by R. J. Jagger
No nothing.
Maybe some of the bills in Bennett’s wallet had come from Moore, and had her fingerprints on them, but at this point it seemed like a long shot.
“Looks like he was smart enough to dump everything,” he told Sydney.
“He’s a slippery little bastard all right.”
“Which means we got nothing,” he added. “Except maybe a lawsuit for smashing his car. We’re going to have to cut him loose.”
“What about assaulting a police officer?”
Teffinger frowned. “Hell, I’m the one who rammed him and chased him down. I’d have hit me too in his shoes.”
So they cut him loose.
Then something weird happened.
Instead of leaving, Bennett wanted to talk and suggested that the three of them go to Denny’s for a bite.
Teffinger hated the thought of actually breaking bread with the guy, but hated the thought of not getting valuable information even more. So the three of them ended up in a red vinyl booth eating a 2:00 a.m. breakfast and drinking hot decaf coffee while it rained outside.
“Sloop John B” dropped from ceiling speakers. “We’re not here because I’m trying to save my own ass,” Bennett said. “We’re here because Blake Gray is out of control. He’s been my law partner for more than twenty years. So trust me, this hurts. But it has to be done.”
Teffinger shoved a forkful of pancakes in his mouth.
“Go on,” he said.
“It all started when we got a big judgment for one of our clients called Omega,” he said. “It was against a competitor of Omega’s called Tomorrow, Inc. After we got that judgment, the CEO of Tomorrow, a guy by the name of Robert Yates, started buying up Omega’s stock. His plan was to get control of Omega and then bring it under the umbrella of Tomorrow. He’d be able to make the judgment go away, in effect, plus the two companies would be stronger together than either one was on its own.”
Teffinger nodded.
“All right.”
“This was big trouble for the law firm,” Bennett said. “If Yates succeeded, we’d lose Omega as a client. Omega would be a part of Tomorrow, and all of Tomorrow’s legal work is done by a big Wall Street firm. So me and Blake Gray and Jacqueline Moore got together to see if we could figure out a way to prevent the takeover from happening.”
“Makes sense,” Teffinger said.
“We had the name of a guy who might be able to help,” Bennett said. “A psychologist by the name of Beverly Twenhofel, who also teaches at the University of Denver, was speaking to a group of students at an off-campus session at an Einstein Bros. They were talking about serial killers. After that meeting, a man who had been sitting at a nearby table approached her in the parking lot and asked her all kinds of weird questions. She got the distinct impression that he had killed and would kill again. She followed him and wrote down his license plate number. Then she came to our law firm and met with Jacqueline Moore to get a legal opinion as to whether the discussion with this man was within the physician-patient privilege. Jacqueline gave the case to Rachel Ringer, who handed the legal research down to Aspen Wilde, a summer law clerk at the time. The firm ended up providing a legal opinion that the communication was indeed privileged, which is the correct answer by the way. However, we also had the license plate number of someone who might be a killer.”
“Sloop John B” faded off and “Love Me Do” took its place.
“Blake Gray ran the plates, got the guy’s name—Jack Draven—and actually met with him,” Bennett said. “Then we hired him to go to New York and scare Robert Yates into abandoning the Omega takeover, under a threat that otherwise his daughter and wife would be killed.”
Bennett looked at his food, lost in thought.
Then he looked hard at Teffinger.
“I’m not proud of that,” he said. “Nothing was supposed to happen other than a threat. But things went wrong and Yates and his daughter, a little girl named Amanda, ended up stabbed to death in Central Park. We all felt like shit, especially Jacqueline Moore, who was having a hard time coping with the guilt.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“Another series of events happened too,” Bennett said. “Blake Gray got the hots for Rachel Ringer. He came on strong one night and almost raped her in her office. She came and told me about it and was going to go to the police. I actually encouraged her to, but somehow Blake talked her out of it and she didn’t. But she was too uncomfortable to stay in the firm any more and started floating her resume around town. Then she turned up dead. Blake Gray never confessed to me that he did it, but the conclusion is inescapable. He was worried about losing his power over her after she got away from the firm. He was scared she’d change her mind and go to the police.”
“So you’re saying Blake Gray killed Rachel?”
“Like I said, I don’t have the proof, but I’m a hundred percent sure in my mind,” Bennett said. “Either he killed her himself or he set someone else up to do it. Either way, she was a problem for him, and then the problem went away.”
“I follow you.”
“Then the firm hires Aspen Wilde,” he said. “She starts this stupid ad hoc Nancy Drew investigation into Rachel’s death. The problem is that she’s actually finding stuff out. We were worried that if she kept digging, she’d end up getting into the Robert Yates deal. So we tried to scare her off. Blake Gray hired someone to break into her apartment to make it look like she was in danger.”
“So that was Gray’s deal?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“There’s more,” Bennett said. “He tried to get her to take a job in the D.C. office to get her nose out of our business. But she wouldn’t go. So then Blake set up an associate attorney by the name of Christina Tam to be his spy and to keep an eye on her. Aspen kept digging and Christina Tam kept giving us the updates. We kept getting more and more worried.”
“Aspen’s a digger,” Teffinger said.
“Then something happens out in New York,” Bennett said. “Robert Yates’ widow—a society icon by the name of Rebecca Yates—threw herself in front of a bus. The rumor was that she was despondent over the death of her husband and daughter, and committed suicide-by-bus. Well, this hit Jacqueline Moore right in the gut. She was already feeling guilty and this put her over the edge. Blake and me were getting more and more worried that she’d crack any day.”
“So you killed her?”
“Hold on,” Bennett said. “I’m getting there. Anyway, then you walk into my office this afternoon and put the heat on me in connection with the deaths of both Rachel and that stripper, Chase. After you left, I met with Jacqueline Moore and Blake Gray because they had a right to know. I had to disclose to them that I’ve been frequenting Tops & Bottoms, including what I’ve been doing there. I also told them that I had a session with Chase about a year ago, which the cops would find out about sooner or later.”
“So you did have a session with Chase—”
“Yeah, but I had nothing to do with her death,” Bennett said. “Anyway, when Jacqueline Moore found out what I’d been doing down at Tops & Bottoms, that was the last straw. She turned in her resignation a couple of hours later. When Blake Gray found out about it, he busted into my office, frantic that she was about to spill everything to the police. Then, tonight, she turns up murdered.”
“So you’re saying Blake Gray did it.”
Bennett nodded.
“It was either him or me and I know it wasn’t me,” he said. “I’m not a perfect man, but that was even more than I can tolerate. That’s why we’re talking right now. The bottom line is that you got the wrong person. You want Blake Gray, not me.”
Sydney leaned on the table and looked at Bennett.
“Did you drive by Christina Tam’s house earlier this evening?”
Bennett looked at her as if she was nuts.
“No. Why would I do something like that?”
Teffinger chewed a mouthful of pancak
es.
Then he cocked his head and said, “How do we know you’re not making all this up? To try to put the blame on Blake Gray, now that we’re closing in on you?”
Bennett smiled.
“Well, for one thing, I was giving a speech in Colorado Springs this evening and have about two hundred people who will back me up. So if I didn’t kill Jacqueline Moore, who do you think did?”
Back in the Tundra, after the meeting, Sydney asked, “So what do you think?”
Teffinger wasn’t sure.
“He might be telling the truth. On the other hand, he has all the same motivators that Blake Gray does. As far as his alibi for this evening goes, assuming it checks out, he could have hired someone to take Jacqueline Moore out.”
92
Day Thirteen—September 17
Saturday—2:00 a.m.
After Draven screwed Davica Holland the second time, he rolled onto his back and stared at the wood beams on the ceiling, amazed at how much her struggle had intensified the feeling.
He patted her stomach.
“You did good.”
Then he pulled off the rubber and dropped it to the floor.
She tried to say something but the gag kept the words mumbled. No doubt she was telling him to let her go; and what an asshole he was.
Well, guess what?
He didn’t give a shit.
He tweaked her left nipple. “What are you trying to say? How pretty I am?” He laughed. “Yeah, that’s it. Save your breath, I already know.”
Then he got curious and removed the gag.
She gasped for breath.
“You asshole!”
The words startled him. Not the words themselves but the sound of her voice. He recognized that voice from somewhere. In fact, it was so familiar that he sat up, straddled her and brought his face in close. “Do I know you?”
“Jesus, asshole, it’s me—Swofford.”
The minute she said the word, he knew she was right.
She was Swofford—the boss-lady herself, in the flesh.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m here to save your ass,” she said. “Get me out of these goddamn ropes.”
He stayed where he was.
“What do you mean, save my ass? How?”
“Let me loose.”
“Sure. Just tell me first.”
She pulled at the ropes and screamed. He let her struggle until she calmed down.
“Feel better now?”
She turned her head and said nothing.
“Tell me how you’re saving my ass and what the hell you’re doing here,” he said. “Then I’ll let you go.”
She grunted in frustration. “Things were getting too hot,” she said. “The cops have been investigating the shit out of the four women at the railroad spur. They already figured out that Brad Ripley killed one of them. They even got their hands on his snuff film. And now they’re on the edge of figuring out who killed Rachel Ringer.”
“So what? Who gives a shit?”
“We do. The more they figure out, the closer they are to us,” she said. “Then you went and killed that tow-truck woman. I’m not blaming you. You had to. But that’s bringing even more heat.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Even if you’re right, I don’t get why you’re here.”
“To give you an alibi,” she said. “It goes like this. I called you and set myself up as a new victim. I did that so that when you took me it would be real. The detective in charge is too smart to fall for a charade. I didn’t want to be hurt, though, which is why I kept telling you not to mark the woman up. Once you took me, then I’d stay with you for a day or two while the cops figured out I was missing. Then I’d show back up and tell them that I was abducted by a man who admitted being involved in all these murders that they’re looking into. I’d say I escaped. Now here’s the important part. I’d describe the person who took me. It wouldn’t be a description of you. Then the cops would be looking for the totally wrong person. In the meantime, you go back to California and then we cool it for a while, until things are safer.”
Draven smiled.
“Brilliant,” he said. “Gutsy, too.”
She tugged at the ropes.
“So this whole thing was to give you an alibi,” she said. “Now say Thank you and untie me.”
He ran his index fingers in circles on her nipples.
“I never pictured you to be this beautiful.”
“Well I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, because you weren’t supposed to. Now untie me.”
They ended up in the kitchen drinking Jack and eating Lays potato chips, reminiscing about all the snuffs they’d been through together. Draven was particularly interested in knowing more about the clients and how Davica got them.
But she wouldn’t tell, not even close.
“Here’s something you’ll find interesting,” she said. “Do you remember Angela Pfeiffer?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. She was a knockout.”
“Me and her were lovers,” Davica said. “She pissed me off and I decided she needed to die. So I told you that the client wanted her in particular and had you take her. Actually, he didn’t care who he had as long as she was beautiful. The day you took her I made sure I had an alibi. Same thing for the day the guy snuffed her.” She smiled. “The cops won’t figure out my involvement in ten million years.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Draven said.
She laughed. “You? Never. That’s why I wanted you to bury all four of those women near each other. If the cops ever did find her body, she’d look like part of a bigger plan and they’d forget about lowly old me even though I had a motive. By the way, did you like the show I put on for you yesterday afternoon?”
“You mean in the back yard?”
“Right.”
“So you knew I was watching you?”
She nodded. “You should be more careful.”
93
Day Thirteen—September 17
Saturday—3:45 a.m.
In the middle of the night, Davica Holland walked on silent tiptoes from her bedroom to the other one and studied Jack Draven from the doorway. His body made a big lump under the covers. His breathing came deep and heavy. His clothes made a dark pile on the floor. She held her breath and snuck in.
She found his knife in the sheath, on the floor near the clothes.
She slipped it out.
Then she walked back into her bedroom and hid it under the pillow. She lay on her back in the bed, naked, and moved her hand under the pillow and got the knife properly positioned.
Moonlight filtered into the room.
“Draven, are you awake?” she shouted.
Mumbled words came from the other bedroom.
“Wake up and come over here,” she said. “I need you to screw me.”
Draven walked in, groggy, not much more than a naked shape in the dark.
She spread her legs and then raised her arms above her head.
“Come here,” she said. “Make me feel good.”
He straddled her chest and then inched up until his cock was on her mouth. “Get me hard,” he said.
She did, using every skill her tongue had.
Then the man slid down, put his arms under her legs and opened them wide. She bit her lower lip while he inserted himself. Then he rocked inside her with a steady up and down motion.
It was too bad for Draven that he had raped her—twice—and made her change her mind about him. It was too bad that she was no longer interested in giving him an alibi or having him as a business partner. It was too bad that she no longer felt comfortable that he knew what she looked like.
It was too bad that she’d be better off if he was dead.
She reached under the pillow and got the knife in her hand. He didn’t notice as she slipped it out. Then she raised it in the dark and brought it down as hard as she could into his back.
He immediately twitched a
nd made an awful sound.
She pulled it out and stabbed him again.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Then stuck it in one final time and twisted.
He went limp, no longer fighting death. Warm blood ran down his sides and onto her breasts and stomach. She fought to get out from under him and then rolled him off the bed.
“Asshole.”
She brought his pants in from the other room, pulled his cell phone out of his front pocket, and then threw them on the floor at the foot of the bed.
She chained one of her ankles to the bed frame.
She made herself as hysterical as she could and then called Teffinger.
94
Day Thirteen—September 17
Saturday—4:00 a.m.
When Teffinger got back to Davica’s house at four in the morning, she wasn’t home and hadn’t left a note. He called her cell phone and got no answer.
Weird.
Maybe she’d gone to a girlfriend’s.
He brushed his teeth, took out his contacts, dropped onto the bed, and immediately fell asleep.
Then his cell phone woke him up.
Davica’s voice came though—hysterical, crying, talking a mile a minute, something about she’d been abducted, something about killing a man with a knife.
He got her calmed down enough to make sense. She was chained to a bed in a cabin in the mountains, but had no idea where it was. He threw on clothes, put his contacts back in and pointed the Tundra west.
On the way, he woke up Sydney and had her work with the cell phone company to pinpoint the location of the phone that Davica was calling from. Almost an hour later he pulled off Highway 119 onto a gravel road and took it west. In a mile it dead-ended at a cabin.
No lights were on inside.
A green VW Jetta sat out front.
He drew his weapon and approached.
Inside, he found Davica in a bedroom with an ankle chained to the bed frame, screaming for him to get her out of there. She was covered in blood. On the floor, next to the bed, lay a naked man with a knife in his back.
He looked like an Indian.