Client Trap (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  “Here’s the problem,” Erin said. “The man that they have pictured in the paper didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he was stalking me Saturday night,” Erin said.

  “Say again?”

  “Okay,” Erin said, “it goes like this. Saturday night I went out with a girlfriend—Samantha Dent. We had dinner and drinks from about 8:00 until about 9:15, downtown at Marlowe’s. I remember seeing this man who looked like a pirate on the 16th Street Mall before we went into the restaurant. For some reason, I felt like he was following me. Then when we came out about 9:15, he was still there, across the street, leaning against a building in the shadows. We walked down the mall to do some clubbing in LoDo and every time I turned around and checked, the pirate was walking behind us.”

  “Are you sure it was this same man who’s in the paper?”

  “Positive,” Erin said.

  “How positive—like 95 percent?”

  “No, a hundred.”

  Raven nodded.

  The guy did have a distinctive face, with a hooked nose, a cleft chin and a lightning-bolt scar that ran across his forehead, directly above the eyes.

  “We got to the club about 9:45,” Erin said. “A place called Dazzle. Have you heard of it?”

  Raven chuckled.

  “I’m a little past that scene,” she said.

  “Anyway,” Erin said, “we ended up getting stuck in a line outside the club for more than a half hour. This guy hung across the way the entire time.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Absolutely,” Erin said.

  “We finally got let into the club about 10:15,” Erin said. “I’m positive about the time because Samantha and I both kept looking at our watches.”

  Raven nodded.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Then, just for grins, I went back to the front door a half hour later, about 10:45, to see if the pirate was still hanging around. He was. Of course, by then I was freaking out and I told Samantha about it. She came up with a plan to see if the guy was following her or me. The plan was for both of us to leave the club at the same time and walk in different directions. We did that, about midnight. The guy was still there. Guess who he followed—”

  “I think I know,” Raven said.

  “I think you do too,” Erin said. “I only walked a hundred feet or so, just enough to confirm he was following me, and then met Samantha back at the club. We stayed for another hour, got in a cab and spent the night at her place.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, the bottom line is that I’m this guy’s alibi. The problem is, I don’t want to go to the police and have him walking around with full immunity until I know what he’s up to. For all I know, he’s out to kill me. How ironic would it be if I was the one who actually got him off the hook and then he did me in?”

  RAVEN UNDERSTOOD THE DILEMMA.

  But didn’t understand how she fit in.

  “So what do you want from me?” she asked. “A legal opinion as to whether you have an obligation to go to the police?”

  Erin shook her head.

  “No. I want you to help me find out who he is and why he’s following me.”

  Raven chuckled.

  “That’s not what I do,” she said. “That’s P.I. work.”

  “I’ll pay,” Erin said.

  “That’s not the issue—”

  “Here’s the problem,” Erin said. “While I’m not going to the police, they’re focused on the wrong suspect, and the real killer is out there doing who knows what. If there’s more blood, I don’t want it on my hands. So I need to do something and do it quick. But I don’t want to free him up to do something to me, meaning I can’t go to the police. That’s the dilemma.”

  “I still don’t understand, why me?” Raven said.

  “I met you at the book signing and you seemed like the kind of person who would help someone if they needed it,” Erin said. “You were the first person I thought of when I saw the article this morning.” She paused and added, “I need your help.”

  Raven cocked her head.

  “Do you know how to sail?” she asked.

  Erin made a face and said, “God, no.”

  “Good,” Raven said. “I don’t want anyone around here who might be tempted to untie this thing.”

  Chapter Four

  Day One—July 12

  Monday Morning

  ______________

  DALTON WREY TOOK ONE MORE LOOK at his 28-year-old face in the bathroom mirror and decided that he wasn’t just looking good, he was looking totally, absolutely, one hundred percent GQ. Long brown hair, parted in the middle, flopped over his face and hung down two inches past his shoulders. He pushed it to the side. Hypnotic hazel eyes peeked through, perfectly framed by a sexy tanned face.

  Totally GQ.

  Capital G.

  Capital Q.

  Physically, at six-three, he had never been stronger or in better shape. That didn’t come free, of course. He paid for that body with insane workouts at the Denver Athletic Club; workouts that he took to total muscle failure, painful but worth it.

  Women couldn’t get enough of his body and weren’t embarrassed to prove it.

  He flicked off the bathroom lights and walked through 2,500 square feet of primo loft space, hardly paying any attention to the floor-to-ceiling windows in spite of the ten-story view of the Rockies. He took the elevator to the lobby and walked out the front door, directly into the trendy heart of LoDo.

  A bright Colorado sky hung overhead.

  Nice.

  It would be hot later.

  That was fine.

  He liked the heat.

  He wore expensive, perfectly cut clothes.

  Denver was his.

  He owned this town.

  THE FIVE-BLOCK WALK to Martin Productions, Inc., on 17th Street in the center of the financial district, took hardly any time. He pushed through stately revolving doors, crossed an expansive lobby and took a marble-walled elevator to the 42nd Floor.

  The receptionist, too-cute Rebecca, demanded a hug when he pushed through the glass entry door. He gave her one, grabbed a cup of coffee and headed to Mandy Martin’s oversized corner office at the end of the hall.

  She was strutting her perky little 33-year-old physique back and forth in front of the windows with a phone to her ear and waved him in.

  He eased into one of the contemporary white leather chairs in front of her desk and sipped coffee as he watched. She wore a crisp white blouse, a short black skirt and expensive high-heels.

  No nylons.

  No need, either, given the tan.

  She saw him studying her, smiled, and flicked her skirt up just long enough to flash a white thong.

  He chuckled.

  MARTIN PRODUCTIONS brought events to Denver, mostly concerts, but occasionally other types of shows too. The company had been around forever, originally founded by Mandy’s father, who handed the reins to Mandy four years ago and said, “Here, you drive for a while.”

  Everyone said she was too young, too pretty, too flighty.

  Everyone said she would take the company down in flames.

  Big flames.

  Hot flames.

  Deadly flames.

  But instead, she pumped new energy into the organization, got in the trenches, worked her posterior off, and actually increased the client base to the point where even top-name acts had to be turned away. Bookings under her recent tenure included Torn Lace, Refuge-7, Rio, Can’t Explain, Maria Costa and Garage Juice, to name a few.

  The company had fifteen employees.

  They rented the venues such as Red Rocks, the Pepsi Center and Coors Field. They determined the scope of media promotion, contracted with promoters, and pre-approved all promotional materials. They contracted with Ticketmaster and arranged for ticket sales. They made sure that each event was properly staffed and secured. They arranged for post-event cleanup.

 
; Etcetera.

  Etcetera.

  Etcetera.

  They worked hard.

  They got big checks.

  Dalton was the No. 2 person in Martin Productions, higher than everyone in terms of importance and money, except Mandy, who spotted him in a restaurant two days after she took control and introduced herself as his new boss.

  His job was to use his GQ looks and infinite charm to interface on a person-to-person basis with the acts and their agents.

  His job was to schmooze; to find out what the talent wanted and make sure they got it, no matter how strange, or expensive, or illegal—within reason.

  He had every first-class escort service in Denver on speed dial. His job was to make sure the acts wanted to come back to Denver; and that they wouldn’t even think of calling anyone except Martin Productions when they did.

  Mandy hung up, hugged him and said, “This day’s already crazy.”

  “How crazy?”

  She ran a finger down his chest. “Crazy enough that I might need some stress relief later,” she said.

  He ran a finger down her chest and said, “Be careful. I might call your bluff one of these days.”

  HE WORKED NON-STOP through lunch and left the office at three. An hour later, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he pulled up to a gate in a chain link fence that surrounded an abandoned machine shop in an industrial area at the north edge of the city.

  He got out.

  Unlocked the gate.

  Drove through.

  And relocked the gate behind him.

  The building was one story, with windowless cinderblock walls, a solid roof, 10,000 square feet of footprint and an asphalt parking lot big enough for fifty cars. Railroad tracks ran behind it. Across the street was vacant land. There were buildings on either side, but both of them were more than two hundred yards away, and both were vacant. Reportedly, they had contaminated soil.

  Dalton bought the building six months ago for hardly any money.

  Out of a bankruptcy proceeding.

  The plan was to gut it, get it reasonably clean, and use it for raves and private parties where people could get insane. The rest of the plan was to install a dungeon in the back, for a handful of special clients who requested it and demanded absolute discretion.

  Dalton had already built the dungeon.

  Two months ago.

  In the old parts storage area at the rear NW corner of the building. The space was about 30 by 30, windowless, with a shower, bathroom and a thick, steel door. Dalton didn’t have to do much, other than to clean it up, strategically place eyehooks here and there, and build a number of simple devices.

  A rack.

  A cross.

  That kind of thing.

  The building had eight exterior doors, all told.

  They were all metal.

  Dalton had fresh double locks installed on all of them.

  They were also all chained tight from the inside, except for the entry door. Of course, they’d be unlocked for raves and parties. But for now, when he wasn’t around, they were exactly what he needed.

  He unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him.

  Then he walked back to the dungeon ro see how his captive, Lindsay Vail, was doing.

  Chapter Five

  Day One—July 12

  Monday Morning

  ______________

  RADCLIFF & SNOW, LLC, occupied three floors of the Republic Plaza building in the financial district. Teffinger bypassed the elevators, hiked up fifteen stories, told the R&S receptionist he wanted to speak with the firm’s managing partner, and then checked out the oil paintings in the reception area with a cup of coffee in hand.

  Ten minutes later he ended up in the office of Jeff Salter.

  Salter was an attractive man, taller than most, about forty, with medium-length blond hair, slightly disheveled, as if he had unconsciously raked it back with his hand all morning. Fifteen years ago he would have been right at home on a California beach with a surfboard under his arm.

  The office was a corner one.

  The exterior walls were almost entirely glass.

  The two interior walls held six oil paintings, each laid with an impressionistic brush, so incredibly good that Teffinger had to check them out as he introduced himself. He recognized all the signatures—Edgar Payne, Hanson Puthuff, Marion K. Wachte, Maurice Braun, Benjamin Brown and John Gamble.

  “You have quite the gallery going here,” Teffinger said.

  “I started out collecting the Taos Ten,” Salter said. “They were okay and would never go down in value. But to be honest, they never knocked my socks off. Then one day I said screw it, if I’m going to collect, I’m going to get stuff I like. So I moved into the American impressionists.”

  “Smart move,” Teffinger said.

  “Do you collect?”

  Teffinger chuckled.

  “Maybe someday,” he said. “Right now the only collecting going on in my life is the collecting of my dollars by my mortgage company.”

  Salter nodded.

  “Understood,” he said.

  Teffinger swallowed and got serious.

  “I’m assuming that you haven’t heard about Ryan Ripley yet,” he said.

  No.

  Salter hadn’t.

  He looked concerned.

  “What happened?”

  “He got killed Saturday night,” Teffinger said, “in an alley off Colfax, a place known for cheap blowjobs. His pants were off. His wallet was missing; and if he had a watch, it was gone too.”

  “He had a Rolex,” Salter said.

  Teffinger nodded, not surprised.

  “He had two stab marks in his back,” Teffinger said. “From a pocket knife with a three-inch blade.”

  Salter stood up, walked to the windows and looked out.

  Teffinger stayed quiet.

  And let the man process the information.

  Salter turned, leaned against the glass and said, “I warned him that his dick was going to get him in trouble.”

  “So he went down there a lot?”

  Salter shrugged.

  “I don’t know if it was a lot or not, but more than he should,” Salter said. “Every time he did it, he put the firm’s reputation on the line, which didn’t exactly make my day. I’m going to seem callous, but when I’m in this office, the firm comes before everything. So, approaching this from a managing partner viewpoint, the thing I’m wondering about is this—how much of this is going to become public information?”

  Teffinger understood.

  Dirt and smut didn’t help build the client base.

  “Right now, at least short term, I don’t see a whole lot that will be public information, other than the fact that he was a homicide victim. The rest of the details, at this point, are part of the investigation file, which isn’t public.”

  Salter looked relieved.

  “Long term is a different story,” Teffinger added. “Everything leaks, sooner or later. That’s just the way the world is built.”

  “Understood,” Salter said. “It’s the next couple of weeks that I’m primarily interested in. By then we’ll have new lawyers handling his cases.”

  TEFFINGER PICKED UP A PENCIL, wove it in his fingers, and studied the lawyer. Then he said, “Was Ripley into voodoo?”

  The word clearly took Salter by surprise.

  “Voodoo?”

  Teffinger nodded.

  “Right, voodoo.”

  Salter shook his head at the absurdity of the question. “No, why?”

  “No reason,” Teffinger said. “Do you remember a secretary who worked here a couple of years ago named Whitney White?”

  “Of course,” Salter said.

  “Was she into voodoo?”

  “Whitney?” Salter said. “Not that I know of. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, just curious,” Teffinger said. “Is anyone in the firm into voodoo, that you know of?”

  Salter walked
to the desk, put his hands on it and leaned across. “This firm represents some of the biggest and most sophisticated corporate clients in the country,” he said. “They wouldn’t spend two cents worth of time on anyone dumb enough to believe in anything as stupid as voodoo. And neither would I.”

  “That’s kind of what I figured,” Teffinger said.

  Chapter Six

  Day One—July 12

  Monday Morning

  ______________

  THE MARINA GOT HOT. There was no way Erin would survive much longer in her architect attire, so Raven gave her a pair of shorts and a T-shirt to swap into. They walked down the beach barefoot and tried to figure out what to do next. Raven asked a lot of questions designed to find out if anyone had a motive to kill Erin.

  Did she owe anyone money?

  Did she witness a crime?

  Was she cheating on a boyfriend?

  Was she into anything strange?

  Did she take drugs?

  Was she leading a secret life?

  No, no, no, no, no and more no. “And I never kicked anyone’s cat,” she added. “I’m not a threat to anyone in the world. This whole thing just baffles me.”

  “Maybe you weren’t the target,” Raven said. “Maybe it was the friend you were with.”

  “But the guy followed me when we split up,” Erin added.

  “Maybe he knew you spotted him and then did that on purpose, to throw you off.”

  Erin wrinkled her forehead and wasn’t impressed.

  “What was her name again?”

  “Samantha Dent.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Erin chuckled. “If I’m Ying, she’s Yang. I’m Ms. Goody Two Shoes. She’s Ms. Wild Woman. We’re about as opposite as two people can get.”

  “I want to talk to her,” Raven said.