Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (19 page)

“Who?” Fog questioned.

“We’re not saying at this point,” London said.

“Why?”

“In case they’re still alive.”

“What does that mean?” Fog questioned.

London leaned across the table. “It means we don’t want them disappearing.”

Fog scowled at her.

She didn’t flinch.

“One of the men who paid a visit to Ms. Devenelle is an attorney from this law firm,” she said.

Fog looked flabbergasted.

“Who?”

“Mark Remington.”

“Mark Remington?”

London nodded.

“Are you nuts?”

“I wish we were,” she said. “Here’s the bottom line. This law firm is, at a minimum, engaged in the illegal trafficking of women for sexual slavery.”

Fog looked dumbfounded.

“Honey,” he said. “We’re the biggest law firm in the world. Why in the hell would we do anything as stupid as that?”

“Because you’re the biggest law firm in the world,” she said. “And therefore you think you can. We’ll see you in court.”

They stood up.

Fog shook his head in bewilderment and motioned them back into their seats.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mark Remington and check into this.”

“Today,” London said.

He nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m a hundred percent positive that I’m going to find out that this law firm is not involved in anything like this, not in a million years. If it turns out that Mark Remington is as dirty as you make him out to be, then be warned in advance that he was doing it all on his own, without the knowledge or consent of this law firm. I can see dollar signs bouncing around in your eyes. My advice to you is to get them out. Even if all your wild theories are true, which they’re not, you end up with a case against a rogue lawyer acting outside the scope of his employment but not a case against this law firm. I repeat—not against this law firm.”

London stood up.

But so did Thomas Fog.

“THERE’S ONE MORE THING you should be crystal clear about before you leave this room,” he said. “I consider your allegations to be defamatory. If you go public with them, then you are both going to get slapped with a slander suit so fast and so big and so heavy that you’ll never recover from it. Not in ten lifetimes. Mark my words.”

London leaned across the table and stared him in the eyes.

“Here are our demands,” she said. “We want the name of every single woman who has been lured to Bangkok. We want every single one of them released and returned to the United States immediately. We want every person involved in this to voluntarily surrender themselves to the police and to confess to their crimes. And we want full financial redress for all of the pain and suffering and injuries and losses sustained by each and every one of the victims and the families of the victims who have been subjected to these horrible acts.”

Fog looked flabbergasted.

“And we want an apology too,” she added. “Either get it done yourself or we’ll get a judge and jury to get it done for you.”

Fog slammed his hand on the table.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said.

“Then we’re even.”

THEY HUFFED OUT OF THE CONFERENCE ROOM, down the hall and into the reception area, where something happened that London didn’t expect.

The rock star Michael Montana came through the space.

So preoccupied with a file that he actually bumped into her.

Totally shocked.

“What—?” he started to ask.

She pushed him away, ran towards the door and said over her shoulder, “Don’t call me.”

“London!”

“You heard me!”

57

Day Eight—June 18

Monday Noon

PAUL KUBIAK COPIED MARK REMINGTON’S hard drives Monday morning. Teffinger jumped into them with lots of caffeine-laden enthusiasm, but after hours of plodding through the mundane, his altitude and attitude dropped.

Venta called and asked if he had time for lunch.

She sounded stressed.

He looked at the oversized industrial clock on the wall.

11:29.

Ouch.

Where did the morning go?

“Okay,” he said. “But it’ll need to be somewhere close and quick.” He thought about it and said, “Meet me at Wong’s on Court Street, high noon.”

“I know why you like that place,” she said. “All the waitresses have a crush on you.”

“I tip ’em,” he said. “That’s all.”

He got there ten minutes late and spotted Venta in a booth.

Something was wrong.

He could tell, even at a distance.

He slid in and said, “Something’s wrong.”

She nodded.

“It’s time for full disclosure,” she said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means that the car you thought was new actually has a lot of miles on the odometer,” she said.

“Huh?” He took her hand and said, “Talk to me.”

WITH THAT SHE TOLD HIM A STORY ABOUT BANGKOK, and sexual slavery, and horrible things that had been done to her. She studied his eyes the entire time, trying to gauge his reaction.

“I couldn’t tell you before because I didn’t know how you’d react,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most men wouldn’t want a woman who has been through all that.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Why would it matter?” he asked. “You were a victim. I’m not going to think less of you because of something that happened to you beyond your control.”

She cried.

Silently.

Barely detectible, but with tears.

“Do you still want me?”

He came around to her side of the table and put his arm around her shoulders.

“Of course I still want you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m embarrassing you.”

“Never.”

AS THEY ATE, SHE TOLD HIM MORE. She had retained an attorney by the name of London Vaughn. Their investigation traced the initial Bangkok assignment as coming from Vesper & Bennett.

“Vesper & Bennett?” Teffinger asked.

She nodded.

“That’s not possible.”

She disagreed.

“We had a kick-’em-in-the-balls meeting with the head of the firm this morning, a guy named Thomas Fog,” she said. “We told him everything we knew and demanded lots of stuff. They won’t comply—I already know that—which means we’ll be filing a lawsuit within the next couple of days. It’s all about to hit the fan. That’s why I’m telling you now. You’re going to find out about it in a day or two, and I’d rather you hear it from me.”

Teffinger frowned.

“What?” she questioned.

“They’ll throw an army at the case,” he said. “They’ll take your deposition for days just to screw with you. Your life is about to be a living hell.”

“I think you underestimate them,” Venta said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that for someone’s life to be a living hell, first they have to have a life.”

Teffinger didn’t follow.

“Think about it,” she said. “What if I wasn’t alive to testify?”

“What do you mean, not alive? Are you trying to suggest that they’d actually kill you?”

She nodded.

“That’s insane,” he said. “Law firms don’t kill people.”

She ignored the words, then looked directly into his eyes.

“It’ll look like an accident,” she said.

58

Day Eight—June 18

Monday Morning

WITH PORTER POTTER DEAD, Jekker was now free to kill Tessa Blake. He almost did it when he got home last night from the scene of Potter’s unfortunate accident. Then he changed his mind. It would be better to deal with the blackmailer first because if the guy did go to the police, Jekker would rather be charged with the abduction of Tessa Blake as opposed to her murder.

The contact called Jekker shortly before noon and sounded like he just stepped off a roller coaster.

“Whatever you do, don’t kill Porter Potter yet,” the man said.

“Why?”

“Something came up this morning,” the man said.

“Your timing sucks,” Jekker said.

“What are you saying?”

“It’s already a done deal.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Damn it.”

“Tessa Blake’s still alive,” Jekker added.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about her,” the man said.

“So you don’t care if I complete the plan?”

“No. In fact it would probably be even better that way.” The man paused as if in thought and then added, “In fact, do it quick. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have another job for you and I’m going to want your full attention on it.”

Another job meant another pile of money.

“Not a problem,” Jekker said. “When?”

“Maybe as early as tonight. I have to think it through.”

THE BLACKMAILER CALLED TEN MINUTES LATER. “Today’s the day,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you don’t have the money, because if you tell me you don’t have the money, I’m going to find myself in a very bad mood.”

“I have the money,” Jekker said, which was true.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy,” the voice said. “Now write down these directions—”

“No,” Jekker said. “You listen to my directions. Meet me at the Red Rocks Park Amphitheater at two o’clock. I’ll be sitting on the 20th row, which is nice and public. Neither one of us will be able to kill the other one. We’ll make the exchange face to face. That’s the only way I’m going to do it. Be sure you bring the pictures and don’t be late.”

Jekker flipped the phone closed.

There.

Done.

Now to see what happens.

FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE THE APPOINTED TIME, Jekker parked the rental in the lower lot, hiked up to the Amphitheater, walked up to the 20th row and sat down. A light wind shuffled black-bellied clouds in from the west, warning of possible rain this evening.

He sat down and faced the stage but kept the brown leather briefcase on his lap.

He didn’t look around.

Either the guy would come or he wouldn’t.

At exactly two o’clock a man walked down the rows from above and took a seat next to Jekker. He held an envelope.

“Nice day,” the man said.

Jekker recognized the voice.

It was the voice from the phone.

“I don’t know,” Jekker said. “It looks like rain.”

He turned and looked at his blackmailer—a skinhead covered with tattoos, about twenty or twenty-one, no more than 150 pounds. Jekker could grab the man’s throat with one hand and choke the life right out of him without even breaking a sweat.

“This was a good idea,” the man said. “Meeting in a public place and all.” He held his hand out to shake and said, “My name’s Paul.”

Jekker shook his hand and said, “Paul what?”

“Paul Youngfield.”

“Show me your driver’s license,” Jekker said.

“Why?”

“Because this whole thing is going to be even. You know where I live. Now I’m going to know where you live.”

The man grinned, unafraid, and slapped Jekker on the back.

“Sure, why not.”

Jekker studied the license.

Paul Youngfield.

Marion Street.

Denver.

“Did you bring the photographs?”

“We had a complication with the photographs.”

JEKKER FELT HIS CHEST TIGHTEN.

He did his best to not kill the man with his bare hands right then and there.

“What kind of complication?”

“Well, when I stole your car, I found them under the front seat,” the man said. “But I threw them out the window while I was driving down C-470. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I saw the picture of Tessa Blake in the Rocky Mountain News, that I realized who she was. I went back to get them but they were already gone.”

“You’re lying,” Jekker said.

“I’m not and the pictures don’t mean a rat’s ass anyway,” the skinhead said. “What you’re buying is my silence. Hell, even if I had the pictures and gave them to you, I could have made a hundred copies first. The actual pictures don’t mean squat. But since I don’t have them, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to cut the price in half.”

“Meaning fifty thousand,” Jekker said.

The skinhead nodded.

“I know who you are and now you know who I am,” the skinhead said. “What we’re going to do is both walk away from this a winner. You got a little sloppy and left the pictures in your car, but I’m giving you a chance to correct that mistake. I got a little lucky finding those pictures, but I’m not a greedy man. You give me the fifty thousand and you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll take this whole thing to my grave. Honor among thieves and all that.”

Jekker considered it.

“What did you do with my car?”

“We just rode around in it for a while,” the man said. “It’s parked on Clarkson Street, just north of Colfax.”

Jekker knew the location.

“So do we have a deal or not?” the skinhead asked.

Jekker opened the briefcase, kept the money hidden from stray eyes, counted out fifty thousand and gave it to the man.

Then they walked away in separate directions.

Jekker stopped and said over his shoulder, “You caught me in a good mood. Don’t catch me again because your luck won’t be as good.”

The man laughed, blew him a kiss and walked away.

JEKKER WALKED BACK TO HIS CAR, simultaneously relieved that it was over and infuriated that he let some punk steal his car, get his money and then blow him a kiss.

“You shouldn’t have done that kiss,” he muttered.

In any event he was now free, free to kill Tessa Blake and get on with his life.

59

Day Eight—June 18

Monday Afternoon

LONDON WAS TAKING AN ORDER at Cactus Dan’s from a man with two kids when her cell phone rang. She didn’t answer. Men with kids were the best tippers and she didn’t want to spoil it, so instead she let the phone ring and smiled at the man as if he were the most important person in the universe. After she got his order in the cook’s hand, she went to the restroom where the boss couldn’t see her, checked the missed number, didn’t recognize it and punched Call.

“Sarah Woodward,” a woman said.