Blank (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
Page 10
A MacBook sat on a desk.
When Pantage lifted the top it asked for a password.
She closed it and turned her attention to the papers, lots of which were mail, with bills in one pile and non-bills in another.
Evan Starry.
That was the gladiator’s name.
Evan Starry.
The bills were the normal stuff. Pantage opened the cell phone bill to see if the calls were itemized, which they weren’t. Then she opened the Visa bill and ran through the charges. They were routine—gas, meals, cash advances, groceries, staples. She was almost folding it back up when something at the bottom caught her eye.
Concrete Flower Factory.
$500.
She memorized the name and reinserted the bill exactly like she’d found it.
“What are you finding?”
“His name’s Evan Starry.”
“It doesn’t exactly have that Bond, James Bond, ring to it, does it?”
“No, but I’ll tell you one thing, he could kick the ass of any Bond that ever was. Any sign of him?”
“No. No Starry Night in motion.”
“Starry Night?”
“Yeah, you know, the painting.”
“What painting?”
“By Van Gogh. You never saw the painting Starry Night?”
“I don’t know—”
“You had to have seen it,” Renn-Jaa said. “You just don’t know it by name.”
“Whatever. Keep your eyes open,” Pantage said. “If he finds us in here I’m going to say I came back for more and brought you along for a threesome.”
Renn-Jaa smiled.
“If he’s actually like you say he is maybe we should wait until he gets back and give that line a try.”
“Not funny.”
“Not meant to be. See if you can find a picture of him that he won’t miss. Maybe Teffinger can run it through a database or something.” A beat then, “Shit! He’s coming!”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s almost all the way up!”
38
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Out of the shower Teffinger tucked a white cotton shirt into jeans, put on a blue tie with the knot trim but the action loose, and found some fairly clean black leather shoes for down below. His hair hung damp, towel dried but not blown. He roughed it up with his fingers then headed for work with a bowl of cereal on his lap and a coffee mug at his side, steering with his knees once he got to the 6th Avenue freeway. The sun busted over the horizon, through his eyes and straight into his brain.
He hadn’t read the notes.
He hadn’t burned them either.
He needed coffee.
Checking his phone messages as he passed Sheridan Boulevard, he found one from yesterday that he didn’t expect:
“Hey, Nick, it’s me, Kelly Ravenfield. Long time, huh? I just wanted to let you know that I’m in New York and I think I saw Michael Northway on the street. I’m not positive it was him, there was some distance, but I’m about as positive as I can be. Anyway, I thought you should know.” A beat then, “Okay, well, that’s it, goodbye. Wait, one more thing. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow, Wednesday, if you feel the need to give me a call for whatever reason.”
Her voice was a song, a song wedged deep in his bones, a song that he didn’t realized he missed until just now.
Kelly.
Kelly.
Kelly.
He pulled up an image of jumping down into the cold rising waters of a mine, lifting her up and holding her tighter than tight. Another image quickly followed, down at B.Ts., with Kelly drunk at the bar, rubbing her ass into Teffinger’s crotch and telling him how she was going to screw him silly later.
Kelly.
Kelly.
Kelly.
Thinking back, he couldn’t remember why it ended. She was the one who broke it off, that was true, but did he do everything he could have to reverse it?
No.
He didn’t.
He was in the middle of a horrible case and that was his excuse.
It was valid at the time.
Now, in hindsight, he wasn’t as convinced.
Maybe she was testing him and he failed.
The image of Michael Northway wasn’t pleasant. He was a hotshot lawyer, the head of Denver’s largest law firm at the time, the firm Kelly was in, who got himself mixed up with a serial killer to the point of becoming a co-conspirator. When it came to the decision of Northway going down or Kelly going down, he chose Kelly. Luckily he didn’t succeed. The killer met his match at Teffinger’s hands on a dark stormy night up in the minefields above Central City but Northway escaped, never to be seen or heard from again.
Teffinger spent the next two weeks trying to pick up the man’s scent.
The FBI helped.
Nothing materialized.
No one found even so much as a broken blade of grass where his footstep had been.
Teffinger’s best guess was that the man had offshore accounts and fake passports. He was probably laying low in the underbelly of Bangkok or Rio, spending his time on sex and current affairs, maybe bar tending or doing something equally the opposite of lawyering.
Teffinger checked the rest of his messages hoping that the newscast last evening brought someone forward who knew something about the longhaired man who saved Pantage from Jackie Lake’s killer.
He hardly listened to the words.
His thoughts were on Kelly.
For whatever reason.
That’s what she said.
The meaning was clear.
Teffinger had never rekindled a relationship, not once in his life, not even back in high school or college. When things were done they were done. There was never a need to go back. Going forward was too easy. Something new was always just a step up the road. That was his problem according to Dr. Leigh Sandt, “Women come too easy to you, Teffinger. That’s why you’re still single.”
That was true but deep down there was more.
He was addicted to falling in love.
There was nothing in the world like that initial free-fall into lust with a stranger.
It was shortsighted and shallow, he knew that and even admitted it to himself on rare occasions. That didn’t mean he could control it, though.
Kelly had gone deeper into his bones than any woman.
Maybe it was time to end the addiction.
If he did, who would it be with?
Kelly was one of two possibilities.
The other was Pantage.
The 6th Avenue freeway doesn’t go through Denver and swing out the other side. Instead it runs smack at the city on a suicide run and abruptly ends at a stop light where it morphs into a street.
He looked up to find something he didn’t expect.
He was right there at the end.
The cars ahead were stopped.
He slammed on the brakes with every ounce of strength in his body. The Tundra’s antilocks grinded and the rubber fought the momentum, eventually bringing the vehicle to a jerky stop not more than two feet from the ass end of a shiny yellow Challenger.
An arm came out the driver’s side window.
The middle finger on the hand of that arm extended.
Then the hand moved up and down.
Teffinger took his death grip off the wheel, waved to say he was sorry, then felt something on his crotch.
Coffee.
He dabbed at it with a dry hand and then pulled into the parking lot of a donut place. A Beach Boys’ song came from the radio, “Don’t Worry Baby.” He was ten years old when he heard his first Beach Boys song and this was it. He still remembered the moment, in his room with the radio on, playing video games.
Life was simple back then.
It was pure.
It was the way life was supposed to be.
He swung through the side streets and back onto the freeway, heading west. Twenty minutes lat
er he was home. In the kitchen, the wind had blown the notes off the counter.
He gathered them up and took them to the sink.
There he ripped them in half, then quarters, then eighths.
Then, a few pieces at a time, he burned them to ashes with a lighter.
He flicked on the disposal and washed the ashes down the drain.
Outside the sun felt like an old friend.
He headed back for the freeway, trying to get a song.
Nothing good was there.
He punched off the radio and sang “Don’t Worry Baby.”
39
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Yardley turned at the sound behind her and determined it was something small rustling through the bush, a field rat or a snake, something of that order. A crack in the glass had a solid sliver of light coming through it. She put her eye to it and got a narrow band of vision into the structure.
Deven was roped spread-eagle on a mattress, visible from the waist up.
She was naked.
Cave wasn’t in view.
His voice came from somewhere near the foot of the bed, out of sight. “I was stupid. I actually believed that your little bitch friend Yardley was telling me the truth as to who hired her. She was lying though. Do you understand what that means?”
Suddenly his body appeared.
It was naked.
A beer was in his left hand.
He sat on the bed, tweaked Deven’s nipple then poured beer on her face.
She twisted wildly.
“It means that I was actually going to let you go but now I’m not,” he said. “Not in a million years. You’re dead and so is your stupid little friend.”
“She wouldn’t set you up,” Deven said.
Cave made a face of surprise.
“Oh, no? Really? Then why did someone take a shot at me? No, not a shot, three shots; bam, bam, bam, one, two three. Do you want a hint? Because they knew I was coming. Do you know how they knew I was coming? Because a little birdie told them. Little birdies like that end up with broken wings. So do their friends.”
Deven pulled at the ropes.
“That has nothing to do with you and me,” she said. “Look, we have chemistry. I know you can feel it because I can. Let me join you. We’ll be a team. I can get Yardley to tell me what’s going on and who all’s involved. I can help you bring all of them down.”
Cave brought his mouth close to hers.
“Chemistry,” he said.
She arched her face up to kiss him.
He pulled back, just out of reach.
“Don’t lie,” she said. “You know it’s there. You can trust me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said.
He stood up and looked down at her.
“I know when someone’s lying to me.”
“There are no lies here,” she said. “Just give me a chance, you’ll see. One chance. You won’t be sorry. I promise. I promise you with everything I have and everything I am.”
He swallowed what was left in the can, then crushed it in his fist.
“One chance, huh?”
Her face brightened.
“Yes.”
He studied her.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You say there’s chemistry? I’ll give you a chance to prove it.”
He untied her ankles.
She pulled up to bend her arms as much as she could.
Cave pulled her back down.
“Stay,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Tell me to fuck you.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Fuck me,” she said.
“Say fuck me hard.”
“Fuck me harder than I’ve ever been fucked in my life,” she said.
He nibbled on her stomach.
It was taut and trembled under his touch.
She closed her eyes and wiggled her hips.
Yardley silently eased down off the log, picked the gun off the ground and made her way through the darkness to the front door. She put her hand on the knob and turned it ever so slowly.
It was locked.
Damn it.
What to do?
Two options came to mind. One, get back up on the log, bust the window out and shoot Cave. Take him by complete surprise. If she did that, she’d first have to wait until he was clear of Deven. Two, wait until he eventually came out of the structure, then jump out from around the corner and shoot him before he even knew she was there.
She’d never killed anyone before.
She was hungry.
She wore only short sleeves.
The cold night air worked with a growing wickedness on her flesh.
By morning she’d be dangerously frayed.
She crept over to Cave’s car and tried the driver’s door to see if it was unlocked.
It was.
She let the door release only an inch then pushed it silently shut with her body before the interior lights came on. It was too dark to see if the keys were in the ignition. The more she wondered if they were, the more she needed to know.
She opened the door.
The interior lights came on.
The keys were in the ignition.
She pulled them out and stuck them in her pocket.
Then she had a better idea, replaced the keys and let the air out of the front tire.
40
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
By the time their bodies reacted, the gladiator was so close that his footsteps were audible as they slammed up the steel steps. Getting through the door to the stairwell in heels before he got in would be impossible. They ducked into the bathroom, stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain.
Pantage’s chest pounded.
Surprise!
That’s what she’d say if he came in.
That trick was limited though. It would work for a minute or two but not in half an hour. She should use it now while the using was good.
She should.
She absolutely should.
Her brain was clear on the matter but her body balked.
A deep warning told her to hold off until she thought it all the way through. If he’s the one who killed Jackie Lake, he knew she was a witness.
He’d kill her, right here, right now.
Renn-Jaa too.
He’d dump their bodies tonight where they’d never be found.
Stay still.
Just stay still.
Renn-Jaa put her mouth close to Pantage’s ear. Pantage pulled back and shook her head.
No.
No.
No.
The woman’s eyes darted, wide and twitchy.
The fear was palpable.
Pantage squeezed her hand.
They kept their bodies perfectly still.
The fridge opened and a can tab pulled. The gladiator took a long swallow of something, then the bulk of his weight moved in their direction.
He came in.
A zipper came down.
Pantage held her breath.
A long, strong piss followed, not more than three feet away.
Just as it ended a cell phone rang.
“Starry,” the gladiator said. A beat then, “Damn it Sweeton, I told you never to call me on my cell. The stupid records stay forever.” Silence. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re calling from a pay phone.” A pause, listening, then, “Meet me at ten-thirty tonight, the same place as last time.”
A zipper came up.
Ten seconds later the man was out of the loft, scampering down the fire escape.
41
Day Three
July 20
Wednesday Morning
Locke & Banner, P.C., was a hundred-plus law firm that had forsaken the typical high-rise financial district venue in lieu of an old warehouse conversion in the trendy section of Market Street j
ust north of the 16th Street Mall. The litigation department was located on the third floor, which was also the top floor. Kelly Ravenfield’s office was at the back, overlooking an alley and staring into the hundred-year-old bricks of another building immediately across that alley.
Teffinger didn’t make an appointment and used his one blue eye and one green eye to talk the receptionist into letting him wander back without announcing him in advance.
Kelly was faced the other way working at a computer.
The office was decorated in shades of panic, replete with piles of files, yellow post-its galore, and a half-empty pot of coffee on a hotplate.
The woman’s hair was blond and loose, cascading down the backside of a crisp white blouse. Down below was a pinstriped skirt, riding up thigh-high over nylons. Leather shoes with a two-inch heel were slipped off and sitting on the floor next to her feet.
Her left hand had no ring.
There were no pictures of men to be seen.
Teffinger’s heart raced.
He cleared his throat.
When the woman turned, she was just as beautiful as ever, with green eyes and a slightly crooked smile. Her face registered surprise, then something primal.
“Someone said you’re still hot for me,” Teffinger said. “I thought I’d stop by and see if that’s true or not.”
She came around and hugged him tight, stomach-to-stomach, then kissed him on the lips. With her arms around his waist, she leaned back and checked him out.
“How’d I ever let you get away from me,” she said.
Teffinger cocked his head.
“It was a push, if I recall.”
“Yeah, well, in hindsight it looks like I should have zigged when I zagged,” she said. “You’re here about Michael Northway. You want some coffee?”
Teffinger shook his head.
“I quit coffee,” he said.
The look on her face was what he expected.
“Honestly? You did?”
He smiled.
“No, of course I didn’t and yes, I’ll take some.”
She punched him on the arm.
“You haven’t changed.”
“Yeah, old dog, no new tricks.”
She poured a cup and handed it to him.