Perfect.
Her website had lots of pictures of her.
She was nice, definitely someone he could spend some quality time with.
She looked tall, though; and strong.
He’d have to be careful.
THAT EVENING THERE WERE ALREADY forty or so people at the author event when he got there. The lights were off and the author, Janelle Parker, was showing slides of the photos from her book, explaining their back-stories and occasionally answering technical questions from the audience regarding F-stops, lengths of exposure, and equally mysterious things that were way beyond Wickerfield’s particular knowledge or expertise.
There were a few things he did know, however.
He knew that he liked her voice.
And he knew that he liked the way the light from the projector played on her face whenever she walked in front of the screen to point something out.
He left before the lights came on.
That night, after dark, he parked the Camry on Williams Street and then walked over two blocks to Race, where the woman lived. He wore dark clothes, a baseball cap, black frames and the fake moustache. Although the neighborhood was older, the houses were beautifully maintained and sat on spacious grounds, a rarity for Denver. Washington Park was just a stone’s throw to the west. Judging by the cars in the driveways, the area was a trendy place that attracted people of money.
He got the feeling there were plenty of security cameras around, even though he couldn’t see any, at least not right now in the dark.
Janelle Parker’s particular house was one of the smaller ones. A blue Toyota Tacoma extended-cab pickup sat in the driveway, an outdated body style, maybe five years old or thereabouts. The license plate said FOTOG.
Perfect; easy to remember.
At a quarter to ten, all the lights were out in the house except for two rooms upstairs, which clearly had to be a bedroom and bathroom. He continued walking, to all intents and purposes just one more guy from the neighborhood out for a stroll in the night when it wasn’t so hot.
When he got back to the Camry he swung by her house.
All the lights were out now.
He headed back to the farm, deep in thought. Who could possibly want her dead? She wasn’t married. She seemed like a nice person.
Weird.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Day Nine - July 19
Wednesday
_____________
THEY WERE ON THAT STRETCH of nothing-but-highway in northern New Mexico, just south of the Colorado border, cruising at 78 with country-western on the radio, when Teffinger’s cell phone rang. The desert topography surrounded them with an untamable aura. To the left a distant mountain range squatted under a black thunderstorm.
“It’s me,” Teffinger said, one eye on the road and one on the storm.
“How do you know it’s you?”
He recognized the voice as Jena Vellone’s.
“You’re calling to tell me you got another letter today,” he said. “Our friend’s going to strike again this weekend. Am I right?”
“You are, but then again, even a monkey at a typewriter is going to spell a word every now and then,” she said.
He smiled.
“Is that how you think of me? A monkey at a typewriter?”
“No, you’re twice that, any day of the week.”
“Twice, huh?”
“At least, maybe thrice. Is that a word?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and then switched gears. “How’s Rain doing? Behaving herself?”
“Rain tells me you’ve been a bad boy.”
He had a pretty good idea what she was talking about but feigned ignorance.
“Me? Bad?”
“She tells me you tied her up and teased her into a orgasmic frenzy,” Jena added. “How come you never did that to me?”
Before he could answer, the windshield exploded and glass blasted into the car.
SYDNEY SCREAMED AND HE INSTINCTIVELY SLAMMED on the brakes. By the time he got the vehicle off the road and to a stop he figured out what happened.
They hit a bird, and not just any bird, one of those gigantic black vulture-like birds.
They hit it so hard that it actually came through the windshield and landed in the back seat. Blood and feathers were everywhere. He got out, shook glass out of his hair, and surveyed the damage. The windshield had a hole in it the size of a basketball and what was left was shattered so badly that you couldn’t see through it. He decided that the safest course of action was to take it all the way out so glass chips wouldn’t fly in their eyes. He set about kicking it out while Sydney picked the bird up by a foot and threw it into the brush.
“It’s going to be one of those days,” he said.
She looked at him. “Nothing’s ever normal with you Teffinger, do you know that?”
“What, this is my fault?”
She shook her head as if in wonder. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, all I’m saying is that stuff like this just seems to find you.”
He thought about it.
“I see your point,” he said.
Wearing sunglasses to keep the wind out of their eyes, and afraid to go any slower than fifty-five for fear of being run over from behind, they ended up driving all the way to Pueblo before they could find an Avis and exchange the vehicle for a new one.
When they pulled in Teffinger said, “I’m not going to need lunch. The three pounds of bugs filled me up.”
Sydney couldn’t help but laugh.
“You should see your hair,” she said.
WHEN THEY FINALLY MADE IT BACK TO DENVER, Teffinger went straight to the sixth floor to meet with Paul Kwak, who was munching on a carrot when he walked in.
“What’s with the rabbit food?” Teffinger asked.
Kwak made a sour face. “The wife says I’m getting fat.”
“Getting?”
“Not even funny.”
Kwak gave him an update regarding the blindfold, whips and other items retrieved from Paradise’s basement. They’d been able to lift quite a few good prints. So far, though, none of them were drawing any database matches.
“Okay,” Teffinger said. “But let’s exhaust that before we call it quits. Here’s the latest emergency. You probably heard that this same guy struck in Santa Fe.”
Kwak nodded.
“The word’s floating around.”
Teffinger handed him a DVD. “This is a copy of footage from a Channel 9 news report, taken when the crime scene investigation was underway at the gallery. Some of the crowd shows up in the background. We need to correlate this to the videotape of the crowd at the 6th and Federal scene, to see if the same face shows up in both places.”
Kwak frowned.
“That’s a tall drink of water,” he said.
Teffinger nodded and walked towards the door.
“Use it to wash down those carrots,” he said.
THAT NIGHT, HE AND RAIN KICKED BACK on his couch and watched Casablanca, which Teffinger hadn’t seen in over ten years and now wondered why.
Most of his thoughts, however, were focused on whether they were doing everything possible to prevent another attack this weekend. Police visibility would be unprecedented, starting at 6:00 on Friday night. Every cop on the payroll would be on duty all weekend. If they could suppress an attack on Friday night, the guy would be under a lot more pressure Saturday, maybe enough to force him into a mistake.
He looked at Rain, who was engrossed in the movie.
“You told Jena about our little adventure at Paradise’s,” he said.
She nodded. “Yep, I did.” She turned and looked at him: “Why, you want to do it again?”
Before he could answer his cell phone rang. He sensed trouble, given the late hour of the evening.
It turned out to be Katie Baxter.
“Hey, Nick,” she said. “I just remembered, I forgot to tell you that we got Stephen Stepper coming in again to talk to you, like you wanted
. He’ll be in at one-thirty tomorrow.”
“Great.”
“You don’t sound excited,” she said.
“Oh, I’m excited all right. Just not in a good way.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Day Ten - July 20
Thursday
_____________
WITH AN IMPENDING SENSE that time was running out, Jackie rescheduled her morning appointment and headed back to farm county, on the hunt for a van and black glasses. Whoever it was that picked up her business card from Bob still hadn’t called, maybe because he was stalking her instead.
While the hunt became increasingly frustrating as the hours passed, the topography never got tiring. The farmers around here must have some serious water rights because the corn was thick and the fields were green, quite the opposite of dying-of-thirst Denver.
The Porsche ran great.
She even opened it up once.
Unlike yesterday, when she was out here with Stephen, she had binoculars this time. Every farm she came to got looked at good and she made notes on a map. Places with evidence of kids got a big red X; same for old-fart farmers. Places with no evidence of a van got a black X. She also took digital pictures and kept a log of where they were taken.
She had to.
Everything was starting to look the same.
She gassed up at Bob’s and chatted with him for a few minutes. He couldn’t remember much about the guy who took her business card, other than he seemed to be about thirty and strong looking, not in a heavy muscular way, but more in a sinewy toned way.
“No black glasses, though,” he reminded her.
“Right. I understand.”
By noon she needed to stretch her legs and ended up parking the Porsche under a tree on a gravel road and then taking a walk under a bright summer sky. She ate a sandwich on the way and washed it down with a warm diet Coke.
She looked around, saw no one, crinkled the can and almost threw it into the terrain. Instead she stuffed it in her back pocket.
She walked a good mile and was just about to turn around when Stepper called her with some very interesting news.
IT TURNED OUT THAT HE WAS GOING IN this afternoon for another interview with Nick Teffinger.
She was shocked.
“Take me with you.”
He paused. “Why?”
“Because he knows stuff about your mystery client that we don’t,” she said. “This is an opportunity for me to get inside.”
He paused.
“He’d never fall for that.”
“He doesn’t know we’re looking for anyone,” Jackie insisted. “He’ll just think I’m there as your attorney and won’t have his guard up.”
A pause.
“All right,” he said. “But it’s scheduled for 1:30. Can you make it in time?”
She looked at her watch.
12:45 p.m.
She ran towards the Porsche.
“No, but don’t start until I get there.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Day Ten - July 20
Thursday Morning
_____________
WICKERFIELD WOKE UP TIRED Thursday morning, the victim of pitching and flipping half the night, wondering what the hell he should do. No one came for him in the darkness, though.
No police.
No blackmailer.
No angry mob carrying torches.
Then he checked on Ashley Conner and was amazed at what he found. She was in a different position. She didn’t respond to shaking, or pinching, but had definitely moved of her own accord at some point during the night. He was sure of it. He checked the fridge and found no missing food. The glass of water sitting on the bathroom counter was still there, untouched. So, she hadn’t actually gotten out of bed, but she must have slipped out of her coma at least long enough to move her body. That was encouraging because he wanted her awake and attentive when he killed her.
It wouldn’t be any fun to kill someone who was already dead.
If she was awake by supper, he’d kill her then and dump her body tonight.
That way the dungeon would be free for Janelle Parker tomorrow. True, he could also kill Ashley Conner in front of the Parker woman, to get her attention. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of not having any overlap between the two women.
It was better to play it safe.
Things were already getting squirrelly enough without further compounding the matter.
IN A PERFECT WORLD, he’d take the Janelle Parker woman on Friday night. She had a book signing scheduled to start at 8:30 at the Ragged Page Bookstore in Historic LoDo. He might have an opportunity to take her after the event when she walked to her car. The problem, though, is that the area would probably be crowded, plus the event might be over before it got dark. If that didn’t work, he would probably have to take her at her house. That presented a very different set of problems.
Neither option was all that good.
On the other hand, maybe she’d surprise him and go out with friends after the signing and get drunk in a bar.
The first order of business was to scope out the area around the bookstore. So he drove down there in the afternoon, parked the Camry at Union Station and then hoofed it up Wynkoop. He found the Ragged Page Bookstore, browsed around inside for a few minutes, then walked the surrounding area thoroughly over a two hour period, until he knew every nook and cranny. The whole thing would hinge on where she parked.
While he was downtown, just for grins, he decided to walk down the 16th Street Mall and check out the ladies. One in particular attracted him, a young woman with a punk hairdo, wearing a tight white T-shirt with black lettering stenciled across huge boobs. He stared at it as he approached, wanting to read it and not caring that he was obvious. It said “You Better Make More Money Than I Can Spend.”
He chuckled.
She smiled as she walked by. “You like that?”
“Very cute,” he said.
Then she was gone.
From there, he drove to Janelle Parker’s house and crisscrossed the neighborhood to get a better feel for it. The more familiar it became, the less anxious he was.
Then he headed back to the farm, excited.
If Ashley Conner was out of the coma, he’d kill her as soon as he got home. In fact, even if she wasn’t, he’d still kill her. It wouldn’t be as much fun, but it was time to be done with her and move on.
Daddy’s coming.
Hold on.
He already knew where to dump the body.
Teffinger would piss his pants.
Wickerfield wished he could be there to see his face.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Day Ten - July 20
Thursday
_____________
RAIN DIDN’T HAVE A DRIVER’S LICENSE but Teffinger let her take the 4Runner anyway so she could move some of the things from her apartment to his house. There was no way he’d let her stay anywhere alone until this whole thing was over. He had a patrol car meet her over there, just to be extra careful.
The morning turned into a flurry of motion, but only time would tell whether any of it was forward. He met with the chief and the mayor for more than an hour. In fact, he was the one who called the meeting. He wanted them in on the hunt so they couldn’t second-guess things if it all went to hell. They authorized unlimited overtime for every cop in the city through Monday morning, at a minimum.
They told him that more national news teams were checking into hotels in anticipation of the weekend, even as they spoke.
More spotlights.
More scrutiny.
“If this guy hits again,” the mayor said, “we can kiss a whole lot of convention business goodbye. And I’m talking about the stuff that’s already booked, much less future events.”
After that meeting Teffinger checked in with Kwak, who had a Ziploc bag of celery sticks on his desk.
“These are negative calories,” Kwak said. “You actually burn
more calories eating them than you get.”
“Just be careful you don’t disappear altogether,” Teffinger warned.
Other than the celery information, Kwak had nothing new to bring to the party. His team was still trying to cross-reference the faces from the two crime scene crowds, but it was turning out to be a lot harder than it looked. They had no matches so far—in fact, nothing even close.
“Concentrate on everyone,” Teffinger said, “even the men without glasses. It turned out that the black glasses concept was off base. Rain did see the man before, like she said, but it turns out he was legit—part of a TV crew. So the guy may or may not wear glasses.”
TWO HOURS LATER, TEFFINGER WAS AT HIS DESK staring at the snake plant when Katie Baxter walked over. She was, as usual, dressed for the job below, wearing her weapon on a belt. “Stephen Stepper’s here,” she said.
Teffinger frowned.
He’d forgotten all about that.
He stood up, tired.
“He has a lawyer with him this time,” she added.
Teffinger nodded.
“I would too, if I was him. I want you to sit in on this with me. You got time?”
She did.
When they walked in, Stepper sat at the conference table, with a female to his left. She didn’t wear lawyer clothes but did have that lawyer look of intensity in her eyes. He’d seen her somewhere before but couldn’t place her. Katie seemed to recognize her too.
Then he remembered.
She was the woman from 6th and Federal who overheard the conversation about the van and black glasses.
He shook her hand.
“You still forgot all that stuff you heard, I hope.”
“What stuff?”
“Exactly,” Teffinger said.
Stepper was taken aback. “You two know each other?”
“Sort of but not really,” Teffinger said. Then to the woman, “I’m Nick Teffinger and this is Katie Baxter.”
Bad Client (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 19