Client On The Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller)
Page 19
“We’re a team,” she said. “We need to stick together.”
“Look,” he said, “I’m not just doing this for you. It’s for me too, because if you end up dead, I’m not going to be able to live with myself. I can’t have your blood on my hands. I just can’t.”
She squeezed his hand.
“My blood is my business, not yours, so let me get right to the bottom line,” she said. “I’m not leaving. If you ditch me, all I’m going to do is get my own hotel room and then follow you around the best I can.”
He paused and studied her eyes.
She wasn’t bluffing.
But she was making the wrong decision.
He needed her out of New Orleans.
Nothing could change that.
“We need to get you to the airport,” he said.
“That’s not going to happen.”
He said, “Wait here,” walked over and had a quick chat with one of the troopers, returned, pulled the hotel key out of his pocket and handed it to her. “That cop over there’s going to give you a ride back to the hotel. Get your stuff, leave the key at the front desk and take a cab straight to the airport.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Down the road.
Away from the accident scene.
Away from Jessie-Rae.
Away from everything.
“Nick!”
He walked for over an hour. The heat and humidity drained his strength and weeded out the peripheral thoughts. Exhausted, he collapsed in the shade, called a cab and went back to the hotel.
The room key was at the front desk.
Jessie-Rae’s stuff was gone, sad but necessary.
He took a long, cold shower.
As he was toweling off, Jessie-Rae called and said, “I checked into the Astor Crowne Plaza, room 1014, just like I said I would. It looks like your little plan didn’t work.”
Then she hung up.
He closed the phone and flopped down on the mattress.
Two minutes later he called the Astor Crowne Plaza, spoke to a manager by the name of Jim Hansen, said he wanted extra security for room 1014 and explained why.
“Not a problem. We’ll be sure she’s safe.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.”
He dialed Sydney to see if anything had developed on the Lindsay Vail case. “It’s really weird that you called,” she said. “Coyote’s been warming up to our lawyer friend, Yardley Sage, who in turn thinks the guy’s first name is Robert and that he might have gotten a tattoo in Denver of a woman being murdered.”
“Details,” he said.
She gave him what she had.
“How’s Coyote getting all this information?”
Sydney exhaled.
“I asked her the same thing and she said, You don’t want to know.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but check your email,” she said. “I sent you a lot of airline manifests. We’re running them down on our end, but you might want to give them a perusal and see if anyone’s name rings a bell.”
“Give them a perusal? Is that what you just said?”
She chuckled.
“Yes.”
“This is me—Nick Teffinger—you need to speak in smaller words.”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“Perusal,” he said. “Now I have to go find a dictionary and it’s all your fault.”
He called Paul Kwak at home and said, “I’m going to sell the ’67,” referring to his convertible, red over black, four-speed, numbers-matching, primo-condition, NCRS Second Flight, 1967 Corvette.
His baby.
Stunned silence came from Kwak’s end.
“You’re messing with me.”
“I wish I was,” Teffinger said. “Put the word out to the people who would give it a good home.” Kwak had a ’63 split window coupe and knew every Corvette nut within a hundred miles.
“Damn, dude, are you sure?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain when I get back.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” Kwak said.
“If I do that, I’ll change my mind.”
“That’s the point.”
“Put the word out,” Teffinger said. “Please and thank you.”
The TV reporter, tammy Bahamas, called and said, “I thought I’d take you and Jessie-Rae out for a drink tonight, show you some of the local haunts that the tourists haven’t ruined yet, if you guys are in the mood.”
Good idea, except that he and Jessie-Rae were sort of staying in separate hotels at the moment.
“Well, how about just you then?” she asked.
He didn’t even have to think about it.
“I’m sort of busy shopping for a bike tonight, but you know what would really be nice? Take Jessie-Rae out. She’s staying at the Astor Crowne Plaza, room 1014.”
“I’ll call her.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it right now.”
“She’d like that.”
DAY FIVE
Friday
July 16
77
F riday morning, Yardley woke with a slight wine fog in her head, but jogged on the beach until it disappeared. She turned on the bilge pump to empty the overnight leakage, fired up the Honda generator, made coffee and then hiked up to the campground for a shower.
There, alive again.
At eight o’clock, she dialed Dakota’s cell phone number and said, “Big news. There’s a rumor going around that someone put a voodoo death curse on the detective in the Ryan Ripley case, Nick Teffinger.”
“Who? Ripley?”
“Good question,” Yardley said. “Maybe he did it before he died, although I don’t know why he would.”
Silence.
“Me either,” Dakota said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Neither spoke.
Then Dakota said, “Jeff Salter’s mixed up in it somehow. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Dakota said. “Maybe he got too nervous that Teffinger would find out he did it. Maybe he’s the one who put the curse on Teffinger, to get rid of him.”
“Salter’s too smart to believe in anything like voodoo.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of people thought that about Ripley too.”
“Plus, what good would it do? Someone else would just take over the investigation—”
“True but it wouldn’t be Teffinger,” Dakota said. “The guy’s too good and Salter knows it.” A pause, then, “Now that I think about it, Teffinger was in Salter’s office a couple of times asking questions. Salter must have seen something in his eyes—something that scared him.”
“I don’t know—”
“It all fits,” Dakota said. “Plus, remember, Salter was having an affair with Whitney White who got stabbed in the eye. The man’s evil. Now I know it more than ever. There’s only one question left at this point.”
“What’s that?”
“How do we bring him down?”
We?
“It’s your civic duty, girlfriend,” Dakota said.
“I’m too old to have civic duties. I’m almost thirty.”
“Well you’re not yet,” Dakota said. “Besides, if we don’t do it, who will?”
Yardley 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.
Yardley 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,” Yardley added.
78
T he 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.
79
F riday 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 Jessie-Rae?” 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 Jessie-Rae, 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, “Jessie-Rae’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 Jessie-Rae’s room. For some reason the man seemed familiar.
They entered.
One of Jessie-Rae’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 were 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 Jessie-Rae 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 Jessie-Rae 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 Jessie-Rae 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.
80
B ethany wasn’t anything like what Yardley 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. Yardley 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.”