Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (8 page)

“Only if they found out,” Jekker said. “You trusted them. Now trust me. I’m giving you my word that no one will ever know you told me. I’ll never mention the man’s name to anyone.”

St. Germaine exhaled.

“He goes by several names. I have only heard one of them—Jean-Paul Boudiette.”

“Can you describe him?”

“No,” St. Germaine said. “I’ve never seen him. I’ve only heard his name, and that was just once, more than four years ago.” He paused and then added, “I hope that I don’t later learn that I misplaced my trust in you.”

“You won’t,” Jekker assured him.

“We are a special breed, you and I,” the Frenchman said. “Stay true to the cause and everything will work out the way it should.”

“At least it did for you,” Jekker said.

“Oui.”

AN HOUR LATER HIS PHONE RANG AGAIN. This time it was his contact who said, “Did you get a phone call?”

He did.

“And?”

“And I feel better,” Jekker said.

That was only half true but the words were right to say.

“Good. The important thing right now is to stay focused on Tessa Blake. This other subject won’t even be relevant for another ten or twenty years.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t take that as a license to have any more collateral damage though,” the voice said.

“I understand.”

“We all make mistakes,” the voice said. “But we need to keep them to an absolute minimum.”

“I understand.”

“Actually,” the voice said, “don’t ever repeat this because I’ll deny it. But so far, you’ve done an incredible job. In fact, I think it’s time to raise your compensation. By the way, we’re probably going to have a decision as to what to do with the woman soon, maybe as early as this afternoon. If we decide she needs to die, we’re not going to want her body found—ever. So start giving that some thought.”

20

Day Four—June 14

Thursday Morning

THURSDAY MORNING, a few minutes before ten, London muscled her bicycle through the heavy doors at the bottom of the Cash Register Building in the heart of Denver’s financial district and walked through the fancy lobby towards the elevator banks. She wore the same clothes as yesterday, except this time she also wore a backpack. Inside it was a Complaint.

A security guard trotted over and intercepted her.

“Sorry, no bicycles are allowed in the building.”

She looked at him as if everything was okay.

“This is evidence in a case,” she said. “It’s going up to Vesper & Bennett.”

The man hesitated and then said, “Okay.”

Venta was waiting for her by the elevator banks with a puzzled look. “What’s with the bike?” she asked.

“It’s symbolic,” London said.

“Symbolic, how?”

“A show of defiance.”

Venta cocked her head. “It shows my lawyer rides a bicycle,” she said. “If we’re trying to scare the pants off them, I’m not sure that’s the best way to do it.”

London grinned.

“It’s my way of saying I know they were behind the incident last night,” she said.

“But you don’t know that,” Venta said.

“Not a hundred percent,” London admitted. “But I will after I see their reaction.”

UNFORTUNATELY, HOWEVER, THOMAS FOG didn’t react at all when he walked into the conference room carrying a large manila envelope in his hand, even though the bike leaned against the wall and grabbed his attention for a heartbeat.

He wore a blue silk tie and summer-weight suit.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Your time is valuable, so let me get right to the point. We’ve researched the issue as best we could in the time you’ve given us. We can’t find any evidence that anyone from the firm hired Ms. Devenelle.”

London frowned.

Fog smiled.

“Nevertheless,” he added, “Ms. Devenelle appears, to my mind at least, to honestly believe that this firm hired her. We’re prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt in the name of resolving this matter quickly and fully so we can all go on to more important things.”

He pulled a check out of the envelope, twenty thousand dollars payable to the order of Venta Devenelle.

“We added a couple of thousand to cover any associated attorney fees,” he said. London handed the check to Venta for her inspection. “So, I think that concludes our business.”

London cocked her head.

Something was wrong.

She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

Then Fog pulled a stapled set of papers out of the envelope, about four pages. He slid the document across the table to Venta as he looked at London and said, “We’ll need Ms. Devenelle to sign a release, of course, just so all the paperwork is in order.”

Venta pulled a pen out of her purse and started flipping to the last page.

“Hold on,” London said. Then to Fog, “You don’t mind if we read this first, I assume.”

He looked at his watch. “Of course not. Why don’t we do this? You read it and talk to your client about it while I duck back to my office and return a few phone calls. Then we’ll wrap things up.”

“Fine.”

WHEN FOG STEPPED OUT, London whispered in Venta’s ear, “This room could be bugged a thousand different ways. Let’s go down to the lobby so we can talk in private.”

They left the bike against the wall and the check on the table.

Then headed down to the lobby, bought coffee and took a table in the indoor courtyard under a large green umbrella. After London read the release she tossed it on the table, took a swallow of coffee and smiled.

“I thought so.”

“What do you mean?”

“This release isn’t something that just acknowledges that you’ve received payment in full for P.I. services rendered,” London said. “It’s a thousand times broader than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, it’s a full release of any and all claims that you might possibly have against the law firm, known or unknown, for whatever reason, from the beginning of time until present.” She studied Venta’s face and added, “What that means is, if you really do have a claim for conspiracy, this release would bar you from bringing it.”

“So what are you saying? That they know we’re thinking about other claims and are trying to cut them off at the knees by buying us out on the contract claim?”

London nodded.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she said.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Venta said.

London shook her head.

“No we can’t, can we?”

21

Day Four—June 14

Thursday Morning

THE WIND KICKED UP DURING THE NIGHT, churning the lake into a sloppy chop. Venta slept through it but Teffinger was already half awake, worrying about Tessa Blake, and ended up climbing topside several times to be sure the anchor was holding.

Each time the 25# CQR was still cemented to the bottom.

The boat had swung south but wasn’t drifting.

He dressed before dawn, pulled the anchor and motored into the marina through the dark, managing to dock the vessel without scraping the hull in spite of the wind. Then they drove home. He showered, slapped Venta on the ass and headed for the door. Venta grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back inside and wrestled him to the floor.

“I want rug burns,” she said.

Teffinger rolled her over, pinned her down and kissed her.

“Tonight,” he said. “I’m already late.”

“Now.”

“Tonight,” he repeated. “Be warned.”

HE ATE CEREAL IN THE TUNDRA as he drove to headquarters.

Traffic was thin.

Most of the maniac drivers were still asleep.

Not all of them, but most.

Coffee, lots of coffee, that’s what he needed, and not later, now, right this minute.

He got to work before anyone else as usual and fired up the coffee machine. Waiting, he noticed that his shirt was buttoned crooked and decided that right now, before coffee, he didn’t care. As soon as the stream started falling, he put his cup under it but only filled it halfway, and cut the rest with hot water and cream.

Ah, delicious.

It immediately flowed into his veins and started to make the world right. The FBI profiler, Leanne Sanders, Ph.D., walked into the room fifteen minutes later, looked at the pot and said, “That last cup’s mine.”

She wore an expensive summer dress-suit.

A diamond the size of a small planet weighted her left hand.

The hem of her skirt fell five inches above her knees not too high to be improper but high enough to accentuate the shapeliest pair of legs to walk the planet. Teffinger scooped her up in his right arm and swung her around.

She leaned back, looked at him and made a weird face.

Then she undid his buttons and re-buttoned them properly.

“Good thing I’m here to take care of you,” she said, patting his chest.

“You have no idea.”

She looked at him again as if sensing something hidden but not being able to put her finger on it. Then she said, “God, I don’t believe it. You’re in lust again. I can see it on your face.”

He grinned.

“Something like that,” he said.

HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE TESSA BLAKE CASE as he made another pot of coffee, hoping she’d shed light on the matter. She listened patiently and asked, “Any chance she has rich relatives or a rich boyfriend? Maybe they got a ransom demand we’re not aware of.”

Teffinger grunted.

“Nothing like that,” he said. “The whole thing just baffles me. It’s too weird to be a garden-variety abduction. Someone went to too much trouble. There’s something sinister going on that I just can’t get my arms around.”

She gave him a sympathetic look as she checked her watch.

“Have to run,” she said. “My target lands at DIA in two hours.”

“Tell me about him,” Teffinger said. “What’s his name again?”

“Jean-Paul Boudiette.”

“Right, him,” he said. “What’s INTERPOL want with him?”

She stood up, kissed him on the cheek, headed for the door and said over her shoulder, “Suspicion of murder. I’ll call you later.”

Teffinger watched her as she walked.

Just before she got to the door, Sydney entered the room, hugged Leanne and said, “Did you know that the guy behind you is staring at your ass?”

Leanne looked at Teffinger, then back at Sydney.

“I thought I felt something,” she said.

AFTER SANDERS LEFT, Sydney poured a cup of coffee and plopped down in one of the two worn-out leather chairs in front of Teffinger’s equally worn-out desk. “I’ve been checking up on Venta Devenelle,” she said.

Teffinger winced.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

She ignored him.

“She’s legit,” Sydney said. “She really is a duly licensed California P.I. The only thing out of the ordinary that I noted is that she made a police report a couple of months ago. It seems that both her house and her office were broken into. Her computers disappeared and so did a lot of her files. Maybe that has something to do with why she’s relocating to Denver.”

Teffinger frowned.

He didn’t care.

“You really have to stop telling me this stuff,” he said. “I don’t want to know things about people unless they want me to.”

She shrugged and pulled an envelope out of her purse.

“I have the police reports if you want to see them,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Shred them,” he said.

“Really?”

“Now,” he said.

She walked over to the shredder and stuffed the envelope in.

“Happy?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll be happy when we find Tessa Blake.” The oversized industrial clock on the wall, the one with the twitchy second hand, drew his eye for a heartbeat. “She’s our primary focus today,” he said. “We need to get real brilliant, real fast.”

22

Day Four—June 14

Thursday Afternoon

AT THE BOXCARS, JEKKER SHOT THE BOW until his arm screamed from repeatedly pulling back the 45-pound string. A bright blue Colorado sky floated above and the pines charged the air with a wonderful, sticky-sweet aroma that only existed in the mountains. The sunshine, as always, went straight to his brain and brightened everything.

Last night he convinced himself that his back was marked.

Now, in the daylight, he wasn’t so sure.

He hoped not.

He had worked long and hard to get his life to a perfect state.

The call he was waiting for came mid-afternoon. “Is the woman awake?”

“She is.”

“Did you prepare her?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Fine. Hold on.”

JEKKER POUNDED ON THE BOXCAR WITH A CLOSED FIST, unlocked the Master padlock, swung the heavy door open far enough to enter, and waved an eight-inch serrated knife at his captive as he climbed in. She cowered in the corner and peered out with frightened eyes from behind greasy black hair.

“Time to talk,” Jekker told her. “Remember, don’t say a word until I give the go-ahead. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“I hope so,” he said. “Otherwise there’s going to be some serious drama.”

The woman swallowed.

“Are you still there?” Jekker questioned into the phone.

“Yeah,” the voice said. “Go ahead and put the phone up to her ear. I’m going to patch our caller in. Once I do, don’t say anything. I don’t want him to hear your voice.” Jekker sat down next to the woman, got his ear next to hers and put the phone between them.

“Be good,” he said.

A MAN’S VOICE CAME THROUGH, one that Jekker had never heard before. “Who am I speaking to?” the man asked.

Jekker’s captive looked at him, seeking permission to answer.

Jekker nodded.

“This is Tessa Blake,” she said.

“Are you the same Tessa Blake who works for Molly Maids?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“What is your social security number?”

“750-293-8286,” she said. “No, wait, 750-923-8286.”

“Where do you live?”

She told him.

“What color are your curtains?”

“Blue.”

“You have a window facing the back parking lot, correct?”