by R. J. Jagger
Nothing came.
The world stayed the same.
She reached through, unlocked the bolt and entered.
The only sound was the motion of air passing in and out of her lungs. She was in a small kitchen, a place of no interest, and made her way to the living room. There she closed all the window coverings. Creaking stairs led her to the upper level where the bedrooms where. She closed all the coverings, took a pillowcase off a pillow and then headed back down.
In a small study she flicked on the flashlight.
Papers came into view on a wooden desk—bills, handwritten notes, coupons and the like. She stuffed the cell phone bill into the pillowcase. A telephone book sat folded opened to the Hs. No numbers were circled. She ripped out the two facing pages and stuffed them in the pillowcase. In the upper drawer was a stack of business cards cinched in a rubber band. They went into the case.
She needed to find the woman’s computer.
That’s where the secrets would be.
There was no desktop computer, printer, fax machine or home phone.
She headed upstairs.
Next to the bed on an end table was an iPad.
She took it.
In the master closet on an upper shelf was a box of loose photographs.
She took them.
She checked the rest of the house including the basement and found nothing else of interest. Then she got the hell out of there.
She didn’t know if the iPad had a GPS tracking device but wasn’t about to take any chances by bringing the thing back to the hotel. Instead she headed west out of the city and pulled over in a dark enclave of a raggedly industrial road.
There behind the wheel she brought the screen to life.
As she hoped, the woman’s email account displayed without requiring a password.
A recent message confirmed a flight to Hong Kong with a departure set for 8:30 Tuesday morning. A second confirmed a three-night stay at the Kowloon InterContinental.
Hong Kong.
Why did that strike a cord?
She dug but couldn’t bring it up.
It would come to her later.
In any event, the woman was getting out of town.
Why?
Was she trying to escape?
Was she going to shake Robertson down for money and then retire in comfort?
Was she meeting a friend or a lover or a co-conspirator?
There were too many messages for her to process. Even the inconspicuous ones might show relevance later on closer scrutiny, meaning the device was too valuable to abandon.
She shut it off, cranked over the engine and pointed the front end towards Paramount Bay.
She needed to find a dry safe place to stash the device.
Then she needed Sanders.
43
Day Six
July 13
Sunday Morning
Susan was nowhere to be found, not all night, not at the club, not at her condo, not at the other end of her phone, not at a single point in the universe. The club’s security tapes showed her milling around in the early goings and then dancing seductively with a hypnotic young woman who looked like she belonged sipping margaritas in a Mediterranean beach cabana. That was the last sighting, recorded ten minutes give or take before the Colder made Teffinger do what he did.
Teffinger’s best hope was that the woman left the Mediterranean beauty, couldn’t find him to tell him her plans, and figured no harm done since she’d be safe.
That was his best hope.
It didn’t come from his gut; it came from his brain.
His gut didn’t have a best hope.
His gut was a lot more cynical than his brain.
At four in the morning Teffinger checked the woman’s condo one final time, found her not there again one final time, and slumped down on her couch.
He closed his eyes just to rest them for a second.
The darkness felt like cool water.
It felt good.
It felt right.
His phone rang, initially as an abstract barely-audible sound and then growing louder and louder as his brain kicked out of unconsciousness and into reality. He flipped it open just before the last ring.
It was Sydney.
“Where are you? It’s ten-thirty.”
He muscled against the cushions into a vertical position.
His tongue was sandpaper.
His face was leather.
His eyelids were glue.
He stood up, got his balance and headed for the bathroom. “I’m at Susan’s,” he said. “Is Del Rey okay?”
“Yeah, not a bird-ripper in sight.”
“Good,” he said. “Close your ears or you’re going to hear something you’d rather not.” He took a piss, not talking, not holding back, watching the water splash and using the seconds to wake up. “Okay I’m back.”
“That was disgusting.”
“Good because that’s how I feel.”
“So what’s the plan for today?”
“The plan is to find Susan.”
“You may want to change it.”
“Why?”
“A call came in a half hour ago,” she said. “It was a guy who said he saw a man stab a woman in the stomach with a big knife and stuff her into the trunk of a car.”
“Where?”
“Out in that industrial area near the BNSF switchyard.”
“When? Last night?”
“No, no, Wednesday night,” she said. “By the description he gave of the woman, plus the method of murder, it actually sounds like Portia Montrachet. That’s how and when she was killed.”
“Couldn’t be her,” Teffinger said. “She was killed in the alley.”
“Not if you believe this guy.”
Teffinger kick-started the shower and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Did he describe the killer?”
“He didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face,” she said, “other than in a general way. Get this, he said the guy reminded him of a boxer.”
Teffinger unzipped his pants and stepped out.
“So what’s our little friend’s name?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“He’s anonymous?”
Yes.
He was.
“Do what do you think?” Sydney said.
Teffinger grunted.
“I think someone knows we’re investigating the boxer as a suspect and is trying to put the squeeze on him through us, rightly or wrongly.”
“Why?”
Good question.
“Maybe he has a grudge, or maybe he really did see the boxer do it and tried to shake him down but it didn’t work, which is why the guy didn’t call us all this time. Either way I’m not impressed.”
“Me either.”
“Why not?”
“Because Susan killed Portia.”
“Just because you keep saying that doesn’t mean it’s going to turn true. I’ll be at the office in half an hour. Then we’re going to look for Susan. In fact, see if you can figure out who that Mediterranean woman is that she was dancing with.”
“She’s probably dead somewhere, compliments of your little friend,” Sydney said.
44
Day Six
July 13
Sunday Morning
A body showed up Sunday morning at the BNSF switchyard, ironically in the same area where the anonymous caller said he saw a boxer stab a woman in the stomach Wednesday night. The body no longer moved because the head that was attached to it had a bullet hole in the back.
The man’s wallet was intact.
Inside that wallet were sixty hundred-dollar bills and two condoms.
Also inside was a driver’s license that identified him as one Benjamin Fisher.
He was in his late thirties, heavily tattooed and pierced in all kinds of painful places. Up top was hair too long with a bald spot in the back. He looked like the kind of guy who had learned how to bring trouble into
his life.
It was detective Katie Baxter’s scene.
Teffinger only came because she called him.
“Listen to this,” she said.
This was the man’s cell phone.
“This is Colder,” a voice said. “I want to call off the project. Everyone still gets their money but I want the project called off. Call me as soon as you get this and let me know you got it.”
Teffinger knew the voice.
It belonged to the lawyer, Jack Colder, the man he killed last night.
“There are ten more messages just like it,” Baxter said. “We traced the number to Jack Colder.”
“When was the last call made?”
She checked.
It was ten minutes before the man’s last breath.
“Play it,” he said.
She obliged.
It came from the club, heavy with background music. Teffinger recognized the song. It was pounding down right around the time he lost sight of Susan.
“Thanks.” He nodded towards the body and said, “Do you have a timeline of where this guy was before he got himself all dead?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know when you get it, please and thank you.”
“He’s a private investigator,” Katie said.
“The dead guy?”
“Right.”
“Maybe Colder had him working on a case.”
Teffinger considered it.
It fit.
“Yeah.”
Walking back to the Tundra, a dark thought descended on him. I want to call off the project. The project was the murder of Susan Smith.
Colder must have used the investigator as a middleman to hire a third person to kill Susan Smith.
Colder must have changed his mind.
That’s why he was calling the investigator, to call off the hit.
He must not have known who the hitman was.
Colder wasn’t at the club last night to kill Susan Smith.
He was there to protect her.
Teffinger doubled back to the scene and said to Katie, “I’m going to be assisting you on this investigation if you don’t mind.”
“Great.”
“Does our investigator friend have an office somewhere?”
He did.
She gave him the address.
It was south on Broadway.
“I’ll head over and see if there’s anything there worth knowing.”
She nodded.
“Sure.” She wrinkled her forehead and said, “Teffinger, are you okay?”
Good question.
He killed an innocent man last night.
Susan Smith was either dead or in the throes of getting dead.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Then he was gone.
He headed to Broadway and then south. Pieces fell into place as he bobbed and weaved through traffic. The investigator must have eventually gotten a hold of the man he hired. It was too late at that point, though. The man had already killed or abducted Susan Smith. At a maximum she was already dead and at a minimum she was alive but had seen his face.
Aborting the project was no longer an option.
The hitman got worried about an unraveling project.
He got worried about too many loose lips.
He took the investigator out with a bullet to the brain.
He would have done the same to Colder except Teffinger spared him the need.
One fact was clear.
Whoever killed the investigator was the same person who already had killed, or would soon kill, Susan Smith—probably the former.
His phone rang and Sydney’s voice said, “I found the Mediterranean woman. Her name is Sanapella Seffrada. She lives at 1352 Delaware.”
Teffinger’s brain spun.
Maybe the Mediterranean woman saw the hitman.
“Meet me there.”
“When?”
“Now.”
He called Katie.
“I want to know every number your little dead investigator friend called or got a call from yesterday,” he said. “Make a list from his cell phone. Get me the associated names and addresses too.”
“Ouch.”
Ouch?
Ouch wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
He wanted to hear anything except ouch.
“What do you mean, ouch?”
She told him.
It wasn’t good.
It involved the cell phone and gravity, a lot of gravity, gravity and a train rail.
“Okay, get the information from the phone company.”
“That will take a warrant.”
That was true.
He knew that.
The D.A. would have to draw it up and then find a judge on a Sunday who would sign it. The phone company would have to have their legal department review it. Then they’d have to gather the information, be sure that it was accurate and complete and complied with the scope of the warrant, etcetera. The process typically took days.
“Get it going,” he said.
The delay wasn’t the big issue.
The big issue was the probability that the records wouldn’t be useful in any event. If the investigator had half a brain he would have either used a payphone or met with the third party in person, most likely in connection with delivery of a retainer. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave an electronic trail.
The Mediterranean woman was Teffinger’s best immediate hope. If she turned out to not know anything, the world would be ugly.
He called headquarters to see if any more bodies had shown up since last night, if not in Denver then elsewhere in the region.
None had, just the guy Katie Baxter was working down at the switching yard.
That was good.
Susan might be alive.
She might be dead and unfound, but she might also still be alive.
45
Day Six
July 13
Sunday Morning
Jori-Lee woke Sunday morning in a dawn-washed bedroom next to a naked surfer. The animal lust that made their bodies collide last night still resonated between her thighs. She could feel his touch on her body and his tongue in her mouth. Roll over and take me again, do it now. The man didn’t move. He didn’t respond to her voodoo spell. She kissed his cheek, eased out without waking him and took a long hot shower. When she got out, Sanders was in the kitchen working up omelets.
He handed her a cup of coffee and said, “Morning, glory.”
She took a sip.
“You’re a bad boy.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Lawyers aren’t supposed to sleep with their clients,” she said. “Or harbor criminals.”
“Or make omelets?”
She smiled.
“Omelets are okay.”
“In that case I’m violation-free so far today. Are you impressed?”
“I am but it won’t last,” she said. “You’ll be back to your old ways before you know it.”
“You think?”
“I’m counting on it.”
He tapped her coffee with his and said, “In that case, here’s to bad lawyers.”
“To very bad lawyers.”
Sanders’s face got serious.
He picked a flash drive off the counter, tossed it up and down in his hand, looked Jori-Lee in the eyes and said, “We need to talk about this.”
“Yes we do.”
The file at issue, labeled Photos, contained hundreds of photos and videos downloaded from the web, porn photos and videos to be exact, porn photos and videos featuring men under extreme domination to be even more exact. Most of the tops were women; taking the man with a strap-on, or sitting on his face, or pissing on him—that kind of thing. Some were gay, depicting dungeon scenes where a leather-clad master or panty-clad transvestite was working over a helpless male slave.
“So Robertson’s a closet freak,” Sanders said. “That’s pretty much wha
t we have here.”
“Right.”
“He must have been at it a long time. You don’t get that twisted in a weekend. Imagine having that kind of decay way down inside while sitting on the Supreme Court. Every time he opened his mouth it was another lie. Personally I couldn’t live like that. I’d explode.” He exhaled and added, “At least we know why he’s being blackmailed. Someone found out about his little fetish and threatened to out him. Granted, it’s not illegal, it’s not like it’s kiddie-porn or a snuff film or something like that. But it has all the shame and embarrassment to take him down. If it ever got out, every church-going do-gooder in congress would be clamoring for his impeachment. The fall from an office that high would kill anyone, including him, and he knows it.”
Jori-Lee nodded.
“What I don’t get is how someone got the goods on him,” she said. “Someone has proof; otherwise he wouldn’t be engaged in talks to throw a case.”
“Someone,” Sanders said. “You act like it’s a mystery. Someone is your little friend, T’amara Alder. That’s why she’s dead. She was blackmailing Robertson and he had her killed.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Sure it does.”
She shook her head.
“T’amara Alder has no clue what cases are before the court, much less care who wins them. If she had something on Robertson she’d be going after money. If you ask me, she was a messenger for someone else.”
“Who?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know, maybe someone who has a stake in the case.”
“One of the parties?”
“Possibly one of the parties, or maybe someone downstream who has some kind of financial gain or loss on the line.”
“Such as who?”
“I don’t know.”
Sanders frowned.
“It’s not a big money case,” he said. “It’s a freedom of speech case. Plus, if she was only the messenger, why kill her? Why not go after the real thing?”
“I don’t know. To send a message?”
“I don’t know either,” Sanders said. “The only thing I know is that you were on the line when the Alder woman got murdered, not to mention you’re in possession of Robertson’s computer files. If there’s a list out there of people to kill, you’re on it; maybe it’s still as Jane Doe at this point, but you’re on it, make no mistake about that. And sooner or later someone’s going to figure out who Jane Doe is.”