by R. J. Jagger
Then his phone rang and the voice of Leigh Sandt came through.
“Your victim out there in Denver is number six,” she said. “At least number six. Before her there’s Brooklyn Winnfield, Ashley Gibson, Rikki Amberdeck, Abby Night and Kimberly Johnson, in that order. They were all killed the exact same way, namely repeatedly strangled while they were being raped and then got their left ear cut off.”
Teffinger exhaled.
“What cities?”
“All over,” she said. “Are you at the office?”
“I will be in ten minutes.”
“Check your email when you get there,” she said. “I’m gong to start sending the files over.”
“Come to Denver,” he said.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s not my case plus I’m swamped.”
“Whose case is it?”
“A newbie by the name of Dale Radcliff.”
“Did you tell him about the Denver victim?”
“I did,” she said. “His reaction was, I knew there’d be another one. Conspicuously absent was any mention that he wanted to jump on a plane and head to where the fresh blood was.”
“So you come then.”
“Read my lips Teffinger, I’m swamped. I would if I could, you know that, but I can’t.”
“Not even for me?”
She laughed.
“Especially for you.”
“Come on, when’s your schedule going to clear up?”
“I don’t know, when I’m sixty.”
“That’s thirty years,” he said.
She exhaled.
“Nice try. Look, I’ll see if I can rearrange something, but don’t hold your breath,” she said. “In the meantime, check your emails.”
He hung up just as they got outside.
The sun was bright.
The air was downright hot.
It was definitely going to hit a hundred again today.
He filled Sydney in on the serial aspect of the case as they headed for the car and said, “Hopefully there’s something in one of those files that’s going to get us pointed in the right direction. That’s not where I want to spend our time today, though. Today I want to track down that guy with the long hair.”
“The one who saved Pantage?”
“Right,” Teffinger said. “He must have gotten a pretty good look at the guy.”
Sydney wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t know, they were fighting at the time,” she said. “It was after dark.”
“You might be right but he’s the best thing we have right now,” he said. “My guess is that he lives in the neighborhood somewhere.”
They headed up the street.
Sydney grunted.
“Finding him won’t do any good,” she said. “He doesn’t want to get involved. If he did, he would have come forward by now of his own volition.”
“One step at a time,” Teffinger said. “Let’s just find him first.”
“Maybe he hasn’t come forward because the guy killed him.”
“There’d be a body.”
“Not if the guy shoved it in a trunk and dumped it in the mountains.”
Teffinger looked at her sideways.
“Whose side are you on today?”
“I’m just being the devil’s advocate.”
“The devil doesn’t need an advocate,” Teffinger said. “I do.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I said I’m being your advocate.”
He thought about it.
Then he smiled.
“Good one.”
“I didn’t think you’d get it.”
“I’m smarter than I look,” he said. “In fact, between me and my brother, we can answer every single question in the world. Go one, ask me one, anything you want.”
“Okay, what the square root of 534?”
“That’s one my brother knows,” he said. “Go on, ask me another one.”
She punched him on the arm.
“Like I said, double time.”
12
Day One
July 18
Monday Afternoon
En route over Vail Yardley called her boss and said, “Blank’s on board.”
“Do you see any problems with him?”
“Not really,” she said. “He’s hungry, he’s good with the financial part of it and he understands the risks. I called Johnnie Axil in Seattle, too. He’s a hundred percent committed. He’s going to become Johnnie Preston and move to Santa Fe. Everything’s a go from my end.”
A pause.
“Okay, let me call New York.”
Yardley hung up.
Twenty minutes later her phone rang and a woman’s voice came through.
“New York’s good with it,” the woman said. “Blank will be going to Wells & Whitter. It’s a 300-plus firm in Manhattan. His contact is Randolph Zander. He’s expecting Blank’s call. Be sure Blank uses the name Johnnie Axil when he calls.”
“Done.”
Thirty minutes later Yardley touched down at DIA.
In the back room of the bookstore, behind closed doors, she began the detailed-oriented process of manufacturing the basic papers for Johnnie Preston, namely a social security card, a birth certificate and a Washington driver’s license, which he’d surrender for a New Mexico one after getting to Santa Fe.
The door opened and Deven walked in.
“Who are you giving birth to?”
“Someone named Johnnie Preston.”
“Teach me.”
Yardley tilted her head.
Then she said something she didn’t expect.
“Okay, go lock the front door and stick the closed sign up.”
Deven’s face lit up.
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? It’s going to happen sooner or later. It may as well be today.”
Deven reached under Yardley’s dress, moved her hand up and rubbed her between the legs.
“Thanks.”
13
Day One
July 18
Monday Afternoon
Denver General closed Pantage’s head wound with six stitches and conducted a number of tests to determine the cause of her memory loss, ruling out a brain tumor, oxygen deprivation, infection, drugs, or a psychiatric disorder. Although the impact didn’t result in a concussion, it was nevertheless severe and located directly over the memory area of the brain. “Our best guess is that your amnesia is the product of physical trauma to the brain.”
“How long will it last?”
The doctor shrugged.
“You never know with these things. The brain is a complicated organ. Cases like this can arise from being in the vicinity of an exploding bomb or from being in a car crash. Some people in those situations find their memory coming back fairly quickly, within months or even weeks. Other people never regain what they lost, or regain it only partially.”
“Are you saying it could be permanent?”
“It’s possible both ways. All we can do is wait and see. I treated a patient two summers ago. He was on a motorcycle trip to Sturgis, the last rider in a pack of eleven. He went down and ended up in a Flight for Life. Afterwards, he couldn’t remember anything about what happened. He remembered cruising down the road and then he woke up in a hospital. To this day he still has no recollection of crashing or being in the helicopter or anything else about the day in question.”
Pantage swallowed.
The hospital also conducted tests to determine the extent of the memory loss. It was a total loss from sometime early Sunday evening until this morning when Pantage woke up. From that point on, it seemed to be working fine. There was, however, a larger problem. Her long-term memory had been affected. Events more that six months old were sketchy at best. She could remember almost nothing that happened more than nine months or a year ago.
“The best thing you can do at this point is get plenty of rest and eat healthy. Avoid alcohol, smoke, drugs and stress. You m
ight be able to help the return of your long-term memory by reviewing things that happened in your past—photos, diaries, emails, things like that. Even talking to someone who can tell you about your past might help. There are no guarantees but it certainly won’t hurt.”
The law firm was a mile away. Rather than calling a cab she set out on foot, needing time to process things. The sun beat down and tried to strangle the life out of every human and dog and weed and bug in the city.
She kept her pace up.
Almost all of her cases were big, meaning they were more than a half-year old, also meaning that she’d forgotten a good deal of what happened in them. The only way to handle it would be to refresh her recollection when she needed to by reviewing the file. It wouldn’t be fair to the client to bill for that time, so she’d need to do it on the side. Getting 40 billables in a week would take 60 in the chair.
She’d do it and keep her mouth shut.
The important thing was not to let anyone know she was having brain problems. If the firm put her on leave of absence it would take her off partnership track. She’d worked too hard for too long to let that happen.
She needed to get drunk.
Two blocks away from the law firm an image flashed in her brain, a terrible image, an image of Jackie Lake lying flat on her back with her wrists tied to the bed frame and a horrific look of betrayal on her face. Pantage was between her legs, ramming her with a cucumber that had a rubber stretched over it.
Beside her on the bed was a box cutter.
She kept it in her peripheral vision.
She’d use it to cut the woman’s ear off after she strangled her to death.
The image didn’t last longer than a heartbeat and then it was gone. It was as if she’d been in the dark and someone flipped a light switch up for a half-second, just long enough to show a monster.
Her heart pounded.
She stopped and leaned against the exterior of a building.
It was rough.
“Hey, lady, are you okay?”
The words came from a man in a business suit, still walking past but slowing and looking over his shoulder.
She looked at him.
“Yeah.”
The suit stopped.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m okay.”
She forced herself to walk away.
Whatever was happening, she couldn’t let anyone know.
She needed to appear normal.
14
Day One
July 18
Monday Morning
Based on the files Leigh Sandt emailed over, all the victims before Jackie Lake had two things in common; one, they were drop-dead gorgeous and two, they had raven-black hair. “Jackie Lake doesn’t fit the profile,” Teffinger said, “but it’s pretty obvious who does.”
Sydney cocked her head.
“Me?”
Teffinger took a sip of coffee.
“Right, you; you and Pantage. I’m beginning to wonder if she was the target all along.”
“If that’s the case, why would the guy do it at someone else’s house, with that someone else actually home?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe he was looking for his first two-fur.”
“Two-fur?”
“Right.”
“You ever had one?”
“I’ve had two of ’em,” Teffinger said. “Two two-furs are different that one four-fur though, just for the record.”
“Maybe not,” Sydney said. “You’d have to have a four-fur first before you could say that with authority.”
“And what makes you think I haven’t?”
“Had a four-fur?”
He nodded.
“Right.”
“Well, have you?”
He nodded.
“Two of ’em,” he said. “Two four-furs are different than one eight-fur though, just for the record.”
Sydney punched him on the arm.
Teffinger stood up, drained what was left in the cup and said, “Come on. Let’s go find our longhaired friend.”
He filled a thermos.
Then they were gone.
Teffinger was pretty sure the guy lived somewhere in the neighborhood and had been out taking an innocent walk last night when he ended up in the wrong place at the right time. If that was the case, someone should know who he was.
They split up.
Teffinger took the west side and Sydney took the non-west side.
The sidewalks were ovens.
The lawns were brown.
An hour of motion went by.
None of it turned out to be forward.
Sydney called and said, “Cowboy, I’m starved. Feed me.”
“As in me pay?”
“Yes. Shock my heart.”
They ate at McDonald’s then re-hit the pavement, intent on getting a witness. Teffinger had visions of landing a composite sketch of the killer on the evening news.
That didn’t happen.
The afternoon slipped down a never-ending slippery slope of nothingness before they finally resigned themselves to the fact that only more slips were to be had.
Teffinger looked at his watch.
It was 5:02.
He called Pantage.
“Are you still at the law firm?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’m going to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to let you be alone tonight,” he said. “What time do you want me there?”
A pause.
“How about six?”
“Six it is.”
On the way back to the office he asked Sydney if she had any energy left.
“I do if you want me to,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
She was.
“Okay, then, go into my emails and get the files Leigh sent me,” he said. “Email ’em over to yourself and pull ’em up wherever you want, on your iPad or Mac or whatever. Go through ’em and find the common denominators.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
“Somehow he picks his victims out beforehand,” Teffinger said. “Figure out where he hunts. Then we’ll trace Jackie Lake’s footsteps and see if we can spot him on a surveillance tape.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
She cocked her head.
“What are you going to be doing while I do all the work? Repeat, all the work.”
“You want the honest answer or lies?”
“Lies, like always.”
“I’ll be protecting Pantage.”
Sydney gave him a look.
“You’ll be protecting her from having a night without an orgasm,” she said. “That’s what you’ll be protecting her from.”
15
Day One
July 18
Monday Afternoon
Deven’s magic fingers were rubbing Yardley between the legs, on the outside of her panties, when the phone rang. Deven pushed the cotton to the side, inserted a finger and said, “Don’t answer it.”
Yardley hesitated.
Then she grabbed it and said, “Hello?
The voice of her boss came through. She listened intently, memorizing the words, feeling the muscles in her neck grow tighter and tighter, all the while being worked between the thighs by Deven.
The massaging was starting to slow.
Yardley grabbed Deven’s hand and held it in place.
“Don’t stop.”
The woman didn’t.
Yardley hung up.
Then she said, “Hold it a minute.”
She flipped the light switch off.
The room fell into total blackness.
She got down on the floor flat on her back and spread her legs. Deven rubbed her on the outside of the cotton, slowly, gently, the ultimate tease.
Yardley’s hips responded.
“I’m going to teach you somethi
ng,” Deven said.
“What?”
“How to lick a pussy.”
Yardley hesitated.
She’d had visions.
She’d had thoughts.
She’d never done it.
“Yes or no,” Deven said.
A beat.
“No.”
“Stay where you are.”
Deven stood up. There was a rustling of clothes as she removed her pants and panties. Then she straddled Yardley’s chest, grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms up over her head.
“You’re my slut,” she said.
Yardley’s heart pounded.
“Say it!”
“I’m your slut.”
“That’s better,” Deven said. “Now prove it.”
She inched up until her pussy was on Yardley’s mouth. “You’re going to get what you give so make it as good or as bad as you want,” she said.
Yardley stuck her tongue out.
It touched flesh.
The flesh pushed back, increasing the contact.
It was moist.
It felt like a deep kiss.
Sanders Cave was a private investigator with a second-floor office on Larimer Street between 14th Street and 15th Street in downtown Denver. Yardley pushed into his office at 4:45 p.m., set a briefcase on his desk and said, “I need to have a man investigated.”
Cave opened the briefcase and took a quick look.
Inside was money, flat and green.
He closed the lid.
He wasn’t overly big, five-nine or ten, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own. His 29-year-old waist was non-existent, his abs were rippled, and his arms, while not overly bulky, could do pull-ups and pushups until dawn. Even though he smoked he could still run a mile under five minutes, three or four of them if he got motivated enough.
Face wise, he was the closest anyone could look to James Dean without actually being James Dean.
He wore a gray summer-weight suit with the jacket hanging on a rack over in the corner. Next to it was a Fedora.
At feet level he wore spit-shined wingtips, almost impossible to find nowadays but worth the hunt. He had four more pair just like them in his closet back home.