Pretty Little Lawyer (Nick Teffinger Thriller)

by Jagger, R. J.

  A cloudless blue Colorado sky floated overhead.

  He tossed his hair to the side and pointed his face to the sun.

  The rays landed hot and bright.

  Nice.

  He stretched first and then jogged around the edge of the building towards the railroad yard. Some days his body felt good. Others it felt great. This was one of those great days.

  A hundred yards into the run his muscles loosened up. He picked up the pace and his lungs hardly noticed.

  He had no idea how far he would run—maybe five miles, maybe ten. Whatever it took to get to that point where his body screamed for him to stop.

  HE FELT PRETTY GOOD ABOUT LAST NIGHT. After Del Rae left, he paid a little visit to his lovely little captive—Ta’Veya White—and didn’t leave until he broke her down and got the information he wanted.

  No more screwing around.

  Luckily she realized that because he would have killed her, for Scotty Marks’ sake if nothing else.

  AS HE JOGGED FARTHER INTO THE RAILROAD YARD and swung around a string of boxcars, he could hardly believe his eyes.

  There were cops, lots of cops.

  From out of nowhere a man wearing jeans and a gray sport coat intercepted him.

  “Hey, buddy, this place is off limits,” the man said.

  It was the man himself more than the words that brought Trane to a stop. His first thought was that the guy could hold his own in a street fight. He had a scrapper look to him; the kind of guy who wouldn’t get derailed by pain. He had an incredible face and there was something wild about his eyes. The guy reminded Trane a little of himself, except on a smaller scale. As tough as he looked, Trane could still crush him. It would take some time and Trane would get his fair share of pain, but the ultimate result was inescapable.

  Trane flicked his mane and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “This is a crime scene,” the man said. “You need to go out the same way you came in.”

  “A crime scene? What’s going on?”

  Trane regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. He should have turned and disappeared. Now the man was studying him.

  “You live around here, right?” the man asked.

  Trane was impressed. The man had realized that Trane hadn’t broken a sweat, meaning he hadn’t been at it long. Another runner would notice something like that; a couch potato wouldn’t. Trane knew better than to lie but decided to keep it vague.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning. “Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “Hold on a minute,” the man said.

  Trane stopped.

  His heart raced.

  “Where do you live?”

  Trane pointed at his building and said, “There.”

  “There?”

  “Right.”

  “It looks like an old abandoned warehouse or something.”

  Trane nodded.

  “They made furniture there twenty years ago,” he said. “I bought it for cheaper than a house.”

  The man looked impressed.

  Then he pulled a printout of a driver’s license and showed it to Trane.

  “Have you ever seen this woman? Her name is Ta’Veya White.”

  Aaron took the paper and studied it, then shook his head.

  “No. Wish I had, though. She’s a hot little ticket.”

  The man agreed.

  Then he asked, “Did you happen to notice anything suspicious around here last night by any chance?”

  Trane paused as if giving it ample thought.

  “I don’t even remember looking out this way last night,” he said. “I don’t have any blinds or curtains, so my windows get black at night. They turn into mirrors, basically.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “Freeway noise. Why? What’s going on?”

  The man turned.

  “Nothing. Thanks for everything,” he said over his shoulder.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Day Nine—May 13

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  AFTER PAIGE FINISHED TALKING with Tarzan and shut the phone, she couldn’t breathe. It seemed that no matter how deeply she inhaled she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She told herself that she was okay, that this was just some kind of panic attack, but nothing like this had ever happened before.

  She was starting to break down.

  She could feel it.

  When the phone rang again she jumped and then stared at it. The hotel suddenly seemed cold and lifeless—evil, almost. She left the phone where it was, walked out the door and drove to her apartment. She entered tentatively and saw no obvious evidence of intrusion or break in.

  The aroma of dried rain greeted her.

  It came from the old brown couch—the one she found by the side of the curb more than a year ago and hauled over here in a friend’s pickup. She inhaled deeply, getting a good whiff of the couch, and suddenly her lungs worked fine.

  Air.

  Sweet air.

  She had a Property Law class scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon. But she wouldn’t make it. That’s when she would either be surrendering herself to Tarzan or meeting with the police.

  She didn’t know which yet.

  Her watch said 10:30.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  There was no way she’d be able to sort this all out in the next couple of hours, even if her brain cleared up enough to rationally process information.

  Surprisingly she didn’t worry about herself.

  Her anxiety all centered on Ta’Veya.

  The woman’s life was in her hands.

  For some reason her thoughts fell back to that earlier conversation, when she and Ta’Veya were talking about the fact that Ta’Veya had saved Paige’s life twice and Paige had only saved Ta’Veya’s once.

  And that she owed Ta’Veya one.

  It had been a conversation in jest and the corner of Paige’s mouth went up just a touch as she recalled it. But now, in the witching hour, she realized that it had been much more.

  She did owe Ta’Veya one.

  So, the big question was this—did she have a better chance of helping Ta’Veya if she surrendered herself to Tarzan or if she went to the police?

  SHE HARDLY DRANK AT ALL and never in the morning, or alone. But she filled a water glass with white wine, slumped into the couch and took a long swallow.

  The next few hours would be critical.

  She knew she had to keep one thing in mind.

  Ta’Veya killed the drifter, the guy in the boxcar.

  She shot him in the face with Paige’s gun.

  They spoke about it several times afterwards. Ta’Veya’s thoughts on the matter were unbending and consistent: the police could never know about that, no matter what. Ta’Veya would rather die than go to prison.

  Suddenly someone knocked on the door.

  It was at that moment that she realized that everything important was back at the hotel.

  The gun.

  The knife.

  Her first thought was to run into the bedroom and hide. But instead she peeked out the curtain and saw a man, an attractive man, wearing jeans and a sport coat.

  When she opened the door the man handed her a card and said, “You’re not answering your phone.”

  She didn’t look at the card.

  She didn’t have to.

  “You’re Nick Teffinger,” she said.

  The man nodded. “Guilty. How do you know?”

  “Ta’Veya told me about your eyes, plus I saw you on the news,” she said. “Come in.”

  As Teffinger eased into the couch, Paige spotted the glass of wine and pushed it behind a stack of books. Teffinger’s attention focused on the kitchen, as if searching for something.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing.”

  She chuckled, headed that way and pulled the coffeemaker out of a cabinet. “Ta’Veya told me about your addiction,”
she said.

  Teffinger was impressed.

  “What else did she tell you?”

  Paige frowned.

  “She fell for you, you know. That first day,” she said. “She’s a good person, so it’s your loss.”

  Teffinger said nothing.

  Then he looked her in her eyes.

  “She’s missing. You know that, right?”

  Paige’s first instinct was to lie but she didn’t.

  “I’ve had a bad feeling about her since last night,” she said.

  “Her cell phone records show she got a lot of calls from you last night,” Teffinger said. “A lot of calls that she never answered. So tell me the story. Where did she go last night? Why were you calling her every ten seconds? What happened to her?”

  Over the next ten minutes Teffinger told her why he thought Ta’Veya was in trouble, and about the search being conducted at the railroad yard even as they spoke. Paige filled Teffinger full of coffee and patiently explained that she didn’t know a thing, other than she and Ta’Veya were supposed to get together last night but Ta’Veya never showed up and didn’t answer her phone.

  Teffinger didn’t believe her.

  She could see it in his eyes.

  She didn’t care.

  She had Tarzan to worry about.

  WHEN TEFFINGER LEFT, Paige drove back to the hotel, but in the Mustang this time. She stuffed the gun and knife in her backpack and headed to where she was supposed to meet Tarzan.

  On the way her cell phone rang and Nick Teffinger’s voice came through. “I forgot to ask you something,” he said. “Two things, actually. Did you know Marilyn Poppenberg? She was a law student at D.U., same as you.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause on the other end.

  “She got killed.”

  “I heard.”

  “I’m going to want to talk to you about her,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Sure. If you think it will help.”

  “The other thing is this,” he said. “I’m investigating the death of a drifter. He got shot in the face on the north edge of Denver, in an industrial area, almost two weeks ago. Surveillance cameras down the road picked up the image of a first-generation Ford Mustang. We thought the driver of that vehicle might have seen something. You own a 1967 Mustang. When I came to talk to you, you weren’t home. But Ta’Veya was. She said you were with her all that night. Would you agree with that statement?”

  “I don’t know what night you’re talking about exactly,” Paige said. “But I haven’t been in an industrial area for a long time. And don’t know anything about a dead drifter.”

  “Okay,” Teffinger said. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “No problem. Anything else?”

  A pause on the other end.

  She sensed that Teffinger was about to say something, something important, but whatever it was, he held back.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “You have my card if you need it.”

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER SHE HUNG UP she almost called him back.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she pulled the gun out of her backpack, set it on the seat where she could see it, and continued driving to the place she was supposed to meet Tarzan.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Day Nine—May 13

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  FROM PAIGE DEVEREX’S APARTMENT, Teffinger swung by the 7-Eleven on Simms and bought a thermos of coffee, some kind of new banana nut blend—good stuff, his immediate new favorite. Then he pointed the Tundra east on 6th Avenue and flicked through the radio stations until he landed on Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love.” Back at the railroad yard the search was still in progress. He kicked an empty beer can as he walked, finally spotting Sydney hopping out of a boxcar. He handed her a disposable cup.

  She took a sip and said, “Banana. No Ta’Veya yet.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “Paige Deverex knows something but she’s not talking,” he said.

  “She does? What?”

  “I don’t know and right now I don’t have time to find out. I absolutely have to get refocused on Tashna Sharapova.” His watch said 11:23 a.m. “Starting this minute.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  He kicked the dirt.

  “Wish I knew.”

  Suddenly his cell phone rang.

  IT TURNED OUT TO BE JENA VELLONE from Channel 8. The sound of her voice pulled up a memory of tickling her down by the river in eleventh grade.

  “I did something that you need to know about,” Jena said.

  That didn’t sound good.

  “What?”

  “I stopped by Robert Sharapova’s law office this morning to see if he’d give me an interview about his missing wife,” she said. “He did. We’re going to air it starting at noon.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  This was his fault.

  He wasn’t staying close enough to the case to keep it under control.

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he basically just wants the guy to know that he took someone important, and that if anything happens to Tashna, there are going to be serious repercussions.”

  “Don’t air it,” Teffinger said.

  “Why?”

  “The last thing we want to do is scare the guy,” Teffinger said. “He might be planning to drop her off somewhere alive. But if he feels there’s too much heat, he might decide he can’t risk her being alive as a potential witness. Or he can’t risk driving around with her. He might just slit her throat, dump her in the woods and head to Mexico. Is this making sense?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “But the guy already has to understand there’s a lot of heat. I don’t see how this changes things.”

  “Trust me, it does,” Teffinger said. “Lots of people aren’t afraid of the police. They got rights. We don’t strap them to a chair and torture them. But if a rich guy with a personal vendetta is after you, it’s a whole different ballgame.” He took a sip of coffee. “Can you derail it?”

  “You really want me to?”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  She hesitated and then said, “Let me get back to you. If I do, though, you owe me one.”

  “Fine.”

  “Breakfast,” she said.

  “Fine, breakfast.”

  “And I’m not talking about breakfast-breakfast,” she said. “I’m talking about morning-after breakfast.”

  He chuckled.

  “Be careful,” he said. “I might just call your bluff one of these days.”

  HE LEFT SYDNEY IN CHARGE OF THE SEARCH at the railroad yard and went to the office, bumping into Katie Baxter at the coffee pot. “Lot’s of people out there would like to put fifty grand in their pocket,” Baxter said.

  He looked at her and tried to not get distracted by her world-class chest.

  “Getting a lot of calls?” he questioned.

  “Too many,” she said. “All duds so far, as near as I can tell.”

  Teffinger hugged her on the shoulder.

  “Thanks for being the gatekeeper,” he said. “What’s going on with the Marilyn Poppenberg case? Anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m dead in the water.”

  “Welcome to the club.” He slurped the coffee. “You heard that we’re searching a railroad yard, right?”

  She had.

  “Another tie to trains,” he said. “I’m starting to wonder if all this stuff isn’t connected somehow.”

  “What do you mean by all this stuff?”

  “You know—the dead drifter in the boxcar, Marilyn Poppenberg next to the tracks, and now this new woman, Ta’Veya White.”

  She scratched her head.

  “How could they be connected?”

  “I don’t know, but a law student by the name of Paige Deverex is the common denominator,” he said. “She has a first-generation Ford Mustang and we have videotape of that
type of car at the area where the drifter got killed. She’s friends with Ta’Veya White who is now apparently missing. And I just found out today that she knows Marilyn Poppenberg.”

  Baxter licked her lips.

  “She knows Poppenberg?”

  “Apparently,” Teffinger said. “But I haven’t peeled her back on that yet, so I don’t know how deep it goes or whether it means anything.”

  “You want me to do it?”

  He shrugged.

  “Sure, if you have time later,” he said. “But it’s more important right now to stay focused on these reward calls that are coming in. We need to do what we can in the next few hours for Tashna Sharapova.”

  He clinked his coffee cup against hers and headed for the door.

  “Where you going?” she asked.

  “To have a quick talk with Robert Sharapova before he screws things up even more. Then I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Day Nine—May 13

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  TARZAN TOOK A POSITION at the edge of a window and watched the activity in the railroad yard through binoculars, amazed at the intensity of the hunt. It all related to Ta’Veya White. What he couldn’t figure out is how they traced her there.

  He needed to get her and her car out of the building.

  He threw the binoculars on the mattress, picked up a pair of drumsticks and twisted them in his fingers as he paced back and forth.

  The more he thought about it the more he became convinced that he should get the woman out of there now instead of waiting for nightfall. Paige Deverex knew he had her. If she called the cops and tipped them off, he was dead.

  He ran down to the mechanical room and unlocked the door.

  Ta’Veya White lay hogtied on the floor, awake now, staring at him with serious, watery eyes.

  “Please untie me,” she said. “My arms are killing me. I won’t do anything. I promise.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

  Instead of untying her, he injected her in the ass and watched her struggle until she slipped into unconsciousness. Then he put her in the trunk of her car, opened the garage door and looked around before pulling out.