Client On The Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by R. J. Jagger

  She did women as well as men.

  Right now, she was blowing cigarette smoke out the window, which was cranked down just enough to let the air escape and keep the rain out.

  “So have you had any famous customers?” Yardley asked. “Someone I’d know—”

  Samantha chuckled.

  “That depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you know anyone,” she said. “Because if you do, I’ve probably done them. You’d be absolutely amazed at how much pussy-eating and dick-sucking goes on in this town that shouldn’t.”

  Lightning exploded overhead, immediately followed by a deafening slap of thunder.

  “Have you ever done anyone from a law firm called Radcliffe & Snow?” Yardley asked.

  Samantha tossed the cigarette out the window.

  “I’ve done lots of lawyers, honey,” she said. “They’re our best customers.”

  “Really?”

  “They got the guts to do it and the bucks to do it,” Samantha said. “Why? Do you know someone from that firm?”

  “I used to work there.”

  “I feel sorry for you,” she said.

  Yardley pressed for names but Samantha wouldn’t give them.

  “Honor among thieves,” she said.

  Headlights came down the street. They slowed as they passed Aspen’s house and then sped up afterwards. They didn’t turn into a driveway. Instead, they went all the way to the end of the street and turned left at the stop sign.

  “Go!” Yardley said.

  Samantha immediately cranked over the engine, did a 180, and stepped on the gas.

  Yardley called Aspen and said, “We’re following someone. Be careful while we’re gone.”

  “I have my gun out,” Aspen said.

  “I didn’t know you had a gun,” Yardley said.

  “Well now you do.”

  12

  D alton would be the first to admit that he seriously botched the tattoo on Lindsay Vail’s stomach. Of course, he had only given one tattoo before, to a high school buddy named Mike Preston, so he wasn’t expecting perfection.

  Still, he expected better than what he did.

  He couldn’t blame the woman, either.

  She held still through the whole thing.

  He stood back and studied the woman, still stretched tight on the rack. “This isn’t exactly my best work,” he warned.

  “I got to pee like crazy,” she said.

  “If I let you up will you be good?”

  “Yes.”

  Dalton put his ski mask on, unwrapped the blindfold and released her. She immediately ran to the toilet, pulled her jeans down and relieved herself, looking at her stomach as she did. The tattoo wasn’t that big, only about six inches, with lots of color. She couldn’t make out what it was.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’ll bring you a mirror later so you can see it better,” Dalton said. “If you promise to behave yourself, I’ll go out and get some food.”

  She promised and seemed relieved, not so much because she was hungry, which she was, starved in fact. but because he wouldn’t be feeding her if he planned to kill her; at least short term.

  Food meant life.

  Dalton said, “No calling out or screaming while I’m gone.” He made double sure that the door was a hundred percent locked, and then headed for McDonald’s.

  A hard rain beat down.

  So powerful that he ran the wipers full speed.

  On the way, he called Poindexter and was surprised when James Madden answered. Dalton pulled up an image of his shaved black head, piercing brown eyes and tight powerful jaw.

  “Where’s Poindexter?” Dalton asked.

  “In the can.”

  “Well, tell him it’s done,” Dalton said.

  “The tattoo?”

  “Yeah,” Dalton said. “Tell him I didn’t do a very good job.”

  “How bad is it, just out of curiosity?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Okay. I’ll let him know.”

  Dalton ordered two Number 3 meals at the drive-thru and then pulled up to the window to pay. A kid handed him the food and told him the amount, $9.38, which he already knew, because the kid had just told him that back at the speaker box twenty seconds ago. When Dalton reached into the back pocket of his jeans to get his wallet, it wasn’t there.

  Huh?

  He checked his other pocket.

  It wasn’t there.

  He scooted forward on the seat and checked behind him, to see if it slid out while he was driving.

  It wasn’t there.

  He checked the passenger seat.

  No.

  Then the floor.

  No.

  Nothing.

  Did it fall out while he was giving the tattoo? Was Lindsay Vail going through it right now, at this very moment? Was she looking at his driver’s license and memorizing his name and address?

  Dalton looked at the kid and said, “Forgot my wallet.” Then he squealed off.

  Five minutes later, the flashing lights of a cop showed up in his rearview mirror, not more than a few car-lengths behind him. He immediately looked at his speedometer—51—and realized the speed limit was probably 35.

  He slammed his fist on the dashboard.

  Damn it!

  He should have paid more attention.

  Okay.

  Calm down.

  No biggie.

  Get the ticket and mail a check tomorrow.

  He pulled to the side of the road.

  The flashing lights pulled in behind.

  A spotlight kicked on and focused on his license plate.

  Then, after what seemed like a long time, two cops got out and walked towards him, hunched against the weather, one on either side of his car. Dalton powered down his window and put on his friendliest face.

  The storm splashed in.

  The cop was soaked by the time he got his face to the window, clearly not happy.

  “Evening officer,” Dalton said. “I guess I wasn’t watching my speedometer.”

  The cop shined a flashlight on the passenger seat.

  The beam landed on a white McDonald’s bag.

  Dalton looked at it, shocked, and suddenly realized that he’d been so preoccupied with his wallet that he forgot to hand the food back before taking off.

  “Is that yours?” the cop asked.

  13

  T he 1967 Corvette is the coolest car ever made, hands down, end of story. Teffinger had one; a red convertible with black interior, numbers matching, all original, primo condition, 45,000 miles. It was a small-block, which meant that it wasn’t anywhere near as insanely pricey as its older sibling, the 427; nor did it have a hood stinger, side pipes or knockoff wheels. But, even so, it had 300 horses under the hood, a four-speed manual transmission, and classic mid-year styling that hadn’t been matched before or since.

  Technically the bank owned part of it but Teffinger didn’t regret a single dollar, not even the ones that went for interest.

  When it stormed at night, his favorite thing in the world was to sit in the vehicle with the garage door open and watch the rain, with a can of Bud Light in hand. That’s what he was doing when Jessie-Rae pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine.

  Teffinger honked the horn.

  She ran through the weather, into the garage and slid into the passenger seat.

  Incredibly sexy.

  “A ’67 Corvette,” she said, “very nice.”

  “How’d you know it was a ’67?” Teffinger asked.

  “The air vents,” she said.

  Teffinger nodded, impressed. The 1967 was the only mid-year Corvette with five vents on the side.

  “Plus, this,” she said, putting her hand on the emergency brake, which was mounted between the seats. “All the others are under the dash.”

  “Someone knows their cars,” Teffinger said.

  “My dad collected,” she said.


  “Really? What kind?”

  “Mostly old American muscle cars—Vettes, Mustangs, GTOs, Chargers, that kind of thing,” she said. “He spent twenty years flying around the country and handpicking them, all original. That was his thing, they had to be absolutely authentic and genuine. My mom never understood the whole old-car thing and sold every one of them at a Barrett-Jackson auction six months after he died.”

  “That’s too bad,” Teffinger said.

  “Not really,” Jessie-Rae said. “She never objected while he was alive, even though she thought it was a waste of money. So he got to do what he loved. That was the important thing.”

  “That’s the kind of wife I need,” Teffinger said.

  She chuckled.

  “What?” Teffinger asked.

  “You don’t strike me as the marrying kind,” she said.

  Lightning flashed and thunder exploded.

  Teffinger took a long swallow of Bud Light and passed the can. She waved it off and said, “I’ll take some wine though, if you have any.”

  He did, in the kitchen.

  “Stay here, I’ll get it,” she said.

  She returned two minutes later and clinked a glass against his beer can, then took a sip. Teffinger asked, “What do you know about voodoo—anything?”

  She chuckled.

  “Now there’s a question I didn’t expect today.”

  “Then we’re even,” Teffinger said. “I didn’t expect to ask it.”

  “Voodoo, huh?”

  “Right, voodoo.”

  “Does this mean you’re into it? Are you going to put some kind of a spell on me and turn me into your sex slave?”

  Teffinger grinned.

  “Why? Would you like that?”

  She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still deciding.”

  Teffinger chuckled.

  “What?” she questioned.

  “You’ve already decided,” he said.

  “I have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, really? And what did I decide?”

  “You decided yes,” he said.

  “And what makes you think that?”

  Teffinger took a swallow of Bud Light. “I can tell,” he said. “And, more importantly, I can prove it.”

  “How could you possibly prove what’s in my mind?”

  “I’m a detective,” he said. “I’ll make a bet with you. If I can prove it, then you have to admit it, and you have to let me put that voodoo curse on you.”

  “You mean, be your sex slave?”

  “Right.”

  “And what if you can’t prove it?”

  “Then you can have this Corvette,” he said.

  She grinned.

  “Deal.”

  “Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “No backing out,” he said.

  “Same for you.”

  They shook on it.

  “Okay, give me your car keys,” Teffinger said. She looked puzzled; then did it. Teffinger got out of the ’67, set his beer on the cement and ran through the storm to the black silhouette of a vehicle parked on the street. One minute later he returned, drenched, holding a black bag that he pulled out of the back seat of Jessie-Rae’s car. She tried to grab it out of his hand but he held it away and unzipped it.

  “Let’s see what we have in here.”

  Then he pulled things out.

  A T-shirt.

  A bra.

  A pair of white cotton panties.

  A toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Mouthwash.

  “Exhibit A,” Teffinger said. “Proof that you already planned to spend the night.”

  She looked as if she was about to deny it.

  Then she laughed.

  “Well, it looks like we have a winner.”

  “Yes we do.”

  She sipped the wine, got serious and said, “I hope you’re not into voodoo. That stuff scares me. I had a roommate in my first year of college named Reanne who was half Haitian—that’s where it comes from, you know, Haiti. Anyway, she wasn’t a priestess or anything, but she made the dolls and put spells on them. It was weird, there we were sitting on our beds with our books spread out and a CD playing, and she’d be doing this voodoo magic as if it was as normal as apple pie. All her spells were good, though, not dark or evil. She liked this guy named Michael Bradshaw and put a spell on him to make him like her back.”

  “Did it work?”

  “He ended up absolutely infatuated with her.”

  “So it did work, then.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Jessie-Rae said. “This woman was hot. There wasn’t a guy on campus who wouldn’t eat live frogs to watch her do jumping jacks.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  She chuckled and sipped the wine. “The thing that impressed me the most about the voodoo wasn’t whether it worked or not—it was the fact that she really believed that it worked. It was absolutely real as far as she was concerned. That sort of made it real to me.”

  “So you believe in it, then?” Teffinger asked.

  “I believe that other people believe,” Jessie-Rae said. “I also believe that their beliefs make certain things more likely to come true.”

  Teffinger tried to concentrate on her words, but she smelled like a flower and sounded like a song.

  He leaned over and put his lips near hers. She didn’t back away, so he kissed her, and she kissed him back.

  She was the one.

  He knew it before, but knew it even more now.

  A pair of headlights came up the street. Teffinger saw them out of his peripheral vision, but paid no attention. A minute or so later, they came back down. That was normal. Teffinger’s house was the third from the end, on a dead-end road, with a turnaround at the end. What wasn’t normal was that the headlights stopped in front of his driveway.

  Teffinger focused on them.

  There was enough streetlight punching through the storm to make out the shape of a midsize sedan. The passenger window powered down, not just a crack, but all the way to the bottom, in spite of the rain. Teffinger tried to see who was inside, but couldn’t make out a thing. He briefly flashed the headlights of the Corvette, to let whoever it was know that he was in the garage.

  Then a small orange light popped inside the car.

  By the time Teffinger registered it as a gunshot, the Corvette’s windshield exploded.

  DAY TWO

  Tuesday

  July 13

  14

  W hen Yardley woke Tuesday morning, the marina smelled like rain and the docks were drenched. Clouds hung in the sky; remnants from last night that would burn off by nine. She fired up the generator, got the coffee percolating, and took a jog through the fields, down a path where the lake stayed in view most of the time.

  The chase last night hadn’t turned out well.

  The other car lost them.

  They didn’t get the make, the license plate number or a look at the driver. They did confirm, however, that the vehicle was evading them, meaning that Lindsay was probably right in her theory that she was the target, not Samantha.

  Samantha.

  What a firecracker.

  She would definitely end up being a character in one of Yardley’s books. Right now, though, Yardley didn’t have time to think about writing. Today she had to be a lawyer. Most of the time she didn’t mind practicing law, but today would be painful. She was defending a deposition being taken by Adam Osborne, a senior attorney at Radcliffe & Snow. This would be the first time Yardley stepped back inside the firm after being fired last year.

  Osborne had played a major role in Yardley’s discharge.

  She could already picture him later this morning.

  Sitting across the table.

  In his crisp white shirt and red silk power-tie.

  Smug.

  Thinking he was so superior.

  Well, if he came o
n too strong, Yardley would look him in the eyes, run her fingers through her hair and then raise her eyes up to his seriously-receding hairline. He might have been entitled to deference when Yardley worked for the firm, but now he had no hold on her. Now he was just one more face in the world, and not a pretty one at that.

  A mile into the run, she still felt good and picked up the pace, not a lot, but some. Even though she’d be thirty next week, physically she didn’t feel much different than twenty-one.

  So screw thirty.

  The events leading up to her discharge had been strange. Anderson Glass Products, a manufacturer of bottles and one of Radcliffe & Snow’s largest clients, had a President/CEO by the name of Felix Rock, who ran the place like a dictatorship. When the company’s head of security told Rock that he suspected that employees were selling drugs at the workplace, Rock went ballistic and decided to set up a sting operation.

  Rock’s plan was to hire three people who would seem like new employees. Their job, however, was to infiltrate the workforce, find out who was selling the drugs, actually buy some to get proof, and then feed the information and evidence directly to Rock, who would eventually turn it all over to the local authorities once he felt comfortable that he had ferreted everyone out.

  To funnel money to the undercover “employees,” Rock met with Radcliffe & Snow’s managing partner, Jeff Salter, and together they came up with a plan—Salter would add a $25,000 “management oversight” fee to each month’s invoice; Rock would approve the invoice; Salter would then get the money and funnel it to the undercover employees on the side.

  Unfortunately, the company’s in-house legal officer, Mary Benderfield, Esq., questioned the line item after the third month and, after failing to get a satisfactory answer from Salter as to the nature of the invoice, she went to Rock and suggested that R&S be discharged as outside counsel for falsifying invoices.

  Rock kept her in the dark, and hemmed and hawed.

  Benderfield then spoke to Yardley Sage, who she trusted, and asked her to get information as to what was going on. Yardley dug into it, found out what was going on, and told Benderfield. She in turn confronted Rock, who admitted what was going on. Benderfield informed Rock that the whole plan was illegal, because a private party didn’t have a right to purchase and possess drugs from another private party, even if that private party is motivated by a good faith “sting” operation—only police authorities can purchase and possess drugs.