Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (17 page)

Stone had done everything a good detective should.

The file was thorough and exhaustive.

A few things emerged.

The victim—Kennedy Pinehurst—had a morning talk show similar in format, subject, audience and tone to Geneva’s. Also, both women were single, clubbers, and a little on the wild side.

“It’s almost like she’s my twin,” Geneva said at one point.

Teffinger didn’t disagree.

Then something caught his eye.

Namely the interview notes of the victim’s sister—Amanda Pinehurst—who reported that she saw a man once who might have been following her and Kennedy two or three days before Kennedy disappeared. At the time, Amanda hadn’t thought much about it, other than the man caught her eye for some reason. Looking back on it, though, maybe it meant something.

“Bingo,” Teffinger said.

“What?”

“We have a witness.”

Geneva read the interview notes.

And said, “I don’t see what you’re excited about. She already said she doesn’t remember what the guy looked like. Plus, we have no indication that the man she saw had anything at all to do with Kennedy’s disappearance.”

Teffinger jotted down the woman’s address.

They reviewed the rest of the file, didn’t find anything of relevance, and thanked Stone for his cooperation; especially for coming in on a Sunday morning.

Back outside on the streets, Teffinger said, “Come on, we’re taking a field trip.”

AMANDA PINEHURST LIVED IN A TOWNHOUSE on the west side of Chicago. Teffinger and Geneva took a cab, told the cabbie to wait, knocked on the woman’s door unannounced, and got lucky enough to find her home. She was dressed down, about thirty, with a shy daughter about three or four years old who stayed behind her leg.

Teffinger explained the situation.

And wanted to know if she could give them any more information about the man who she suspected might have been following her and Kennedy that day.

“Like I told Detective Stone,” she said, “all I can remember is that it was a man. That’s it. I don’t remember if he was big or small, dark or light, or anything else. And I don’t even know if he was following us. All I remember is seeing him and getting a eerie feeling for a second or two. The whole thing could just be a figment of my imagination.”

“If you saw him again, could you pick him out of a lineup?”

She laughed.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” she said. “I’ve already told all of this to Detective Stone.”

OUTSIDE, WALKING BACK TO THE CAB, Teffinger said, “Oh well. We had to try.”

“She’s lying,” Geneva said.

Teffinger stopped in his tracks.

And studied her.

“What do you mean?”

“I can tell,” Geneva said.

“How?”

“By the way she looked at me,” Geneva said. “There was guilt in her eyes.”

“Guilt? What are you talking about?”

“She felt guilty for not helping me help my sister,” Geneva said. “The same way she didn’t help her sister. Correction, make that, couldn’t help her sister.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t she, or couldn’t she, help her sister?”

Geneva shrugged.

And said, “I’m guessing at this point, obviously. But if I had to come up with some kind of an explanation, I’d say that the man threatened to kill her daughter if she talked.”

Teffinger considered it.

“That’s an awfully big speculation,” he said.

“Feel free to create a smaller one if you want,” Geneva said. “But one thing I know for sure—there was guilt in her eyes. That much I’m positive about. When she looked at me it was as if she was saying, I’m sorry.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Morning

______________

TRIPP WOKE SUNDAY MORNING in a strange bedroom, slightly hung over. Next to him was a redhead, lying face down with her arms folded under her pillow, breathing deep and steady, still sound asleep from a wild night of grinding—first on the dance floor and then in the bed. A white sheet covered the lower half of her naked body.

The uncovered part was just as nice as Tripp remembered.

He tried to recall her name.

Brandy?

Brenda?

No—Brittany.

That was it, Brittany.

You’re a good one, Brittany.

He rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head, glad that yesterday was over. After he taught the two bodyguards a lesson about messing with the wrong man, he dumped the Lincoln on a side street near 20th and Broadway, made his way back to the hotel, picked up the Wrangler and a few necessities from his room, and checked into the Table Mountain Inn in Golden for a three-day stay.

Under the name Pierce Roberts.

Then he rented a red Mustang coupe from Enterprise, also under the name Pierce Roberts, and bought some expensive new clothes. That evening he went clubbing downtown at The Church, where he walked up to Brandy, leaned in, and nibbled on her ear before she even knew he was there.

No, not Brandy.

Brittany—who turned out to be an HR manager at a mid-sized law firm, an incredibly skilled lover, and a genuinely nice person.

Anyway, that was yesterday.

Now it was morning.

HE GOT THE SHOWER WARMED UP, stepped in and lathered up. In a way, he lamented losing the opportunity to make a possible move on Rave Lafelle last night. But, if the truth be told, he needed a little time off. The whole thing with the bodyguards must have put more stress on him than he realized.

Suddenly the shower door opened and the redhead stepped in.

“Brittany,” he said.

“You remembered,” she said.

“How could I not?”

She took the soap out of his hand and lathered his cock and balls. Her touch felt so incredibly perfect that Tripp sprang to attention almost immediately. She knew exactly what she was doing and continued doing it until he came in her hand.

“That’s for knowing my name,” she said.

Tripp kissed her and asked, “What do you usually do on Sundays?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I take a hike in the mountains, if the weather’s nice.”

A hike.

Perfect.

“Let’s do that,” Tripp said. “You want to?”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not?”

She shrugged.

“I just thought you’d be leaving—”

“Let’s go somewhere for breakfast first,” he said. “I’m in the mood for pancakes.”

She grinned.

And rubbed her breasts on his chest.

“I know a place where they smother ’em under so many strawberries that you can’t even tell they’re there.”

Excellent.

Maybe with some links on the side.

And a truckload of coffee.

Screw the diet for a day.

THEY WERE WINDING UP BEAR CREEK CANYON to a place called Lair O’ The Bear when Tripp’s cell phone rang. He looked at the incoming number.

Jake VanDeventer.

Probably calling to report on what he found last night, if anything, at the house of the dead vampire, Forrest Jones, in Ohio.

Before Tripp could answer, Brittany put her hand on his thigh and said, “I’m thinking bad thoughts.”

“How so?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to have to pull you off the trail somewhere and spend a little time on my knees.”

Tripp stuck the phone back in his pocket without answering.

“You are bad, aren’t you?” he said.

She moved her hand up to his crotch.

“It’s your fault,” she said, “walking around with this body and all.”

Tripp pictured her kneeling before him, somewhere off the beaten path, away from prying eyes, behind a boulder or something, with a bright blue Colorado sky overhead and an occasional bird flapping past on silent wings. But he suddenly felt guilty and said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Have to?” she said. “You don’t know me very well, do you?”

He chuckled.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Let’s just have a nice walk.”

She studied him.

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later a visual image of the island woman from the cul-de-sac on Green Mountain entered his head, an image in which she had been captured and taken to the top floor of the warehouse.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Morning

______________

RAVE FELT DIFFERENT when she woke Sunday—strangely different, wonderfully different, disturbingly different, beautifully different. Part of it came from the gig last night—so incredible, so close to what she’d always pictured in her mind. But, if she was honest with herself, most of it came from the bloodsucking.

It had changed her.

She was closer to Parker now.

London too, for that matter.

She didn’t believe in vampires, or voodoo, or anything occult or supernatural. On the other hand, if she did have a dormant gene of ancient and mysterious origin inside her, and if it was to awaken, she would expect the feeling to be much like the one she had now.

Weird.

She pushed her sleepy body out of bed. Parker moved slightly but didn’t wake up. London was in the other bed, sleeping naked on top of the covers, more perfect than a human being had a right to be. Rave pulled a sheet over her. Clearly Parker and London weren’t lovers and probably never had been. But they had a connection and a deep intimacy nonetheless.

A vampire union.

A vampire intimacy.

Would Rave experience the same type of bond with other bloodline descendents? People she didn’t even know yet? It wouldn’t surprise her. She had unquestionably experienced a strong tie to Forrest from moment one.

She warmed up the shower, stepped inside and closed her eyes under the spray.

The feeling inside her turned to words.

Words she had never heard before.

Words about a mysterious love.

Then the words became more and more lyrical.

It took several moments to realize that she had actually written a song. It had never happened like this before. All of the other times had been while she sat at the keyboard—starting with chords, laying a melody on top, and then fitting words to the melody.

She wrote the words down as soon as she got out of the shower.

Nice.

Very nice.

SHE NEEDED TO GET TO A KEYBOARD and figure out the chords.

Right now.

This minute.

Parker and London still hadn’t moved and didn’t look like they would for some time, so Rave grabbed Parker’s car keys and headed south on I-76, towards home. With any luck, she’d be back before they even woke up. The sun was unusually bright this morning. Parker’s sunglasses were in the console.

Rave put them on.

There, better.

Much better.

On the way she called Tim Pepper, pulling him out of sleep, but needing to know what happened last night after she left. “It’s all set,” Pepper told her. “They’re coming to Vegas, they’ll do the studio work, the whole bit.”

“Really?”

Yeah, really.

“They love you,” he added.

“I wrote a song this morning,” she said. “Well, half a song. I still have to figure out the chords.”

“I’m thinking we’ll want a rehearsal this afternoon,” Pepper said. “If everyone’s available, we’ll work it up then and see if we have a keeper.”

Cool.

Way cool.

She licked her lips and could still taste Parker’s blood.

London’s too.

As soon as she hung up, her phone rang and Parker’s voice came through, frantic. “Where are you?” he asked. She explained that she was almost home. “Are you nuts? Turn around and get back here.”

An exit approached.

She almost pulled off.

But didn’t and said, “I’ll only be there a half hour or so.”

“No!”

“I’ll be okay. When I get back, I want to know more about vampires. I feel different this morning,” she said. “It’s really weird.”

“Rave!”

SHE PULLED INTO HER DRIVEWAY five minutes later and killed the engine. She was already out of the car, walking to the front door, when she noticed that it was open.

Wide open.

She stopped and listened.

She heard nothing.

Her heart raced.

She knew she should run back to the car and drive away immediately, before it was too late, but she couldn’t stop herself from taking one step after the other towards the house. She prepared herself to find the interior trashed.

What she found was worse.

Infinitely worse.

A dead body.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Afternoon

______________

ON THE FLIGHT BACK TO DENVER, Teffinger kept getting a nagging feeling that he had seen or heard something recently that had a tie to Chicago, besides Kennedy Pinehurst. But he couldn’t pull it up to save his life and had no reason to suspect it to be relevant, even if he could.

Geneva sat next to him.

Exhausted.

Solemn.

Then she said something he didn’t expect. “When I get on the show tomorrow morning, I’m going to make a plea to the guy to take me and give up Jena. To exchange me for her, is what I’m saying.”

Teffinger shook his head disapprovingly.

“I understand your frustration, but all that’ll do is bring out every whacko in the city,” he said.

She said nothing.

And stuck her face in a magazine.

“I don’t have time to baby-sit whackos,” Teffinger added.

Geneva exhaled, looked at him and said, “She’s been gone since Wednesday night.”

“I know that.”

“That’s three days.”

“I know.”

“If she’s still alive, we’re running out of time,” she said.

“Which means we can’t fill it up with whackos.”

TWO MINUTES LATER SHE ASKED, “So what’s the plan when we get to Denver?”

Good question.

“Stone is going to send me electronic copies of all the hate mail that Kennedy got,” he said. “Then we’ll cross-reference them to yours and see if you both got something from the same email address or the same computer.”