Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (15 page)

“I almost added, ‘Notwithstanding the similar IQs.’”

He grinned.

“But you didn’t say it, because you’re so nice.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That and the fact that I don’t want to insult Sasquatche.”

He laughed and then asked, “So what’s the latest and greatest with your Frenchman? What’s his name—?”

“Boudiette.”

“—Right, Boudiette.”

“He hasn’t resurfaced since he attacked me,” she said. “He’s still technically checked in at the Adams Mark Hotel downtown, but he’s un-technically AWOL.”

“Is he still in Denver?”

“My guess is yes,” she said. “We still think that the lawyer, Mark Remington, is his target. So we’re tracking him, hoping to catch Boudiette in the act.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“Probably not.”

“Why is Frenchie after the lawyer?”

“We don’t know.”

He studied her.

“How’s your head?”

She shook it, as if to test whether it was there.

“It’s still attached.”

HE SHOWED HER COPIES OF THE PICTURES of Tessa Blake and explained how the originals had been found by a highway trash crew. She confirmed that they were the kind that would be given to a hit man.

“Maybe Frenchie,” Teffinger said.

“Right,” she said. “Except he wasn’t in Denver yet.”

He put a disappointed look on his face.

“You sure know how to ruin a good theory with facts.”

“Here’s another fact,” she said. “A hit man wouldn’t throw pictures of a target out a car window. That’s what shredders are for.”

“So what do you make of them?”

She took a closer look.

“They were definitely taken with a telephoto lens,” she said. “And you can tell by her face that she didn’t know it was going down. So they were definitely taken surreptitiously. Any prints?”

Teffinger held his hands up in surrender.

“A few,” he said. “Most belonged to the woman from the trash crew who found them. But we pulled a couple of others too. Unfortunately they didn’t match up to anyone.”

“They never do.”

SUDDENLY HIS CELL PHONE RANG and the voice of Jena Vernon came through. Most people along the front range knew her as the charismatic roving reporter from the Channel 8 TV news. Teffinger knew her from the old high school days back in Fort Collins when she was the ticklish tomboy down the street.

“Do you know Dick Zucker, our weatherman?” she asked.

“Not personally,” he said.

“I know not personally, but you know who he is, right?”

He did.

“Well, he has a 20-year-old daughter named Brandy Zucker. She didn’t come home last night. She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon and isn’t answering her cell phone.” Jena said. “Dick’s totally freaked out.”

“The girl’s probably out partying somewhere,” Teffinger said. “You were twenty once, remember?”

“I know Dick,” she said. “He doesn’t exaggerate. Can you talk to him or something?”

Teffinger winced.

“The timing couldn’t be worse,” he said.

“I’d consider it a personal favor,” Jena said. “If you do it, I’ll let you tickle me again the next time we’re down by the river.”

Teffinger pulled up a high school memory, one he hadn’t thought of in years, Sunday afternoons down by the river with Jena and Jana, wrestling and goofing around.

“I don’t get down there much anymore,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to be at the river,” she said.

“Be careful,” he said. “I’m going to call your bluff one of these days.”

“So you say.”

43

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Afternoon

JEKKER WOUND UP BEAR CREEK CANYON with the river on his left and the radio off, trying to decide if the man blackmailing him with the photos was a problem. The police would know Jekker’s identity as soon as he released Tessa Blake. She’d be able to describe being held in a mountain setting with three boxcars. Even a dumb-ass civil servant detective would be able to locate the place sooner or later and trace the ownership to Jekker.

His fingerprints were everywhere.

He couldn’t remove them in ten years, not even with an army of Molly Maids.

So, within a very short time, Jekker’s name would be on an arrest warrant for the murder of Samantha Rickenbacker and the abduction of Tessa Blake, followed by an insanely intense manhunt. The blackmailer didn’t really pose much of an additional threat. More evidence, yes. But the cops would already have all the coffin nails they needed.

The blackmailer was shooting blanks but didn’t know it.

The important thing at this point was to keep him from going to the cops before Jekker got out of the country, meaning he needed to leave today if possible.

Or stall him until Monday.

Or pay him.

Or kill him.

Of course, there was one other option. That was to kill Tessa Blake and kill the blackmailer too, if he could. That would get Jekker out of the cop net. But then he’d be in direct disregard of his orders to release Tessa Blake. At a minimum, he’d have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and wondering if a rifle was pointed at the back of his head.

How did everything get so complicated?

And then there was the stripper, Bethany.

If he took her with him to Europe, she’d probably end up bolting after she found out he was wanted. The only way he could have a future with her was to not get wanted in the first place, meaning he would have to kill Tessa Blake and the blackmailer.

He passed Idledale and turned onto his road, kicking up a trail of dust.

The gate was locked, as it should be, and the twig that he put on top of the lock was still in place.

Good.

He passed through, relocked the gate behind him, and headed up the road.

JUST AS THE BOXCARS CAME INTO SIGHT, his phone rang and the voice of Bethany, the stripper, came through. She sounded nervous.

“Some guy’s been stalking me,” she said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “My only guess is that he’s someone from the club.”

“Why? What’s he been doing?”

“Every time I turn around he’s there,” she said.

“You’ve seen his face?”

“Yeah, but I don’t recognize him.” She paused and then added, “I’m scared.”

Jekker knew what she wanted.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

But he couldn’t deny her.

“I’ll take care of him for you,” he said.

“He’s big,” she warned.

AT THE END OF THE ROAD he killed the engine and looked through the windshield to be sure Tessa Blake’s boxcar was still locked.

It was.

Perfect.

He stepped out of the vehicle and stretched as he walked, still trying to sort everything out.

Amsterdam would be a good place to live. Damn near everyone there spoke English. He could get an apartment on one of the canals. Both Paris and London were only a short train ride away. He could vacation on the French Riviera and play blackjack in Monte Carlo. Maybe he’d spend a week or two in Greece every now and then—get some culture.

He pictured Bethany with him.

Why?

He didn’t know.

There was just something about her.

No sounds came from Tessa Blake’s boxcar.

Jekker pictured her passed out and numb from being on the hard floor for so long.

“Lucy, I’m home,” he said in his best Ricky voice.

No response came.

As he pulled the key out of his pocket, something whizzed past his ear, not more than an inch away, and ricocheted off the lock.

A bullet.

He turned and spotted a movement on the side of the mountain, more than two hundred yards off, and dove under the railroad car.

44

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Morning

LONDON FOLLOWED the two Asian men into the elevator and watched as they pressed floor thirty-nine. Everyone faced the front and said nothing on the way up. When the men got out, one of them turned and looked at her.

Not towards her, at her.

Their eyes locked and for some frightening reason she felt like prey being studied by a predator.

The man turned away almost immediately but had memorized her face.

The door shut.

The elevator ascended.

She looked down to see what was wrong with her hands and found them trembling.

Back in the lobby, Venta said, “Well?”

“They got off on floor thirty-nine.”

The building directory reported three tenants on the thirty-ninth floor, including one law firm—Thung, Manap & Deringer, Ltd. Venta wrote down the name and said, “If they have a Bangkok office, we’ve found our connection.”

London nodded.

Maybe.

Venta pulled a $20.00 bill out of her wallet and handed it to London. “Do you want to see if you can find us some coffee while I finish up with my list?”

JUST OUTSIDE THE BUILDING, on the 16th Street Mall, London found a Starbucks and got at the end of a line ten long. The man in front of her looked like a 28-year-old rock star in a business suit—extremely attractive. He twisted his wrist every ten seconds to look at a black designer watch. He wore his hair straight, blond, parted in the middle and halfway down his back.

Something about him oozed sex.

He ordered an espresso, took a sip and then went to pay.

His wallet wasn’t in his left jacket pocket, or his right, or his pants.

“This is really embarrassing,” he said. “I think I left my wallet in the car.” He paused a beat and added, “I don’t suppose you take IOUs.”

The man behind the counter wasn’t amused.

London surprised herself and said, “I got it.”

The rock star looked at her.

He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He looked at his watch and headed for the door. “Thanks again,” he said.

Then he was gone.

Walking back to the Republic Plaza Building, London spotted him again, talking intently into a cell phone and pacing back and forth near the fountain. He noticed her, walked over and said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.” Then to London, “You need to let me say thank you. I’m thinking lunch.”

No.

That wasn’t necessary.

“Thanks anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“London.”

“Michael Montana,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to be standing right here at noon. If you show up, we’ll do lunch. If you don’t, then my loss.”

FROM THE REPUBLIC PLAZA BUILDING, London and Venta went straight back to London’s apartment to drink more coffee and run Thung, Manap & Deringer, Ltd. through Google.

“Bingo!”

The law firm maintained offices in three Thailand cities—Bangkok, Chiang Mai and Krung Thep—as well as satellite branches in Hong Kong, Paris and Denver.

According to the Denver office website, the man in the elevator who looked at London was an attorney by the name of Virote Pattaya, Esq., a specialist in intellectual property law.

They printed page after page from the Internet and roughly organized things in manila file folders, absorbed.

London looked at her watch.

It was 11:40.

She hadn’t planned on meeting the rock star for lunch but suddenly had to.

“Can you run me downtown?”

Venta must have sensed urgency in her voice because she said, “Sure, when?”

“Right now.”

THEY WERE ALMOST OUT THE DOOR when London ran back, grabbed a pair of fresh khaki pants and a crisp white blouse, and then fell back into step. She waited until they were on the 6th Avenue freeway and then changed in the car. A trucker spotted the show and honked with approval.

Then he tried to keep up but couldn’t.

“He’d run someone over just to see your panties,” Venta said.

“Men.”

“They’re animals,” Venta added.

London laughed.

“What?” Venta asked.

“Here’s a secret. Right now, so am I.”

London looked at her watch: 11:50 and they hadn’t even reached Sheridan yet. “Step on it.” Venta checked for cops, saw none and brought the vehicle up to 78. Suddenly Venta’s cell phone rang and she answered it. London hardly paid any attention to the conversation as she frantically brushed her hair and painted her lips.

Venta hung up and said, “That was my assistant, Hannah. I’ve had her doing research to see if she could find any other female investigators who have gone to Bangkok and disappeared.”

London looked at her and said, “And?”

“And she found one.”

London stopped fussing with her hair and looked over.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead.”

“Who?”

“Someone named Susan Wagner from Cleveland.”

“Does she fit the profile?”

“Meaning tall and blond?”

“Right, and hot.”

“I forgot to ask,” Venta said. “But I’m guessing yes, otherwise Hannah wouldn’t have been so excited. I think I better call her and see if I can get her out here to Denver.”

“Her meaning Hannah?”

“Right.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ll call her while you’re screwing Mr. Rock Star,” Venta said.

London laughed.

Then she got serious.

“He’s someone important,” she said. “He’s not going to be interested in a waitress.”

“You’re not a waitress, sweetie. You’re a lawyer. Stop forgetting that.”

45

Day Six—June 16

Saturday Noon

THE WOODEN TABLE in the conference room had enough scratches on it to stretch from Denver to Aspen. Teffinger set his coffee cup down and slipped into a seat. Dick Zucker—the Channel 8 weatherman—took a seat on the opposite side, looking older than he did on TV. Ten seconds later Sergeant Kate Baxter walked in, sat down and said, “Morning.”

“Morning back to you.”

She had a pleasant face, an easy smile, and short wash-and-go hair.

As usual, Teffinger did his best to not drop his eyes to her world-class chest, currently encased in a T-shirt with a yellow smiley-face.

He checked his watch and found he forgot to put it on this morning, then twisted Kate’s wrist to see hers.