by R. J. Jagger
RAVEN HOPPED IN THE 4RUNNER, intent on running down as many more tattoo shops as she could today. Hot Talk FM 104 came from the radio. Listeners were calling Geneva Vellone with stories about their worst bedroom experiences.
Raven was almost tempted to dial in.
Traffic was a zoo.
Too many people were moving to Colorado.
She was just about to enter the third shop—a placed called Tattoos While You Wait, sandwiched between a Laundromat and a Chinese takeout—when she got a phone call from the last person she ever expected.
Jeff Salter.
“Do you know who this is?” he asked.
She did.
“You were a good lawyer while you were here, irrespective of how everything ended,” he said. “So I know you’ll continue to be a good lawyer and tell your client to stop poking her nose where it doesn’t belong and start attending to the work that we’re paying her to do.”
“And by my client, who are you referring to?”
He chuckled.
“Don’t play games. It makes you look stupid.”
The line went dead.
SHE WAS JUST ABOUT TO DIAL HIM BACK when her phone rang. She thought it was him, but it turned out to be Jackson Ponds, the undernourished, overly-tattooed skinhead she spoke to last night at The Edge Works.
“I showed that guy’s picture around like you wanted,” he said. “One of our workers, Bethany, remembers him.”
“Is she there right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell her not to go anywhere. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t kill yourself, she’ll be here all day.”
HEADING SOUTH ON FEDERAL, she punched Dakota’s cell phone digits. “Salter is on to you. He just called me and told me to warn you to back off.”
“How’d he figure anything out?”
“I don’t know. But for right now, don’t do anything you shouldn’t.”
“That’s what he wants,” Dakota said.
“Repeat—do not do anything you shouldn’t; not until we can brainstorm it.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I understand.”
“Treat your office phone and your emails as if they’re bugged,” Raven added.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
THE MIAMI TARGET HAD A NAME—Jesse Montgomery. When Dalton initially saw her, wheeling a bicycle out the patio door of her first-floor apartment and peddling down the street, he didn’t think he had the right person. She looked more like fourteen than twenty, with a baby face and flat chest. But when he later drove a mile to the Starbucks where his target reportedly worked, and she was there behind the register wearing a “Jesse” nametag, he knew he had the right person.
He ordered a latte, paid with a five and studied her face as she made change.
Her skin was baby smooth.
Her eyes were innocent, watercolor blue.
Her hair was healthy.
Dalton had never killed anyone that young before. Her youth wouldn’t be a deal breaker, though, he already knew that. But he’d make it quick and as painless as possible. At first he thought he’d strangle her. But that would take four or five minutes. It would be better to just crush her skull from behind.
“It’s going to be hot today,” he said.
She looked towards his face, not at it; towards it.
“I don’t care about the heat,” she said. “Just keep the humidity. The cream and sugar’s over there.”
“Thanks.”
See you in hell.
HE WOULDN’T GET A CHANCE TO KILL HER until tonight, which meant he had the whole day to fill. What he needed more than anything was a solid workout. He also needed peace of mind, so he called Samantha Dent back in Denver to be sure nothing weird was going on.
She answered on the fourth ring, groggy.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“The chatter’s getting a lot louder about G-Drop, especially now that no one can locate Malcolm either,” she said. “Also, Denver officially opened a missing person’s case and is holding news conferences.”
“No bodies turned up though, I assume.”
“No.”
Dalton detected something in her voice.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s just so much talk—”
“No one will figure it out,” he told her. “Just stay calm.”
LITTLE MISS FLIGHT ATTENDANT took Dalton to her gym where they worked their muscles to failure. He was struggling to get his last bench press up when he got a call he didn’t expect.
James Madden.
“Where are you?” Madden asked.
“Miami.”
“Jesse Montgomery?”
“Right.”
“What’s your timetable?”
“Tonight, if all goes well.”
Silence.
“Forget about her for right now. We need you here.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
HE PULLED HIS SHIRT UP, wiped sweat off his face, and told Heather, “That was business. I have to get to the airport.”
“Right now?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Can you take me?”
She could.
They swung by her apartment to pick up his things.
They showered together.
Then he threw her on the mattress and rode her until she screamed.
Chapter Eighty
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
FRIDAY MORNING, TEFFINGER’S CELL PHONE pulled him out of a deep sleep. He opened his eyes a slit, just enough to gauge if the room was dark or light. It was still dark but the first rays of dawn poked around the curtain’s edge. He reached for the sound and the cell fumbled to the floor.
It stopped ringing.
He flipped onto his back and stretched.
Ten seconds later it rang again and Geneva Vellone’s voice came through. “Where’s Venzelle?” she asked.
“The Astor Crowne Plaza.”
“I know that,” Geneva said. “What I mean is, she’s not answering her phone.”
Teffinger raked his hair back.
“Then she’s sleeping.”
“She was supposed to call the station at five this morning, to patch into the show.”
Teffinger had to piss like crazy.
He pushed himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Hold on a minute,” he said. “I’m going to put you on mute; otherwise you’re going to hear something you don’t want.”
“No, no mute,” she said. “Something’s wrong with Venzelle, otherwise she would have called.”
Tammy Bahamas came to mind.
“She went out for a drink last night,” Teffinger said. “Call the Astor Crowne Plaza and have them patch you into her room.”
“Okay.”
Teffinger hung up and took a shower.
When he came out, he had two missed calls, both from Geneva. When he dialed back she said, “Venzelle’s not picking up her hotel phone. And when someone knocked on her door for me, she didn’t answer.”
Teffinger frowned.
Maybe she got trashed last night and crashed at Tammy Bahamas’, but for some reason he didn’t think so.
His stomach tightened.
“I’ll check into it and get back to you.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER HE ARRIVED AT THE HOTEL and met with Jim Hansen, the same manager who promised to keep security on Venzelle’s room. For some reason the man seemed familiar.
They entered.
One of Venzelle’s suitcases was there but not the other one.
The bed was made.
A mint on the pillow indicated it hadn’t been slept in.
A quick search uncovered nothing suspicious.
Her purse and cell phone wer
e gone.
According to hotel security, her keycard was last used at 7:02 p.m. She must have left sometime after that and never returned.
Teffinger dialed Tammy Bahamas and explained the situation.
“I called her right after you and I talked,” Tammy said. “She said she wasn’t in the mood to go out, so we never got together.”
“What else did she say?”
“That was it. She just wasn’t up for it.”
“Was she going to do something else?”
“If she was, she didn’t mention it to me.”
“Did she say anything about me?
“No.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“If I can do anything, let me know.”
TEFFINGER HUNG UP, looked at Hansen and said, “Do you have car rental services here?”
Yes.
Of course.
“Let’s find out if she rented a car,” Teffinger said. “Then I want to check your surveillance tapes.”
They hung a DO NOT DISTURB card on the door and headed for the lobby.
Hansen took the elevator.
Teffinger took the stairs, two steps at a time, ten floors worth.
This was his fault.
He should have personally driven Venzelle to the airport, stuck her on a plane and kissed her goodbye. Better yet, he should have never brought her here in the first place.
Hansen was waiting for him in the lobby.
“I need coffee,” Teffinger said.
Coffee.
Coffee.
Coffee.
Truckloads of coffee.
Immediately.
IT TURNED OUT THAT VENZELLE RENTED a black Chevy sedan last evening, plate number N77-007. Teffinger wrote it on the back of a business card and stuck it in his wallet. The 007 made a sound byte in his brain—Bond, James Bond. The surveillance tapes showed Venzelle entering the room alone at 7:02 and leaving at 8:12 p.m. dressed in white shorts, a blue T and tennis shoes both times.
She walked briskly and looked focused, as if she was on a mission.
The Chevy rental wasn’t currently anywhere on the hotel property.
Chapter Eighty-One
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
BETHANY WASN’T ANYTHING like what Raven pictured. She expected a rough, heavily-tattooed biker mama with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes. Bethany was petite, blond and unassuming. She’d be right at home operating a kids’ ride at an amusement park. Raven pumped her for details while they filled disposable cups with coffee.
Bethany remembered the pirate, no doubt about it.
“He came into the shop about five years ago with one of his own drawings,” she said. “It was after dark. I was the only one here. I looked at it and said, No way. I don’t do stuff like that. He put a look on his face that scared me so badly that I reached under the counter and got the gun. I didn’t flash it or anything, but I had the safety off and had my finger on the trigger.”
“You have a gun under the counter?”
“Yeah, right here.”
She pulled out a black revolver and set it on the countertop.
A Smith & Wesson.
Loaded and ready to go.
“It’s never been fired but almost got fired that night,” she said. “I think he knew I had it, because the look on his face changed and he didn’t try anything. He didn’t even say anything, for that matter. He just turned and left.” She chuckled nervously. “I wouldn’t work nights alone after that for six months.”
“So you never gave him a tattoo?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Does the name Robert ring a bell?”
No.
It didn’t.
“Tell me about the tattoo he wanted.”
“It was a woman getting her throat slit,” she said.
Raven expected something like that.
Still, the words shocked her enough that she stopped the coffee cup halfway to her mouth.
“Can you draw me a picture of it?”
“I don’t remember it that clearly, except for what I just told you.”
“How big did he want it?”
“We never got to that.”
“Where did he want it?”
“That either.”
“Did he get it done at some other shop?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I never saw him again or heard anything about him after that.” She paused. “Do you have any tattoos?”
No.
“I’ll give you a small one on the house if you want,” Bethany said. “It’ll only take about thirty minutes.”
Raven wasn’t interested but felt it would be rude to dismiss the offer too quickly.
“What would you recommend?”
Bethany unbuttoned her blouse, pulled her bra down and exposed her left breast.
On it was a small blue flower with green leaves; gorgeous.
“Maybe something like this,” she said.
“Okay,” Raven said.
As soon as the word came out of her mouth, she knew she should suck it back in, before it was too late.
But she didn’t.
“Really? You want it?”
“Sure, why not?”
Thirty minutes later she had a blue flower with green leaves on her left breast.
“We’re sort of like blood sisters now,” Bethany said.
Raven gave her all the cash she had on hand as a tip—almost $200—hugged her, and stepped outside feeling a little edgier, and a little freer, than when she walked in.
SHE PULLED THE 4RUNNER into thick traffic and headed for the Denver Public Library. She didn’t even know the radio was on until Barbara Streisand’s “Evergreen” caught her attention, one of the best songs ever. Ordinarily she’d crank it up and sing along but she turned it off.
There was too much on her mind.
She parked on Bannock, grabbed her laptop and headed for the library entrance with a brisk step. On the way, she called Bethany and said, “I don’t want you to get scared or anything, but be careful.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN LOOKED LIKE AN OCEAN from the air; and the Mississippi River looked like a python. That was the best part of New Orleans—the water. Seeing it again made Dalton pull up a memory of screwing Trish Pendergast in the bathroom of the Canal Street Ferry after an IMAX movie.
How long ago was that?
Four years?
Five?
Too long.
Maybe he should look her up while he was here and see if she still did that little trick with her tongue.
He rented a blue Dodge sedan at the airport, took I-10 east and worked his way into the French Quarter—Vieux Carre. James Madden owned a building on Royal Street, one block south of Bourbon, not far from Lalaurie Haunted House.
When he got there he found something he didn’t expect.
Robert Poindexter.
Mr. Pirate.
“You’re supposed to be in Denver killing Lindsay Vail,” Dalton said.
Poindexter exhaled.
And James Madden busted in.
“Forget about her,” the man said.
MADDEN LOOKED EXACTLY like Dalton remembered—black, muscular, shaved head, ferociously strong. In fact, so powerful that Dalton wasn’t sure if he could take him in a fair fight.
“What’s going on?” Dalton asked. “Why am I here?”
Madden explained.
Namely, the detective from Denver, Nick Teffinger, somehow figured out there was a voodoo doll with his name on it, and traced it to New Orleans. He was snooping around every place in the city that had anything even remotely to do
with the occult.
Asking questions.
Busting into back rooms.
Trying to find the source of the death curse.
Plus, he had Poindexter’s photo all over the TV, asking people to call in with information.
“This guy needs to be dead,” Madden said. “I don’t want him breathing any more.”
Dalton looked at the pirate.
Then back at Madden.
“Is the female going to be involved?”
Madden nodded.
“She’s flying into town as we speak,” Madden said.
Dalton’s pulse raced.
“Does that mean I finally get to meet her?”
“That’ll be her call,” Madden said. He looked at his watch. “She’s landing right now.”
Although Dalton had never met her, he’d scraped enough bits and pieces together over the years to form a vague image in his mind.
Black.
Beautiful.
Important looking.
Deceptively deadly.
Reportedly, she had more kills than Dalton and the pirate combined. Dalton had never said it out loud, but he was pretty sure that if they ever decided to take him out of the circle, she’d be the one to get the assignment.
“I picture her as hot,” he said.
“Forget it,” Madden said. “Keep your dick in your pants and your eyes on Teffinger.”
Chapter Eighty-Three
Day Five—July 16
Friday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER HAD MORE COFFEE IN HIS GUT than he should, but he got another cup anyway and carried it outside the hotel to the street, where he could breathe. The New Orleans humidity hit him hard and the traffic filled his ears. He walked down the street, needing to be in motion. Then he remembered what Tammy Bahamas said and dialed her.
“You said I could call if I needed help,” Teffinger said.
Absolutely.
So what’s going on?
“Venzelle rented a car yesterday,” he said. “I need to get a BOLO going on it, but the only person I know in town is a detective by the name of Max Moniteau, who’s a jerk. I need another contact.”
“Max Moniteau?”
Right.