Dark Hungers (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
Page 12
“The other interesting thing is this,” London said. “They found a vial of blood in her purse.”
Parker looked at Rave and said, “It’s probably time you knew a few more things. Some of us have an affinity for the taste of blood. So what we do is exchange blood between one another. The blood that Cameron had was probably mine; although it could have been Forrest’s or a number of other persons, too.”
Rave didn’t quite understand.
“What do you mean, you exchange blood?”
“We make a slight cut, just deep enough to bleed, and then drain the blood into a vial,” he said. “Then we exchange those vials among one another. Not everyone participates, but some of us do.”
“Meaning that you do?”
He nodded.
“I didn’t want to tell you before, because it’s sort of freaky,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d understand or not.”
She didn’t understand.
But didn’t care at this point, either.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER WAS ALONE IN HOMICIDE when his phone rang and the voice of Barb Winters came through. She was the proud owner of new breast implants, a new wardrobe and a few new male callers.
“Got some job security for you,” she said, meaning a body.
Teffinger stood up, realized his coffee was lukewarm and dumped it in the snake plant.
“I’m totally slammed,” he said. “Call Baxter.”
“You’re going to want this one,” Winters said.
“Why?”
“Because the guy has a wooden stake sticking out of his heart,” she said. “As if he was a vampire or something.” She chuckled and added, “If you want, I can call around to the hotels and see if Van Hellsing is checked in anywhere.”
“It’s a guy?” Teffinger asked.
“That’s what they say.”
ON THE WAY TO THE SCENE, Teffinger passed a billboard of Jena Vellone; someone had climbed up there with a can of red spray and painted HELP ME, as if Jena was speaking the words.
An image flashed.
Him, walking out of Jena’s house, swinging the door shut on his way out—not checking to be sure it was locked. Too busy thinking about London.
And now there was another vampire slaying.
As if he had time.
He poured coffee from a thermos into a disposable cup, steering with his knees. Ten minutes later he arrived at a place that would have been dark and deserted last night, on the north edge of town, next to a BNSF railroad spur. Sydney, bless her heart, had already beaten him there. Teffinger left the coffee in the 4Runner, put on gloves and walked over to the body.
The man had a wooden stake sticking out of his heart.
But more than that, someone had shot him in the face.
And even more than that, someone had beaten him with a vengeance.
A news helicopter hovered above, washing the air with a deep rumble. Teffinger looked at it and said, “There’s no keeping this one under wraps.”
Sydney nodded.
And said, “I don’t think our skinhead could have done this.”
Teffinger agreed.
The victim had a solid build.
And muscular arms.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but maybe this will get the press off Jena Vellone,” she said.
Two minutes later, Paul Kwak pulled up in a white van, walked over scratching his truck-driver’s gut, and said, “This guy is seriously dead.”
Teffinger grunted.
“This is connected to Cameron Leigh,” he said. “So give me your best work.”
“Good thing for you I didn’t get drunk last night,” Kwak said. “Hey, by the way, guess what I saw on the way over here?”
Teffinger didn’t know.
“A split-window, just like mine except red,” he said, referring to his 1963 Corvette.
Teffinger raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Kwak said. “It’s really weird to see them on the streets. I always said I’d never have a trailer queen, but I got to admit, I’m getting more and more reluctant to get in traffic.”
“Too many idiots,” Teffinger said.
“Right,” Kwak said. “And that’s not even counting me and you.”
Teffinger chuckled.
Then they processed the scene.
IT DIDN’T HOLD MANY SURPRISES, but did have one. They found a vial of blood in the victim’s front pants pocket. Teffinger dropped it into an evidence bag and said to Kwak, “I’ll bet it’s the same as Cameron Leigh’s.”
Kwak cocked his head.
“How much?”
“Huh?”
“How much do you want to bet?”
Teffinger didn’t care.
Then Kwak said, “Okay, here’s the deal. If it matches the stuff we found in Cameron Leigh’s purse, you win and I have to buy you a box of Krispy Kremes. If it doesn’t, though, you have to get in the elevator on the third floor and take it all the way down to the parking garage.”
Sydney laughed.
“He’d never do that.”
Teffinger knew she was right.
But knew he’d win, too.
“That’s nothing,” Teffinger said. “You got a deal.”
THEN JENA VELLONE CAME BACK INTO HIS THOUGHTS.
And the red spray paint.
HELP ME.
“I have to go,” he said.
On the drive back to headquarters, he had a strange thought. Could the person who sprayed the billboard be the same person who took Jena?
Was it his way of saying she was still alive?
Was he playing a game?
Was he actually talking to Teffinger?
Chapter Forty-Nine
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Morning
______________
TRIPP TOOK A CAB TO AVIS and rented a black hardtop Jeep Wrangler with tinted windows. He didn’t turn the Dodge in, though. That was still parked at the hotel. It wouldn’t hurt to have two different vehicles at this point. Just as he was finishing up the paperwork, a TV monitor in the waiting room caught his eye—a news report about a crime scene investigation in progress down by some railroad tracks.
Tripp watched.
And did something that he forgot to do last night.
Namely, write down the license plate number of the vampire’s vehicle. He nodded at the TV and said, “Thanks for the good work.”
Suddenly a man appeared on the screen.
Incredibly good looking.
But that’s not what made Tripp catch his breath.
It was the man’s eyes that did that.
And not because they were two different colors.
But because they looked like Tripp’s own eyes.
When he was on the hunt.
The man turned out to be Nick Teffinger. Tripp recognized the name but couldn’t place it. Then he remembered. Nick Teffinger owned the house in Green Mountain—the one that the island girl went to after leaving Rave Lafelle’s house yesterday.
Interesting.
Teffinger looked tough.
He’d be some work if it ever came to a life-or-death fistfight. But Tripp had beaten stronger men than Teffinger before—lots of ’em. That’s not to imply that he didn’t get his share of damage and pain.
He did.
But he was always as good as new in a week.
An athletic black woman hugged Teffinger’s side throughout the news report; attentive to his every word and gesture. She was young, but wore a serious face and looked like she knew what she was doing. A detective, no doubt.
Yummy.
For a moment, Tripp pictured her at the warehouse—captured. He chuckled. Teffinger would go nuts. That would be even more fun than taking Lauren Long. Or
even better yet, what if he took both the detective and the island girl?
Now that was an idea.
So many options.
So little time.
Chapter Fifty
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Morning
______________
RAVE SPENT THE MORNING frantically teetering on whether or not to walk out the front door, right now this minute, and disappear into the world. Forget the singing career. Forget Parker. Resurface at some point down the road when everything had cooled off. Since this whole thing started a mere five days ago, she had already shot two men in the face.
Before that she hadn’t hurt a fly.
She’d loose Parker if she walked.
And her dreams.
But at least she’d be alive to lament the loss.
Then, suddenly, she stopped all such thoughts when she looked at Parker. Not because she loved him and couldn’t stand the thought of life without him, but because she realized that he was in this too; a strong man, granted, but just as vulnerable as she was in his own way.
London too, for that matter.
They were here right now.
Putting their lives on the line for her.
It was only right to do the same thing in return.
Okay.
The debate was over.
The decision was made.
She’d play it out until the end.
Whatever the end might be.
She wouldn’t run.
Then something totally unexpected happened. Four men showed up at her front door; the members of her band—Jason White, Randy Mortimer, Bruce Jensen and Ronnie Zang.
THEY DIDN’T LOOK HAPPY and Rave sensed trouble. “We need to talk,” White said.
He was the lead guitarist.
The smartest of the bunch.
The most aggressive, too.
A hippie-type complete with red bandanna and hair halfway down his back.
“We just found out from Tim Pepper about this Vegas deal,” he said. “He said the contract would be going to you and that we’d be hired musicians. I thought we were a band.”
“We are a band.”
“Then how come we’re not on the contract?”
Rave shrugged.
“Tim says you’ll be making good money,” she said.
“Not as good as you, apparently.”
“I don’t know how it will all break down,” she said. “We’re on our way—all of us. We’re all going to make a lot of money, we’re going to be on stage doing what we want. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“The problem is that you can dump us anytime you want,” White said. “Quite frankly, that doesn’t sit well. We either need to do this as a group, meaning all of us in it together, or not at all.”
Rave frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we’re either on the contract or we’re out of the whole thing, starting right this minute.”
“What do you mean—right this minute?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“What about the gig tonight?” Rave questioned.
“Screw the gig.”
“What are you saying? That you’re not going to show up?”
“That’s right.”
“But we made a commitment,” she said.
“Screw the commitment,” White said. “This is nut-cutting time. The future starts now, one way or the other. It’s your decision.”
She stared out the window.
Not needing this right now.
“I need to talk to Tim,” she said.
They stood up.
“You do that,” White said. “You have one hour.”
WHEN THEY LEFT, Rave stepped into the backyard and called Tim Pepper. His decision was immediate. “We can’t have people around who threaten to leave you high and dry on the spur of the moment. It’s immature and unstable. It’s better that we found this out now instead of down the road.”
“So they’re out?”
“Damn right they’re out,” Pepper said. “We gave them an incredible opportunity and all they did was get greedy. Quite frankly, I’m not sure they had the stage presence we were looking for anyway.”
“So what about tonight?”
“I’ll put something together,” Pepper said. “Are you available for a rehearsal this afternoon?”
Yes, she was.
If necessary.
“I’ll call White and give him the news,” Pepper said. “If they show up to harass you, call the police.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER SWUNG BY JENA VELLONE’S BILLBOARD—the one with the spray paint. HELP ME. A fixed vertical ladder went up about thirty feet and ended at a narrow walkway that ran along the base of the display. The bottom of the ladder was ten feet off the ground, no doubt to keep kids from getting up and killing themselves. Teffinger pulled the 4Runner underneath, stepped onto the bumper and then muscled up to the ladder.
Yuck.
Every particle of rust in the universe was there.
Plus half the world’s pigeon droppings.
Teffinger tried to keep his clothes from brushing against it but didn’t have much luck. When he got to the top and poked his head above the walkway, he noticed that it didn’t have a guardrail.
Of course.
Because that would have made his life too easy.
Then he saw what he hoped to see, namely a can of spray paint sitting on the walkway, about ten steps over. He got up, put his back against the face of the billboard, and then edged sideways one careful step at a time until he was directly by the can.
It was red paint.
Good.
This wasn’t for nothing.
It was no doubt the one used to spray HELP ME.
The best maneuver at this point would be to pick it up by the bottom edge and then carry it down. But he pictured himself doing a half gainer to the ground as soon as his back came off the billboard. So he kicked the can off the edge and then concentrated on not killing himself as he made his way back to the ladder.
GENEVA CALLED as Teffinger was driving to headquarters.
“I rounded up all my hate mail,” she said. “There was a lot more than I thought.” She chuckled and added, “That means I’m doing something right.”
“Good,” Teffinger said.
Then he came up with a plan.
He coaxed Sydney into calling TV 8 to get the locations of every single one of Jena Vellone’s billboards throughout the city. Then he picked up Geneva, let her ride shotgun, and had her read her hate mail to him as they drove from one billboard to the next. After she read each one, he told her to put it in either pile A, B or C, with A being the highest priority for follow-up.
On south Broadway he found another billboard with HELP ME in spray paint—blue this time, but the same handwriting.
“Bingo,” he said.
“I can’t believe it,” Geneva said.
“This guy wants to be sure we see it,” Teffinger said. “I’ll bet we find five more before the day’s over.”
“And I thought you were just hallucinating.”
“Not all the time,” he said.
He pulled the 4Runner under the ladder, just like before.
They got out and Teffinger frowned.
“What?” Geneva asked.
“I’m not real fond of heights.”
The expression on his face must have seriously highlighted his words because Geneva studied him and said, “I’ll go.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Teffinger almost said, Fine, but instead said, “You’re wearing a dress.”
Which was true.
A white sundress.
Thigh high.
“I know that,” she said.
“Well, that’s going to be revealing.”
“I’m w
earing panties,” she said. “It’s not like I’m naked under there.”
THAT MIGHT BE TRUE, but Teffinger couldn’t let her do it. So he muscled onto the ladder and then climbed up to the walkway.
Unbelievable.
There it was.
The can.
Sitting there nonchalantly ten steps over.
Teffinger put his back against the surface of the display area and edged sideways, inch by inch.
“You should see your face,” Geneva shouted from below.
“Glad I amuse you,” he said.
“Be careful,” she said. “A turtle just passed you.”
“Just for that, you get the next one,” he said. “I don’t care if you are wearing a dress.”
IT TURNED OUT that there actually was a next one, on a Santa Fe billboard near Evans; same handwriting and same words—HELP ME—but purple paint this time. Teffinger didn’t let Geneva go up even though she said she would.
So he exhaled.
And headed up once again.
To retrieve yet a third can.
Then Geneva said, “I’m starved. I’ll buy you lunch for being such a gentleman.”
“Okay to the lunch,” he said. “But stop calling me names.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Afternoon
______________
THE LICENSE PLATE OF THE VAMPIRE’S VEHICLE was registered to Hertz. Tripp called the company from a payphone and said he was Detective Alan Green with Denver homicide. The rental had been found next to a homicide victim, who he assumed was the person who rented the car. He wanted to know the name of the man who rented the vehicle, to verify the connection.
They told him.
“Forrest Jones, 29832 Shaker Heights Boulevard, Shaker Heights, Ohio,” the man said. “You want a phone number?”
“Shoot,” Tripp said.
The man shot.
Tripp wrote it down.
“Thanks,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Do you want us to fax you the paperwork?”
“Hold off on that,” Tripp said. “We’ll need to get the originals anyway.”
“Is the car okay?”
“We have some blood in the interior that we’ll need to cut out and preserve for evidence,” Tripp said.