by R. J. Jagger
Day Four—July 15
Thursday Afternoon
______________
THE AFTERNOON SUN GOT RELENTLESS. The marina felt like a hamburger patty that someone put on the grill and forgot to take off. So when Dakota called to see if Raven wanted to get an iced tea at the Rock Bottom Brewery—and bill her time—she jumped in the 4Runner, turned the AC on full blast, and headed downtown.
She parked at 20th and Broadway.
The walk from there to the Rock Bottom was short but brutal.
Heat radiated from every pore of the city.
Dakota was already there when Raven arrived, sitting in a nice booth with two large iced teas on the table. The woman looked classy and professional in expensive beige pants and a crisp white sleeveless blouse. Her makeup was minimal but effective. She pushed a check across the table as Raven slipped in.
“Your retainer,” she said.
The check interested Raven, but not as much as the look of excitement on Dakota’s face.
Raven took a long sip of tea and said, “It’s hotter than hell out there.”
Agreed.
“We need rain.”
True.
“So you think Salter was doing the nasty with Whitney White, huh?”
Dakota nodded.
“I know it for a fact,” Dakota said.
“How?”
“Florence Fletcher.”
RAVEN KNEW THE NAME WELL. Florence was Jeff Salter’s personal secretary; hired more for her Betty Boop body and her people skills than her office proficiencies. Susan Salter—Jeff’s wife—had a standing joke at law firm parties that if Jeff ever cheated on her, at least she knew who it would be with.
“Why? What did Florence say?” Raven asked.
Dakota rolled her eyes.
“She left the firm. Did you know that?”
Raven didn’t.
“That’s a whole separate story and no one knows exactly why,” Dakota said. “But there’s a rumor going around that there was no love lost between her and Salter. So I called her up to see if she had any goodies for me. At first she didn’t want to talk, but after I got her warmed up, she told me that she walked in on Salter and Whitney White one day by accident.”
“And by walked in on, do you mean what I think you mean?”
Dakota nodded.
“Whitney was on her knees, apparently, going for it like a maniac.”
Raven pictured it.
“She never struck me as that kind.”
“You mean the kind to get on her knees?”
“No, I’m talking about the kind to fool around with a married man.”
Dakota shrugged.
“Salter’s got that surfer-boy charm, when he wants to use it. If he decided to turn it loose on someone like Whitney, I could see how she would go for it,” Dakota said. “Oh, by the way, Florence made me promise not to tell anyone, so you need to keep it between us.”
Raven pulled an imaginary zipper across her lips.
“So are you ready now to hear my theory?” Dakota asked.
Raven took a swallow of iced tea.
“Shoot.”
“It’s pretty simple,” Dakota said. “Jeff Salter killed Whitney White.”
RAVEN LAUGHED.
“Why? Just because they had a relationship of some sort and then she ended up dead?”
“Right.”
“That’s not just a big leap in logic, it’s a quantum one.”
“I’m going to fill in the missing pieces,” Dakota said. “We know that their relationship ended on a bad note. Maybe Salter dumped her, or was cheating on her with a second mistress, or promised to marry her but kept making excuses—something like that. Maybe Whitney ended up pissed off and threatened to tell Salter’s wife. So Salter decided to shut her up.”
“That’s nothing more than a long chain of speculation,” Raven said.
“That’s how proof starts.”
RAVEN WAS DRIVING TO THE MARINA, southbound on I-25, when Dakota called.
“I had another thought after you left,” she said. “We were thinking that Salter’s the one who turned his surfer-boy charms on Whitney. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she turned her charms on him and made a videotape of them doing the nasty. Then she blackmailed him with it. Rather than pay, he decided to shut her up.”
“So you’re saying that she set the whole thing up, as a preconceived way to extort money or something?”
“Exactly,” Dakota said. “Maybe someone helped her, also—you know, shot the videotape and all that.”
Raven chuckled.
“I need to start using you as a consultant for my books,” she said. “Your imagination is way better than mine.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Day Four—July 15
Thursday Noon
______________
THE NOISE CAME FROM THE MASTER CLOSET. Dalton opened the door, wondering how he had been too stupid to check there before, and flicked on the lights.
Lindsay Vail laid on the floor.
Hogtied.
Gagged.
She twisted her face up and stared at him with terrified eyes.
“Lindsay,” he said. “We meet again.”
He removed the gag and she gasped for air.
“Are you okay?” Dalton asked.
“No,” she said. “Untie me, please!”
He did.
Then he let her shower while he sat on the bed and waited.
He felt good.
No, not good.
GOOD.
Lindsay Vail had been the one thing that could have destroyed his life. The dark, helpless feeling of not knowing where she was, and not knowing if she had made her way to the cops, and not knowing whether twenty armed uniforms were on their way at this very moment to grab him, was gone.
In its place was sunshine and hope and that incredibly grateful feeling of experiencing a close call of terrible proportions and managing to somehow miraculously escape totally unscathed.
HE PULLED A FRESH, LONG-SLEEVED SHIRT off a hanger in the master closet, set it on the sink and then waited for her in the bedroom with the door half closed while she dried off. When she finally emerged, he took her to the kitchen and said, “Sit on that bar stool.”
She did.
“If you try anything, I’m going to retie you.”
“I won’t.”
“I hope not,” he said. “I’m being nice, so don’t make me change my mind.”
“I won’t.”
He fed her—cereal, fruit, a Lean Pocket, a turkey sandwich and two diet root beers. It didn’t matter if the owner noticed the food was gone. He would just assume Malcolm ate it.
He leaned against the stainless steel dishwasher and asked, “You know that my name’s not Sean, like I told you before, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what my name is? Did Malcolm tell you?”
She nodded.
“What is it?”
“Dalton Wrey.”
“Good.”
“Just let me go,” she said. “I’ll never tell anything to anyone. I swear.”
“We’ll see,” Dalton said. “I haven’t totally ruled that out yet.”
“Please.”
“WHAT I NEED TO KNOW RIGHT NOW IS THIS,” he said. “You overheard Malcolm talking to people on his cell phone, right?”
She had.
“Did you hear him talk to someone by the name of Jason Lynch, who is the owner of this house?”
“I don’t know who he talked to.”
“Think.”
“He never called them by proper names,” she said. “He just called them dude and guy and things like that.”
“But you heard him talk to people, right?”
“Right.”
“Did he ever mention my name to anyone?”
She darted her eyes.
“Not that I heard.”
“Did he ever mention the machine shop to anyone?”
She looked puzzled as if searching her memory.
“Not that I can think of.” She wrung her hands together. “I’m really cooperating as much as I can. You should just let me go. I promise I’ll never tell anyone anything.”
“You swear?”
“Yes, absolutely. I just want to go home.”
“We’ll see.”
Suddenly the front doorbell rang.
LINDSAY VAIL IMMEDIATELY JUMPED OFF the barstool and darted for the front door. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from her lungs; one that would be heard even outside the house. Dalton charged after her.
His left hip suddenly exploded in pain.
A terrible hurt took him straight to the floor.
He knew what happened—he clipped his hipbone on the corner of the granite.
His forehead bounced off the hardwood floor and blood filled his nose.
“Lindsay!”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Day Four—July 15
Thursday Afternoon
______________
AFTER THE SNAKE SUNK ITS FANGS into Teffinger’s neck, it recoiled just as fast and poised to strike again. Teffinger jerked his head back, out of the attack zone, and brought a hand to his neck to assess the damage.
There was blood, but not a lot.
“You won’t die,” the woman said. “Now go on and get out of here.”
A shape appeared behind him.
Venzelle.
She grabbed his arm and said, “Let’s go.”
Outside in the car he said, “I swear she had that damn thing trained.”
“You can’t train a snake,” Venzelle said.
“I don’t think the snake knows that.”
“It is ironic, though.”
“What?”
“The place is called The Serpent’s Kiss, and you end up getting kissed.”
He groaned.
The sun was high and the humidity was thick. Teffinger cranked over the engine and turned the AC on full blast. Air blew out of the vents, hot at first, but cooling almost immediately.
“If this next place has snakes, I’m going to let you do the talking,” he said.
She chuckled.
“Thanks, you’re so nice.”
“It doesn’t come easy,” he said. “I have to work at it.”
THE NEXT PLACE—Rituals—and an even darker and more ominous feel than The Serpent’s Kiss. A black girl no more than thirteen or fourteen sat behind the counter, busy making something. She followed Teffinger briefly with her eyes and then went back to what she was doing. After wandering around, Teffinger headed over and leaned on the counter.
“Hi,” he said. “What are you making?”
She showed him.
“This.”
“Is that a voodoo doll?”
She nodded.
“It’s Ryan Green,” she said. “He’s been spending time where he shouldn’t be.”
“With another girl?”
She nodded.
“So you’re going to put a curse on him?”
“Not a curse,” she said. “I’m just going to make him stop.”
“Do you think it will work?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“It’ll work.”
“When you see Ryan Green again, tell him I think he’s crazy if he looks at anyone besides you,” he said.
She smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Seven.”
Teffinger shook her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Seven. If Ryan Green doesn’t work out, just go get someone else. You deserve someone nice. There are nice guys out there, if you keep looking around.”
Someone in the back room coughed, deep and rough.
Teffinger looked that way.
The door was open a slit.
Eyes watched him and disappeared as soon as he made contact.
Teffinger looked back at the girl. “You see this woman here?” he asked, referring to Venzelle. “Can you put a spell on her and make her like me?”
The girl laughed.
Then she studied Venzelle.
“She’d be tough.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, she just feels strong,” she said. “Why don’t you just treat her nice and see if that works.”
Venzelle punched Teffinger in the arm.
“Did you hear that?” she asked. “Treat me nice and see if that works.”
OUTSIDE, WALKING BACK TO THE CAR, Teffinger raked his hair back with his fingers. The humidity was so thick that it didn’t flop back down. “There was a man in the back room,” he said.
“I know,” Venzelle said. “But here’s the more important thing—I’m starved. Feed me.”
Five minutes later, Teffinger spotted a McDonald’s and pulled into the drive-thru lane.
“She said to be nice to me,” Venzelle said.
“This is nice.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You said feed me,” he added. “That’s what I’m doing. If you want something nicer, you need to say dine me.”
“So this is my fault?”
He nodded.
“You need to be precise with your language.”
“Okay,” she said. “Dine me.”
The speaker crackled.
Can I take your order please?
Teffinger looked at Venzelle.
“Too late,” he said.
AS HE WAS PAYING at the window, his cell phone rang and Sydney Heatherwood’s voice came through.
“Got some big news,” she said.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Day Four—July 15
Thursday Afternoon
______________
WHITNEY WHITE HAD BEEN STABBED through the eye. That wasn’t too different from the tattoo that Dawn Hooker put on the mysterious pirate, Robert, years earlier. The more Raven thought about it, the more she wondered if the two were connected.
But how?
There was nothing concrete to suggest that Robert and Whitney White knew each other.
She looked at her watch—3:42 p.m.
Time was moving forward.
Right now, she needed to run the nineteen Roberts to ground and didn’t have time to get sidetracked by a new theory. She jotted it down on a yellow Post-It—Did Robert kill Whitney?—and stuck it on the side of the microwave, just to be sure she didn’t forget, and then set about the task at hand.
Unfortunately, Google proved to be useless.
The searches generated too many hits, especially for the Roberts with common last names. Even the less common names generated an unwieldy number of strikes. After a frustrating hour, she closed the computer and headed topside.
The sun was ferocious.
HALFWAY UP THE STEPS she remembered she was in her panties and bra. A quick survey of the marina didn’t show anyone in the immediate vicinity, so she kept going. She opened a patio umbrella and bungeed it in place for shade, something she should have done hours ago. Then she tied a rope to a bucket, lowered it into the lake, pulled up cold water and drenched the cushions.
There.
Better.
It was cool enough to be outside now, at least for a while.
She laid down on her back in the shade, propped her feet up on the back of the boat and watched the mast rock back and forth against the sky. Three seagulls flew past. The wet vinyl felt nice against her skin. Her eyes got heavy and closed. Her mind wandered.
Then a thought came to her, a wild thought.
SHE BOLTED UPRIGHT, went into the cabin, opened the yellow pages to Tattoos, and discovered there were a lot more tattoo shops in the Denver area than she anticipated. It didn’t matter because she already knew what she needed to do.
She needed to find out if Robert got other tattoos of women being murdered; and whether someone then ended up murdered in real life similar to the tattoo.
Suddenly the boat rocked, meaning someone had stepped on board.
“Anyone home?�
�
The voice belonged to Coyote.
“I’m down here.”
Coyote came down, saw the yellow pages opened to Tattoos, and asked, “You going to get a tattoo?”
Raven grinned.
“Yeah, a red skull-and-crossbones, on my forehead.”
“I always pictured you as more of a rose-on-the-boob kind.”
“Then you don’t know your target very well. You need to start stalking me better.”
Coyote chuckled.
“I’m doing the best I can,” she said.
Then she kissed her.
Chapter Seventy
Day Four—July 15
Thursday Afternoon
______________
DALTON DIDN’T HAVE TIME FOR THE PAIN exploding from his hipbone. He muscled to his feet, charged after Lindsay Vail and caught her at the front door as she fumbled with the deadbolt. Wham! He punched her in the back of the head so hard that his knuckles hurt. She dropped to the floor, twisted briefly and then stopped moving.
She might be dead and Dalton didn’t care.
It was her own damn fault.
He peeked out the front window, keeping his face hidden and expecting to find someone standing at the front door. Instead, a UPS truck was heading down the road, meaning that the doorbell had been nothing more than an announcement to check for a package, if someone happened to be home.
It was doubtful the driver heard Lindsay’s scream.
He would have already turned and headed back to the truck.
The engine would have muffled the sound.
Suddenly the truck stopped up the road and turned into the driveway of another house.
A brown shirt jumped out with a package.
He dropped it off at the front door, rang the bell and walked briskly back to the truck.
He was clearly continuing with his route. He wouldn’t be doing that if he’d heard Lindsay’s scream.
Suddenly Dalton’s adrenalin stopped pumping and the pain in his hip intensified. He collapsed on the couch, unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down. His hipbone was seriously bruised but didn’t show any external evidence of breakage or disfigurement.
Lindsay Vail didn’t move.
Dalton couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.