Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery

by Sandra Brannan

  Then she rushed to the passenger’s side of the Audi and opened the door. Leaning in, nothing but a well-shaped rump extending from the inside, she surfaced with a set of shiny keys—apparently a set she rarely used but kept in her glove compartment. Leaving the car door open, she hurried toward the office, stabbed the lock with her key, and pulled the door open. Her bosom heaved as if she’d exerted more energy than she was accustomed to.

  She walked back to her car, replaced the keys, and closed the passenger door. She retrieved her purse, then her coffee, and she disappeared inside. No one else had arrived, and it was nearly 9:15—unless the stripmall-style building had parking in the back.

  Perhaps his first instincts about Webber had been right—that he was an early riser. This woman was clearly used to him—or someone—arriving at work long before she did. But he wasn’t here this morning. Something was different.

  He imagined that Webber worked alone with only this woman as an employee, an assistant to answer phones, type letters, and perhaps perform light legal research for him.

  Whatever legal assistants do, he thought.

  He watched as the dark space came alive with lights. He grabbed his binoculars and studied the signs on the other doors to either side of Victor Webber, Attorney at Law. One was a dentist—Monday through Friday, ten to six; Saturday, ten to noon. The other had no sign. The windows were covered.

  Then he focused in on Webber’s office.

  The redhead stood at the reception desk with her hands on her hips, her head swiveling around the space. She picked up the handset and pushed buttons on the phone. She kept pushing buttons and then hung up. She began to drum her long fingernails against the desk. The placard on the edge of the desk had a brass plate with engraved black letters that read “Tiffany Holden.”

  Formulating a plan, he stuffed the binoculars back in the case, turned the key in the ignition, and whipped his car through the lot up to the space by her Audi. He noticed her glance up just as he whipped into the parking space.

  He hurried out of the car, slammed the door, and rushed into the office.

  “Vic, is he here?”

  She glanced up. “Who are—”

  “Come on, Tiffany. I don’t have time for this. Vic said he needed my information right away, and I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

  “When did he call you?” She looked pissed.

  Streeter had to play this exactly right. “Not since Wednesday. I have some information about the woman he hired me to tail.”

  Recognition registered on her face. “You’re the guy who answered his ad on Craig’s list. Chavez?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t look like a Chavez,” she said, the corners of her mouth dipping.

  “That’s racist of you. I don’t have time for this crap. I want my money,” Streeter said. “So where is the asshole?”

  “I wish I knew,” she shrugged. “The asshole stood me up, too. We were supposed to … we had a business meeting planned in Vegas on Thursday. And he didn’t show.”

  “At your place? The red-eye flight Thursday night?” Streeter guessed.

  She tilted her head. “He told you?”

  “He said if we didn’t meet up Wednesday night that I was supposed to pick up my package from the front seat of his car last night, after I called to confirm I was coming. He gave me the address. But no return call. And no car.”

  “That’s what I told you. He never showed up Thursday night.” She slammed her balled fists against her hips. “Never saw him all weekend.”

  “Yet no missing person report?”

  “Well … it’s Vic.”

  “What about yesterday? Was he at work?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t work on Mondays. It’s my day off.”

  “Wife? Another girlfriend?” Streeter decided to flame her ire.

  “It better not be another girlfriend. And the wife’s a total bitch. Spends most of her time in Miami.” She glanced past his shoulder to the parking lot, looking for Webber.

  More cars started to arrive, likely for the dentist office.

  “Maybe she flew in unexpectedly.”

  “Nah, she only flies in on her broom when he needs her for something. She’s perfectly content staying far, far away from the asshole.” She glanced back to his large office behind her desk. It was clearly empty.

  “Did you try him at home? On Franklin?” Streeter hoped he hadn’t pushed too far.

  “You know about that, too? You’re a goddamn unknown from Craig’s List. When will he ever learn to shut his trap?” She shook her head and then answered, “Her rule. He can do whatever he wants except not at their house. She’s worried about what neighbors will say. So no. I didn’t check his house.”

  Streeter pressed. “Just give me my money.”

  She slumped into her chair. “I don’t have it. Besides, I don’t know what he agreed to pay you. Did you confirm where the bitch lives? What she does?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek so as not to react to her calling Liv a bitch. “I’ll tell Vic everything I know. I’m not leaving here until I have my money. Or Vic.”

  She seemed unimpressed by his demand—like she’d heard it before. Nor did she find his imposing presence threatening, despite his efforts to appear larger and to sound menacing. Instead, in a calm tone, she said, “I gave him the photos you dropped in the slot Tuesday night and Friday night. But the photos from Friday are still on his desk.”

  Her eyes jerked to the mail slot in the door. His heart sank. So Vic did receive photos from Chavez—probably of Liv. He waited a beat and leaned across her desk. “This happen a lot? Him skipping out on a deal?”

  He realized she’d be far prettier without the mask.

  She shook her head and offered a coy smile. “He’s a master of delaying payments. But he never skips. Reputation is everything in this business.”

  He appreciated her honesty and relaxed. “Did you look at the photos?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not.” Then she winked and leaned forward, whispering. “Very pretty.”

  So she had opened the envelopes.

  He was about to ask more, when she offered, “Good close-ups, too. Vic was happy with your work. And he’ll pay. I promise. But you’ll have to be patient. This is all too confusing. He never, never misses work. Not one day. Too many people depend on him.”

  He believed her. She appeared concerned. “Any ideas where I could find him?”

  She flipped to his appointment calendar.

  Even upside down, it was hard to miss that the calendar was still on last week. And Vic had been scheduled to meet Coyote Cries both on Wednesday and on Thursday. She flipped the page to this week. The first appointment today was a phone call scheduled for nine o’clock with a man whose name he also recognized.

  A call Vic had clearly missed—Dan Alcott, a slippery drug felon.

  “No clue.” Her fingernail slid down the page.

  He committed the unfamiliar names to memory. He’d have Laurie look them up and confirm that they were likely all associated with felony convictions or charges that probably needed a defense attorney.

  Streeter growled, “Tell Vic I was here and that Julius Chavez is pissed as hell. And that I want my money.” He walked toward the door but not before noticing that she barely acknowledged his departure—or his threat. She didn’t seem to care. Like she had more important issues to consider.

  So did Streeter.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was driving north on Franklin Street along the east side of the greenway toward Smith Lake. Just past the elegant boathouse on his left, at the south end of the lake, he scanned to his right for the numbers on the row of expensive houses.

  The one with all the trees along the curb was the home he wanted. There was no car in the driveway, and the garage door was closed. Streeter glanced around the neighborhood before getting out of his car and approaching the front door. He rang the doorbell three times—no movement or sound. He gl
anced in the front windows—nothing out of place.

  He stepped back and stared up at the second floor terrace, a deck for the occupants to overlook the lake across the street. He could see nothing up there.

  He tried the door. It was locked.

  Six newspapers lay scattered on the front porch. He bent down to review one. It had today’s date: Tuesday. Which meant the last time Vic was home to retrieve a paper would have been last Wednesday.

  He had a bad feeling about this guy. He had either skipped, or he was dead.

  He stepped to his right, checking for unlocked windows and doors. Nothing. No sign of a break-in, foul play, or a hasty departure under the cover of darkness. And one of the two cars registered in his name was in the garage.

  Vic Webber wasn’t here. Where’d he go?

  He hadn’t spent the weekend away with his girlfriend in Vegas or at her apartment, unless she was lying, covering for him. But the way she had responded this morning when she didn’t know he was watching would suggest she didn’t know anything either.

  He wasn’t in the office. And he clearly hadn’t been home.

  Chavez had told him that Webber had wanted to know Sunday night what he’d found; that he’d called to make the exchange to confirm Liv’s address and her routine. He was going to tell Vic more—about how he had panicked and clobbered the woman—after he got his money. But Vic had never shown.

  Vic had told Chavez to meet him at a bar west of I-25 on I-70 between Wheat Ridge and Golden. He’d waited at the dive for several hours, tried calling several times, and headed home when the bar closed at midnight.

  He’d waited the entire day yesterday, Monday, and had heard nothing from Vic.

  Vic was missing. Or running.

  He remembered the calendar and placed a call to Laurie Frumpley. “Anything yet?”

  She cleared her throat. “All of them are either convicted felons or charged with a felony, awaiting trial.”

  “Let me guess. Drugs?”

  “Or crimes normally associated with dealing drugs, like the illegal use of the telephone, just like you suspected.”

  Streeter paused. “Have you heard from Liv?” He panicked when Frumpley didn’t immediately respond. “Or Kelleher?”

  His heart raced. Maybe the news wasn’t good about Liv’s release. Maybe he was too hard on her.

  “She hasn’t called. Phil called Bessie about an hour ago to say that he had dismissed police protection and that Liv was in his care.”

  He let out the breath he was holding and felt thrilled to know she was released and in the competent care of his best agent. He refocused his attention on removing the threat.

  “Did you find addresses? Phone numbers?”

  “Most of them had something on file.” He heard the clacking of keystrokes.

  “Any addresses around Golden or Wheat Ridge?” It was a long shot, but worth taking. It was all Streeter had to go on before paying a visit to Coyote Cries in prison—to find out if Vic had visited and provided him with photos. If he had, Streeter would kill them both with his bare hands.

  He did not want to have to visit Coyote Cries unless he absolutely had to. He’d rather the element of surprise be on his side. Until then, he’d keep his distance from the scumbag.

  “There’s one off Lookout Mountain near the park. Must be one of his richer clients. Know where that is? West of Golden?”

  He did. “Whose?”

  “Daniel Alcott.”

  “I should have guessed.”

  After she gave him the address and directions, Streeter was on his way. West on I-70 to Highway 40; north on Paradise Road to Lookout Mountain. He found the fortress at the end of Golden Point Drive, nestled in the woods on the mountaintop. Secluded. Rich. Gated.

  They probably had cameras mounted all over the driveway, along each expensively angled roofline of Alcott’s home—alarms and sensors everywhere. Streeter didn’t care. Because, as he rounded the last corner to the parking area near the massive underground garage, he spotted Webber’s missing vehicle: The fully loaded black Mercedes S-Class Coupe, with a shattered bullet hole through the driver’s side window.

  Vic Webber was behind the wheel, sitting very still.

  And very dead.

  ALONE FOR THE FIRST TIME in days, I closed the shades of my hotel room and the adjoining door to Phil’s room, grabbed my cell, and flopped down on my bed.

  I sent a text thanking Ole for dinner and that I’d see him in the morning.

  Then I called my sister Ida.

  “What’s wrong?” Her voice was genuinely alarmed, and I could barely hear her over the din of the crowd, wherever she was.

  I almost started crying the instant she asked. She clearly knew me well enough to know I was reaching out, needing a shoulder for a good cry.

  “Am I interrupting?” I knew how busy she was all the time. She was super popular with everyone she met. She was rarely alone because of her magnetic personality. So I wasn’t surprised at hearing numerous people calling for her to get off the phone.

  “Give me a sec,” she said.

  I imagined her—not unlike Rosalind Russell in that late 1950s movie Mame—trying to appease her adoring dinner-party suitors to let her go for just a moment to step into another room of her elegant apartment and take my call. I could almost hear her saying a modern version of Auntie Mame’s famous line, “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death” to hold them over until she returned.

  The line was quiet. “Okay, I’m back. What’s up, Boots?”

  “Nothing. Everything. And don’t call me Boots. I retired them. For good.” I was referring to my steel-toed boots that I wore in the quarry, a nickname my siblings had dubbed me because I was so infatuated with the life of hard-rock miners—even from an early age.

  “Whatever. Is it Jack?” my baby sister asked.

  I sighed. “Actually, not Jack and everything Jack. I don’t know.”

  “You just need someone to talk to. You’re surrounded by all those stuffy suits you work with every day. My word, Liv. How do you do it? They’re all as cuddly as porcupines, if I may be honest.”

  She always had a way to get to the point and make me smile. “You can always be honest with me, Ida. Are you at a bar?”

  “Dinner party.”

  I groaned. “Let me guess. In New York. At your apartment. I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Ida said. “Talk to me.”

  “You have guests.”

  “And two of them include Lee Child and Bob Stine. They will keep everyone entertained while I talk with you. Don’t worry.”

  Stunned, I realized she was talking about the authors. Jack Reacher’s daddy. And the mastermind behind Goosebumps, R.L. Stine. My sister, a total rock star. It sounded better than if I said she was a total supermodel or opera star—neither of those had quite the same meaning.

  “Talk. And be truthful. I know when you lie to me.”

  She was right about that. And I was humbled that she genuinely wanted to spend time listening. “I need some advice. And you know everything there is to know about relationships.”

  “Because I’ve had so many?” she asked, an edge of defensiveness in her tone.

  “Because you’re worldly. And wise.”

  “You have me eating out of your hand. So what’s the problem?”

  I told Ida the entire story about Jack and Streeter. I told her all my private thoughts about the two of them and the struggle I’d had since the first day I met them both and about the dream weekend with Streeter Pierce.

  I told her what happened on Sunday night—how I’d been followed, struck, stitched, and dumped. How I now had to be under police protection and how annoyed I was with the entire ordeal.

  She didn’t interrupt me. Not once.

  I ended the saga by adding, “And all this has to stay between me and you.”

  “Of course,” Ida said. “So what’s your problem?”

  For a second time, I w
as stunned. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “Of course. You’re madly in love with Streeter Pierce, and you’re both resisting the opportunity to capitalize on your shared feelings.” She paused and repeated. “So what’s your problem?”

  “My problem is Streeter.”

  “No, your problem is that you’re being a big coward.” She stopped talking to me and told someone to give her a minute. The first voice sounded all yummy and English. The second voice, a lot like Tom Cruise.

  “I’m back.”

  “Was that Tom Cruise?”

  “He’s here with Lee Child. They’re stumping their third Jack Reacher movie. Now where was I?” What a life Ida lives. “Oh yeah. Streeter is not a problem. He’s your opportunity. You’re in love. He’s in love. You’re both terrified. Now get over it. No problem.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at the display as if I could see the seriousness of her words by doing that.

  She read my mind. “I’m serious. He just wanted you to hate him for some reason. If I were you, I’d figure out why.”

  “But he dumped me.”

  “He didn’t dump you. He’s pushing you away from him. He’s scared—of losing you. That’s my read. He’s scared to death.” She waited a beat before adding, “Do you love him?”

  “Deeply.”

  “Then, fight for him. Find out why he’s so afraid.”

  “But the ticket to DC.” I knew my argument was weak before I ever said it out loud.

  “Rip it up. Running isn’t the answer. You know that. So does he. But he’s scared.”

  I ruminated on her words. She was right. “How did you get to be so wise?”

  She said nothing.

  I asked, “What do I do?”

  “Call Monsignor Shannon. He knows.”

  Of course he knew. He was the one who led me to Paula’s grave. And mom told me he was out of the hospital, back at Lead. “Ida, you’re a genius. How can I thank you?”

  “Let me sing at your wedding.”

  My cheeks flushed. I said my goodbyes and called Father Shannon.

  He answered the phone on the second ring. “Trouble maker.”

  “Caller ID? And yet you took my call,” I said. I got up and unwrapped my bandage, looking in the mirror at my angry stitches. “How are you?”