

“But you never did.”

“But I said I would.”

Kubiak rolled his eyes.

“Tell you what,” Kubiak said. “Let’s have a look in your wallet right now, just to be sure.”

“What? You don’t trust me? Just because of one little innocent mistake?”

“Sure I trust you,” Kubiak said. “But why don’t we have a tiny little look-see anyway?”

Teffinger pulled out his wallet and opened it to show he had money.

Except he didn’t.

He had two dollars.

That was it.

“I knew it!” Kubiak said.

Teffinger looked bewildered.

“Hey, I’m as surprised as you,” he said. “So I’ll tell you what, I’ll order the pizza and pay, except you’ll need to advance me the money.”

“Unbelievable,” Kubiak said. Then he put a somber look on his face. “Are you serious about the prints?”

“Deadly,” Teffinger said. “Come on. We’re wasting time.”

40

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Morning

JEKKER CHAINED TESSA BLAKE in the boxcar, just to be good and sure she couldn’t escape, and wound down Highway 74 out of the mountains under a cerulean Colorado sky. He picked up a large cup of caffeine at the Conoco in Morrison, then headed for the Denver skyline and got to his LoDo loft by 9:00 a.m.

He had a lot to do today, but first he got the coffee going and took a hot shower.

Then he got on the web and researched Cayman banks. He opened an account by phone and then wire transferred all the funds from his checking and savings accounts.

$4.2 million.

When he checked his Cayman account on the Internet an hour later, all the funds were reported as received.

Perfect.

He didn’t envision his departure to Europe as necessarily permanent. If he chose to come back to the U.S. in a couple of years, it wouldn’t be a problem to get a new identity and disappear into the masses of New York, even if Tessa Blake cooperated with the cops.

Which she would, of course, once she was safe and the police pressured her—“He killed Samantha Rickenbacker. Who knows how many other poor innocent women he’ll kill if you don’t help us stop him. Do you really want all that blood on your hands?”

She’d crack in an hour.

No, thirty minutes.

So what?

It wouldn’t matter.

HIS CONTACT CALLED AT 11:00. Forty-five minutes later, $250,000 was wire transferred into his Cayman account, reportedly from a Hong Kong bank—payment of his relocation bonus.

He felt better knowing it had arrived.

It showed good faith.

He needed exercise, right now, so he dropped to the floor and did three sets of fifty pushups, then headed outside for a five-mile run, breathing deep, letting the air clean his lungs.

HE’D JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR, still out of breath, when his phone rang; the landline, not the cell. He didn’t recognize the incoming number. A man’s voice came through. “Is this Dylan Jekker?”

It was.

“Well, Dylan Jekker, a friend of mine told me he drove off in your car by mistake the other night. He was at a strip club and got pretty drunk. The car’s an Audi. The registration in the glove box indicates it’s yours. Is that true?”

Drove off by mistake?

What a crock.

The doors were locked.

The keys weren’t in the ignition.

“Yeah, that’s mine,” Jekker said. “Where is it?”

“We can bring it to you if you want.”

“Okay, good.”

“It will need to be later this afternoon,” the man said. “That will give you time to get to the bank.”

The bank?

“What is this, a shakedown? You steal my car and now you think you can sell it back to me? You little punk—”

The man laughed.

“Steal,” the man said. “Such a strong word. I don’t know if you ever watch the news, but they’ve been airing this story about some poor woman named Samantha Rickenbacker who got killed Tuesday night. Her roommate, a sweet young thing named Tessa Blake, disappeared. The police are searching like crazy, but so far they haven’t been able to come up with that one critical clue that they need so bad.”

Jekker paced, knowing where this was going.

“Go on,” he said.

“The weirdest thing happened. It turns out that there’s an envelope under the front seat of your car,” the man said. “Inside that envelope are pictures of the woman who disappeared—Tessa Blake. We thought you probably wouldn’t mind having those pictures back. We can bring them, if you want, when we drop off the car. But we were wondering if you had a reward out for them.”

Jekker kicked a chair.

It fell over.

“Stop being cute,” he said. “How much?”

“We were thinking that a hundred thousand is a nice round number, that is, if there’s a reward out for them. We hope there is, because then you get them back and we never saw them.”

Jekker didn’t know who was on the other end of the line but he did know one thing.

It was the next person he would kill.

41

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Morning

WHEN THE EARLY RAYS OF DAWN worked their way into the bedroom, London reminded herself that she didn’t get to bed until two in the morning because of the redeye, and that it was way too early to get up. But the anticipation of the upcoming day wouldn’t let her get back to sleep.

So she threw off the sheets and took a shower.

Wearing shorts and a pink T-shirt, she peddled the Trek to the McDonald’s on Alameda, sat down at a corner table and propped herself up with caffeine. She no longer had any doubts that a human trafficking conspiracy existed and that it emanated from Denver.

But where in Denver, exactly?

Vesper & Bennett?

At first she had thought, yes, absolutely, based on a number of things: Venta had a feeling that the firm who called her was large. The call came from a payphone in the lobby of the V&B’s building. V&B was in the process of opening an office in Bangkok. Thomas Fog was willing to cough up twenty grand without much of a fight. Fog wanted a comprehensive release, one broad enough to wipe out torts, conspiracies and any other type of action. Someone ran London off the road on her bike, and maybe even tried to kill her, not long after she made contact with V&B. Someone slashed Venta’s tires.

But now she had new information.

The calls to Rebecca Vampire had come from the lobby of a different building. That didn’t mean that someone from V&B hadn’t walked over there and made them, but it did raise at least a shadow of a doubt, enough to make London focus on the flip side of the V&B “evidence.”

ANYONE COULD HAVE USED THE PHONE in the lobby of V&B’s building. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for V&B to agree to pay an alleged claim by a P.I., even if it was highly questionable, if for no other reason than to avoid the cost, time and embarrassment of a trial. Twenty grand was chump change. If V&B was going to pay an alleged claim, it also wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for a standard release. Finally, there was no telling who ran London off the road. It could have been some drunk or someone who just didn’t see her. Teenagers could have slashed Venta’s tires.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized just how thin the case against V&B was.

No, thin wasn’t even the word.

Microscopic.

If she filed the case at this point, the court would have no option but to bounce it out on its ass, and would probably assess attorney fees against her for bringing it.

Not good.

VENTA PICKED HER UP AN HOUR LATER, looking like the winner of the genetic gene pool. She wore an aqua tank top and abbreviated white shorts that showcased tanned muscular legs. Unlike yesterday in Miami, when she had her hair in a ponytail, it now hung loose and full.

Very exotic.

“How’s Teffinger?” London asked.

“He scares me,” Venta said.

What?

Why?

“If he’s reckless with me, I’m going to break.”

London nodded.

“That’s the problem. The higher you go, the farther you fall. It’s called gravity. The secret is to pack an emotional parachute, just in case.”

“How do you do that?” Venta asked.

“I don’t know. Just be sure you don’t dump all your friends, I guess.”

“I want you to meet him.”

“Really?”

Venta nodded.

“Yeah. Would you mind?”

No, she wouldn’t.

Not at all.

They found a free 2-hour parking spot near 10th and Bannock and then headed over to the financial district, an easy fifteen minute hike. When they got to the Republic Plaza Building, they found a cluster of public payphones. Venta dialed the number that had been used to call Rebecca Vampire.

No ringing.

They found another cluster.

Same thing.

No ringing.

They finally located the phone they were looking for on the fourth try. It turned out to be near a restaurant at the north edge of the building.

“Maybe someone from V&B was over here at another law firm for depositions or something. He ate at the restaurant and made the calls either before or after,” Venta said.

“Were the calls made around the noon hour?” London asked.

Venta shrugged.

“I don’t remember. We’ll have to ask Mackenzie.”

THE BUILDING DIRECTORY listed hundreds of tenants. Venta pulled a small spiral notebook out of her purse and began writing down every one that could be a law firm.

Then something weird happened.

Two Asian men walked across the lobby, immaculately dressed in suits and ties, looking like lawyers, intense, on a mission, carrying leather briefcases.

Venta squeezed London’s elbow and said, “Follow them!”

42

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Morning

TESSA BLAKE’S BODY HADN’T SHOWN UP YET, at least as of last night. Until and unless it did, Teffinger was prepared to treat her as alive even though lots of contemporaries would say that he was trying to blow smoke upwind. He got up an hour before daybreak and jogged in the dark.

Venta’s perfume hung on him.

It was barely perceptible but strong enough to pull up the memory of last night, when she got back from Miami and crawled into bed at two in the morning, horny, not in the mood to be denied, as if Teffinger could or would.

Venta.

Venta.

Venta.

Who was she?

Where was she taking him?

He picked up the pace, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn. What he really needed was a full workout at 24-Hour Fitness every day for a month but that hadn’t happened in over three years when he took over as the head of the homicide unit.

Back home, he smelled coffee.

Venta was in the kitchen making pancakes, wearing one of his T-shirts.

“You’re going to abandon me today,” she said. “I can already tell.”

He walked over and pulled up the shirt to see if she wore anything underneath.

She didn’t.

He slapped her ass.

It hardly moved.

“Got to,” he said. “But I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Right.” He poured a cup of coffee, headed for the shower and added over his shoulder, “Up to ten dollars.” She stuck her tongue out. “By the way, did I say thanks for the coffee?”

“No.”

“I will,” he said.

HE ATE PANCAKES FROM A PLATE IN HIS LAP as he drove to headquarters. The FBI profiler, Dr. Leanne Sanders, was sitting at his desk working on something when he walked into the room—a surprise. The aroma of caffeine floated in the air.

She glanced at her watch and said, “You used to get up early.”

He gave her a sideways look and headed for the pot.

As he poured a cup he said, “The first rule of the forest is, don’t mess with Sasquatche before he’s had his coffee.”

She grinned.

“Good analogy, except we’re not in a forest, and you’re not Sasquatche.”

Then she laughed as if she had just heard a joke.

“What?” he asked, curious.