by R. J. Jagger
The front door opened.
Footsteps approached.
The bedroom door opened.
“Stand up.”
The words took her by surprise because they didn’t belong to Cave. They belonged to someone else. She stood up to find a large man, six three or more. He looked like an Indian with a mean face and long braided hair.
He cast his eyes on the broken window and said, “You’ve been a busy girl.”
She suddenly realized where she knew the voice from.
He was the one she talked to on the phone, the man who was brought in to take care of Cave.
“Why am I chained up?”
“For your own good,” he said. “I was hoping that our little trap last night would draw Cave in and that I could kill him and that would be the end of everything. When he didn’t show, I had to go to plan B, which is to keep you secluded until I get Cave.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s simple,” he said. “Marabella wants to be absolutely sure Cave doesn’t get his hands on you and find a way to make you talk.”
“I don’t need to be chained for that.”
He exhaled.
“It’s important that you stay here and that I’m absolutely sure you’re here at all times,” he said. “I can’t have you be a distraction.”
“I won’t be,” she said. “I’ll stay here but at least give me the run of the house.”
He studied her.
“I’ll unchain you while I’m here,” he said. “It’s going back on though when I leave.”
Yardley said, “Fine.”
She’d worry about it later.
All she wanted right now was the steel off her wrist.
He turned out to be an Apache named Ghost Wolf who whipped up pancakes and coffee on a propane stove, which they ate on the front steps. The world in front of the house was as abandoned and empty as behind. A rutted, weed-invested drive snaked off into the distance, a feeble umbilical cord to civilization.
“What is this place?”
“It’s Apache.”
“We’re on a reservation?”
“No, it’s Apache owned but not part of a reservation,” he said. “Three thousand acres. We’re on the eastern plains, fifty miles east of Denver.”
“What’s it used for?”
“Lots of things,” he said. “In this case, Cave’s body will end up buried out there.”
Yardley took a sip of coffee.
“How many other Caves are already here?”
He grunted.
“By my hand, eleven,” he said. “By others, more.”
“So you’ve been at this a while.”
“Three years.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded.
“That’s when someone I knew got stumbled on one night by a shit-faced pack of cowboys who thought she’d be a good little ride,” he said. “Afterwards, they figured she’d be a good witness too, so they took care of that little problem.”
“They killed her?”
He nodded.
“Strangled her to death. Five of them are out there in the field now. One is yet to come.”
“Was she your wife?”
“No, someone else’s wife,” he said. “My lover.”
“What’d the husband do?”
“That broke-dick dog? Nothing. He got drunk and forgot about it.”
He pulled a pack of smokes out of his back pocket, tapped one out and held it out to see if Yardley was interested, which she was. He lit them up from a book of matches and blew smoke.
“So where’s Cave?”
“I don’t know,” Yardley said. “I do know one thing though. You’re not going to get him without me. Let me help you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about.” She took a long drag and stood up. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get going.”
82
Day Five
July 22
Friday Afternoon
Losing the flash drive to a bathroom opportunist was a blow but not a fatal one. The importance of the JPEGs wasn’t the images themselves so much as the fact they spanned back more than two weeks. That information could still be communicated from Kelly to Teffinger irrespective of the lack of proof. It wasn’t until Pantage was walking back to the law firm that she realized the more important aspect of the loss, namely that she never checked the other files to see if they related to any of the Van Gogh victims.
Not doing that had been stupid.
So had been not making a copy of the drive.
She cancelled her credit cards and got back into billable-hour mode. Mid-afternoon her phone rang and the voice of the California investigator, Aspen Gonzales, came through.
“Two things,” the woman said. “One, I got a hold of the autopsy report on Chiara. Check your emails, I sent it to you.”
Pantage swallowed.
She remembered slitting the woman’s throat following a brutal fight. The report would either confirm or refute that memory.
“How’d she die?”
“She had lots of contusions on the face and neck indicative of a fight,” Aspen said. “That wasn’t the cause of her death though. She died from having her throat slit.”
Pantage’s head felt light.
Her memory was accurate.
“Thanks.”
She went to hang up but stopped when a muffled voice continued talking.
“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Pantage said.
“I thought I lost you for a second,” Aspen said. “The second thing is this. That detective I told you about, John Maxwell, has been following me all over town. I can’t throw a stone without hitting his face.”
“Why?”
“It’s his way of putting pressure on me,” she said. “We’re on extremely thin ice at this point. My advice is to shut this case down and shut it down fast. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to tap my phone.”
“You said he was a straight shooter.”
“He is,” she said. “He’d get a warrant. But that doesn’t mean that people won’t go out of their way to help him. Hell, he could connect us just by getting my phone records. Tell me to shut it down.”
Pantage hesitated.
“No, don’t.”
Silence.
“Look—”
“Keep pressing ahead,” Pantage said. “Please.”
A beat then, “If Maxwell connects us he may very well pay a surprise visit to you in Denver.”
“I understand.”
Pantage went to the restroom and studied her eyes in the mirror. They were the eyes of a killer. Now that she was looking for it, it was easy to see.
Back at her desk she opened the autopsy report.
As Aspen said, Chiara had been in a violent fight.
There was also an important fact that Aspen hadn’t mentioned, namely that Chiara had suffered a severe blow to the side of her head.
Pantage pictured herself desperately searching for anything to use as a weapon and then suddenly finding the wine bottle in her hand.
She needed to know the cause of the fight.
All she could hope is that she wasn’t the one who initiated it.
Even that, though, was a point of interest at best.
Chiara was unconscious when Pantage went into the kitchen looking for a knife. Even if Pantage had been in a mode of self-defense up until that point, the act of slitting the woman’s throat as she laid there helplessly was anything but.
That was an act of murder.
A knock came at the door. Pantage looked up expecting to see Renn-Jaa.
Instead it was Marabella Amberbrook, one of the uppity-ups from the forty-second floor and a member of the firm’s board.
The woman smiled and said, “Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
83
Day Five
July 22
Friday Afternoon
Clay Pitcher, district attorney, was a barrel-chested man with permanently stained cigar teeth and a closet full of tan blazers. On a good day he looked like a used car salesman. This wasn’t a good day. Four years away from retirement, he was putting in his eight, Monday to Friday, and talking more about opening a boat rental in the Bahamas than about his cases. Still, he had a damn fine pedigree and could be a top-notch lawyer if the right facts got him riled up enough.
These weren’t the right facts.
He told the chief and Teffinger they didn’t have enough evidence to support a search warrant for Jack Plank’s house or phone. “We can convince a judge that Plank’s the guy who was following Pantage around yesterday, based on the tattoo,” he said. “We can also convince him or her that it’s certainly suspicious and that the reason he was following her around is because she witnessed him killing Jackie Lake and now he wants to get her all dead and silent.”
Teffinger nodded.
“Right.”
Clay scrunched his face.
“The problem is that although it’s suspicious, that’s all it is,” he said. “He never talked to the woman, he never got closer than thirty steps, he didn’t threaten her in any way and as far as we know he didn’t break into her house and kill her cat.”
“She doesn’t have a cat,” Teffinger said.
“I’m speaking metaphorically,” Clay said. “Suspicion doesn’t get you a warrant. Probable cause does. And that’s what we don’t have here boys and girls, probable cause.”
Teffinger raked his hair back.
“Clay, quit screwing around and go get me a warrant,” he said.
They both looked at Chief Tanker.
He was behind the oversized wooden desk leaned back in a worn leather chair with his fingers laced behind his head. The flag was to his left. Behind him on the wall were photos, mostly of him with persons of relevance—businessmen, athletes, politicians—not just posing for a stupid snapshot but biking or fishing or kicking it up.
He slipped forward in his chair, creased every wrinkle in his 50-year-old face and looked at Teffinger.
“Clay’s here to give advice,” he said. “Now, I’ll admit that 95 percent of the advice he gives is wrong in hindsight. But all we have at this point is foresight.”
Teffinger shuffled in his chair.
He was beaten.
He could argue but it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
He looked at the ceiling.
“Nice lights up there,” he said. “Mine buzz to hell and back.”
Tanker smiled.
“That’s too bad.”
On the way back to the Tundra, Teffinger got a call from Kelly to the effect she wanted to meet ASAP, for business reasons, not to screw—although screwing would be fine tonight.
“Business?”
Right.
“It relates to the gladiator,” she said.
84
Day Five
July 22
Friday Morning
Yardley couldn’t convince Ghost Wolf to let her ride along with him today but did have enough persuasion in her sexy little body to at least keep him from chaining her up while he was gone.
“Be sure you keep your ass right here.”
She nodded.
“I will.”
He looked at her sideways.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
She patted his hand.
“Don’t worry.”
She waited a full fifteen minutes after he left to be sure he wasn’t doubling back for some reason, then put her shoes on and headed up the so-called road, following the ruts and broken weeds. The guy was too creepy to be around. More importantly, her captivity here might not actually be in the name of her own safety. She might be here because Marabella had determined things had gotten too messy. Right now someone might be sanitizing her store and loft. Once that was done and no complications twisted to the surface, Yardley would be officially expendable.
Admittedly the likelihood of that scenario was small.
Still, it wasn’t non-existent.
It was particularly disturbing that Ghost Wolf so easily mentioned he’d killed eleven people and buried them on the property. That wasn’t exactly the kind of information a professional would broadcast if there was any possibility of it being repeated. Maybe he told her because he thought they were kindred spirits, each in as deep as the other. On the other hand, maybe he pictured her dead in 24 hours.
She needed to get to the bookstore and see if it was being sanitized.
The sky was blue and cloudless.
The sun was in her eyes and on her chest.
She was only ten minutes into it and already sweating.
The air was still and quiet.
The daily breeze wouldn’t kick up until eleven or so.
She kept her eyes on the horizon. If a car approached she’d get down low, make her way into the brush and lay flat.
What she was doing was risky.
She knew that.
Marabella had a legitimate concern that Yardley not fall into the hands of Cave. With Yardley back in the world and defiant as to Ghost Wolf’s efforts to keep her safe, Marabella might decide she had no option but to eliminate the problem once and for all.
Who would she send to do the job?
Ghost Wolf?
Probably.
He was already in town and knew the situation.
Bringing in someone new would only make a complicated situation even more complicated.
Ghost Wolf would be the one.
He’d probably enjoy it too, after she’d tricked him.
Not a sound pierced the air.
Her mind wandered.
An old Shakira song, “Hips Don’t Lie,” got stuck in her head and wouldn’t come out.
Then she had to relieve herself.
She stopped, wiggled out of her shorts and panties, held them in her left hand and squatted down.
It felt good.
When she stood up, a figure was charging up the road towards her at full speed.
It was Ghost Wolf.
85
Day Five
July 22
Friday Afternoon
When Marabella shut the door for privacy, a cold chill ran up Pantage’s spine and straight into her brain. The woman took a seat in front of the desk, crossed her legs and said, “I’m going to get right to the point. There’s talk at the water cooler to the effect that the blow you took to the head might have been more severe than you’ve let on.”
Pantage forced a confused expression onto her face.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, you’ve been having blank looks when people talk to you about things in the past.”
Pantage shrugged.
“Maybe a little.”
“Do you remember anything yet about what happened at Jackie Lake’s house?”
No.
She didn’t.
Not a wisp.
“What about other things? Are you having memory issues with respect to other things as well?”
“Maybe a little.”
Marabella nodded.
“Let me ask you this,” she said. “Do you remember the circumstances under which you joined the firm?”
No.
She didn’t.
“Circumstances?”
“Right, circumstances,” she said. “Do you remember the discussions you and I had when you first came to the firm?”
“No.”
“Do you remember a woman named Yardley White?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Who is she?”
Marabella didn’t answer.
Instead she studied Pantage. She picked a pencil off the desk and twisted it in her fingers as if contemplating the next words. Then she said, “Do you remember what you did out in California?”
The words ricocheted in Pantage’s skull.
California?
How
did Marabella know about California?
Play dumb.
Play dumb.
Play dumb.
“No,” she said. “What did I do out in California?”
“You honestly don’t remember?”
“No.”
The woman wrinkled her forehead.
“This is going to be painful but you better know it since you’re spending so much time hanging around that detective Teffinger,” she said. “You killed a woman. Her name was Chiara de Correggio. She was a friend of yours.”
Pantage swallowed.
“How’d I do it?”
“You slit her throat.”
“How do you know about it?”
“You told me. You killed her and dumped her body over a cliff. You had a different name back then. It was London Winger.”
Marabella exhaled.
“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the honest to God truth,” she said. “Did you kill Jackie Lake? Did you do to her what you did to that woman out in California?”
Pantage’s instinct was to rise and run.
Instead she turned her chair until her face was hidden and squeezed her eyes shut.
Water came out and rolled down her cheeks.
Marabella said nothing.
The silence was thick.
Seconds passed, many seconds, slow seconds, one after another after another.
Then Pantage slowly swiveled the chair back. She tried to look into Marabella’s eyes but couldn’t. “Yes,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I killed Jackie.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Marabella reached over and held Pantage’s hand.
“I thought so. I’m not going to tell anybody.”
86
Day Five
July 22
Friday Afternoon
Kelly was at the curb outside her office when Teffinger swung over. Traffic was thick and he was blocking it so he didn’t notice much about her other than she looked professional. When she slid in, the cab filled with perfume and the rustling of nylons worked at his senses.