“If he can’t kill someone, no one can.”
Sydney studied his face.
“There’s no tattoos showing,” she said.
“Find out who he is.”
Two minutes later he was in the Tundra, heading west on the 6th Avenue freeway, en route to get ready for the big adventure with Susan Smith.
Del Rey called just as Teffinger exited at Union.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Investigating.”
“Till when?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’ll probably be long. Past midnight—”
“Come over when you’re done.”
He chewed on it.
The chew tasted good.
“Okay.”
Del Rey.
Del Rey.
Del Rey.
She had a hold on him again.
He didn’t care.
Even if she dumped him again, he didn’t care. It would be worth it.
“See you then,” she said. “The key will be under the front mat.”
16
Day Three
July 10
Thursday Evening
Humidity choked the air and sucked the energy out of every pore of Jori-Lee’s body as she jogged through the twilight streets of D.C. She hoped the run and the setting sun would get the legal briefs and deadlines and daily mess of One First Street out of her head long enough to let her think.
So far it wasn’t.
So far all she could concentrate on was to not get hit by a car or trip on an uneven sidewalk or rip her face on a low hanging branch.
Still, she was alive.
She wasn’t in a cell.
She wasn’t disbarred.
She wasn’t under a swinging light bulb in a dark concrete room being battered by the FBI as to what the hell she was doing the other night and who was she working for.
A mile passed, then another.
Heavy breathing came from behind.
She turned to find a woman approaching, a woman on a jog on a hot summer night, just like her except at a faster clip.
The woman came alongside and fell into step.
She was fit, curvy and had a body built for sex.
“Nice night,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve seen you around. You work at One First Street.”
“Maybe.”
The woman pulled a piece of paper out of her bra and passed it over. A glance showed that it contained a phone number; nothing else, just a number; typed, not handwritten. The area code wasn’t local.
“Tell Mr. Robertson to call that number tomorrow at exactly seven p.m.”
“Who are you?”
“Just tell him to do it.”
The woman veered off and was gone.
17
Day Three
July 10
Thursday Evening
When the time came Susan wasn’t in the mood for crowds, particularly drunken ones. She had two bottles of white wine and said, “Let’s just go somewhere quiet and chill.”
“Where?”
“I don’t care. Surprise me.”
Teffinger’s first thought was Red Rocks, parked up high where the lights of Denver twinkled all the way to the Kansas line. His second thought was a lot better. They ended up at Chatfield Reservoir, anchored at the west end of the lake in a 29-foot Beneteau; a friend’s from the marina, not his. The air was still and the water was glass. Five miles to the west, the foothills were a dark jagged band under a fading orange sky that would dissolve into total darkness within the next ten minutes. The oppressive heat of the day was losing its fight with the thin Rocky Mountain air, now down to 80 and sinking.
A hundred yards off, near the shore, two fishermen in an aluminum boat were working the lines.
“I used to do a lot of fishing when I was a kid,” Teffinger said. “Back then I was just an amateur baiter. But, like everything in life, I got better. Now I’m what you’d call a master baiter.”
Susan punched his arm.
“You’re terrible.”
He smiled.
“Thank you.”
The talk was small, the moon was up and the wine was a song in Teffinger’s head. Susan slipped out of her pants to cool off and stretched out on the cushions. A flash of white cotton appeared between her thighs whenever she shifted her legs, which seemed to be a lot.
Teffinger swallowed.
Don’t screw her.
Don’t jeopardize whatever it is that you have going on with Del Rey.
Don’t get stupid.
“Stupider.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m serious, stupider.”
“I heard you the first time.”
He took a long swallow of wine, looked at the Susan-silhouette and said, “It’s going to be a shame if all this disappears.”
“If all what disappears?”
“All things Susan,” he said. “Tell me who’s out to kill you. Tell me why.”
She exhaled.
“I’m not sure I’m drunk enough yet.”
“Then keep drinking.”
She drained what was left in her glass, slowly unbuttoned her blouse and set it to the side, then removed her bra and laid it on top of the blouse. She stretched out on the cushions face down, wearing only the panties, which were now nothing more than a hypnotic accent defining her curves.
“Give me a massage,” she said.
“You need to talk."
“I’ll talk during the massage. I like it rough. Dig deep.”
Teffinger laid his hands on her back.
Her skin was soft.
Her muscles were taut.
“Talk,” he said.
“Relax me first.”
He obliged.
The touch of her flesh lit a fire under his skin.
“There’s a law firm down in the financial district called Colder & Boggs,” she said. “They’re fairly big, about a hundred lawyers. They mostly do high-stakes litigation and specialize in class actions. The Colder part of the namesake comes from Jack Colder. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“Well, lucky you,” she said. “There was a time four or five years ago when him and me were pretty close. He figured out quickly that money made me happy and one of the things he wanted to do more than anything was make me happy. A lot of money flowed my way. I didn’t know it at the time but he thought he was buying my soul one installment at a time. The time came when he considered me paid in full.”
She sighed.
“So what happened?”
“His attitude changed,” she said. “The money kept coming but a dark side of him came out that I never knew about. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d seen it before but it had never been directed at me. Now it was coming my way.”
She rolled onto her back.
“Do my front,” she said.
Teffinger obliged.
“It took a while for things to fully end,” she said. “It was sort of like a slow painful dance. During that period, I met a man by the name of Seth Lightfield.”
Teffinger knew the name but couldn’t place it.
“He was a dancer,” Susan said. “He’s backed up lots of big names, including Madonna and Brittany Spears. He lives in Denver when he’s not on the road.”
It came to him.
“Was he a tall muscular guy with long hair?”
“Yes.”
“I remember him,” Teffinger said. “Someone put a bullet in the back of his head.”
“Right,” she said. “Now you know who.”
“Colder.”
“Right, Colder.”
“Did he ever admit it to you?”
“No, we stopped talking months before that.” She exhaled. “I don’t have any proof if that’s what you’re getting at. Now he’s after me.”
“Why? Why now?”
“Because deep wounds never heal,” she said. “Haven’t y
ou ever loved anyone that deep?”
He had.
It never turned crazy afterwards but, way down, the makings were there.
“So why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I didn’t think he was serious,” she said. “I thought he was just messing with me. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.”
18
Day Four
July 11
Friday Morning
Friday morning with a jolt of caffeine in hand, Teffinger pulled the Seth Lightfield file out of storage and searched it for anything that hinted at Jack Colder being the killer. Nothing of that sort was there. Moreover, there was no DNA or fingerprints or witnesses to match to the man. Teffinger had motive but not a scintilla more.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true.
He had a bullet to the back of the man’s head.
Maybe Colder hired Portia Montrachet to do the deed; and now, a year later, he hired her again to take out the more hateful part of the equation, Susan. A bullet to the head would be Portia’s style against a man like Lighfield. Maybe she even used the same weapon against him that she left behind in her purse. Ballistics could tell.
Sydney showed up at 7:30 wearing a white blouse that played well against her mocha skin. She filled a coffee cup, plopped down in the chair in front of Teffinger’s desk and studied him over the rim as she took a sip.
“I hate you,” she said.
He smiled.
“Why?”
“Because you had sex this morning.”
He went to deny it but knew she’d know he was lying.
“And?”
“And I didn’t,” she said.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s actually underrated.”
“Do you mean overrated?”
He raked his hair back.
“No, under.”
He brought her up to speed on what Susan Smith told him last night about Seth Lighfield and Jack Colder, the lawyer; together with his theory that Colder either killed Lighfield or hired Portia, or someone like her, to do it. Now he was after Susan.
“I know Colder,” Sydney said.
The words were a rock to the face.
“You do?”
She nodded.
“He dated a friend of mine back in the day,” she said.
“A black woman?”
She smacked his arm. “Yes, a black woman, you should try it some time Teffinger. You might be surprised.”
“I already have.”
“And?”
“And I got no complaints.”
“No complaints?”
“Right.”
“Well, all I can say is you didn’t do it right,” she said. “If you’d done it right the answer wouldn’t be, And I got no complaints. The answer would be, And I never went back to white.”
He smiled.
“Next time I’ll try to do it right.” He sipped at the caffeine. “Maybe you’ll give me some pointers.”
She soured her face.
“In your dreams.”
He smiled.
“Work up a warrant to get Colder’s phone records for the three or four month period preceding Lightfield’s murder. I want to see if he was in contact with Portia Montrachet or that bleached haired investigator out in D.C. What was his name?”
“Oscar Benderfield.”
“Right. Another field, that’s weird.”
“Weird just follows you around Teffinger.”
He cocked his head.
“There’s actually some truth to that. What’d your friend who was dating Colder say about him?”
“She said he gave her money.”
“What else?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Call her up and get everything you can on the guy.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“She’s dead.”
The words hit hard.
“How’d she die?”
“Do you mean was she murdered?”
“Right.”
“Not that I know of,” she said. “I didn’t hear much about it. It was a year or two afterwards when I found out.”
“What was her name?”
“Female,” Sydney said. “Female Natja.”
The word rhymed with Tamale but when Teffinger ran the letters it made his forehead wrinkle.
“Is that spelled F E M A L E?”
“Yes.”
“So the parents named their daughter Female?”
“It’s pronounced Fa-Maul-E.”
“Right, I understand.” He headed for the door and said over his shoulder, “Get the details of her death.”
Then he was gone.
19
Day Four
July 11
Friday Morning
Colder & Boggs, P.C., turned out to be a boutique firm of about thirty lawyers operating out of a high level in the epicenter of the financial district. Teffinger paid more than his monthly mortgage to park the Tundra and then worked his way into and through an opulent deco lobby and up an enclosed metal stairwell floor by floor until his quads burned and his chest heaved.
Five minutes later he was past the receptionist and easing into a leather chair at an expensive wooden table in the corner of Jack Colder’s office.
Outside the glass was a commanding view of the mountains.
In the corner was a pinball machine with a King Kong theme.
Colder had a swagger.
He had the face to charm, the body to command and the penetrating eyes of a predator. In a different time and place, he’d be the king.
Teffinger pulled up a picture of Portia Montrachet on his phone, held it for Colder to see and said, “Do you know this woman? Her name’s Portia Montrachet.”
The man showed no reaction or hesitation.
“No.”
“She got murdered last night,” he said.
“And that involves me, how?”
“I don’t know that it does,” Teffinger said. “In her purse was a piece of paper with a handwritten phone number on it. The number is the one for this law firm.”
As the words left his mouth, Teffinger had one thought and one thought only. Don’t look like you’re lying.
Don’t look like you’re lying.
Don’t look like you’re lying.
“And?”
“And I thought the firm might be doing some work for her,” Teffinger said.
“If it was it wasn’t through me,” Colder said.
“I know that,” Teffinger said. “Because if that was the case my life would be too easy and that’s not how my life works. What I was hoping is that you could check around and see if she was a client. If she was, then the lawyer she was dealing with may be able to shed light on why she was killed.”
Colder frowned.
“Who our clients are or are not is a matter of privilege,” he said. “We can’t disclose information like that without authority from the client or a court order.”
“Well, given her state, I doubt she’s going to object.” Teffinger leaned forward. “Between you and me, I’m going to find the person who killed her and use my every breath to make sure he rots in hell. You can save me some time. If she was a client, I’ll get a search warrant at that point. I just don’t want to waste my time getting a warrant if there’s no basis for it.”
Colder shook his head.
“I understand you’re pressed for time but that doesn’t change my obligations as a lawyer,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Teffinger nodded.
“It never hurts to ask,” he said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Back at homicide Sydney said, “I don’t get it. I don’t see what you accomplished, not to mention that what you’ve been telling me every time I turn around is to always talk to the suspect last, after you have all the facts rounded up.”
“I wanted him to feel the heat of a detect
ive sitting in his office,” Teffinger said, “I didn’t want to do it in a way that would implicate Susan Smith though, so I made up a little excuse. Hopefully he’ll be jarred enough to back off, at least temporarily.”
“Tricky.”
“If it works.” He took a sip of coffee. “The fact that I lied to him isn’t a license for you to do the same. Do as I say, not as I do.”
“As is I ever do either.”
He smiled.
“Good point.”
She got serious.
“So what did you think about him? Is he our man?”
20
Day Four
July 11
Friday Morning
Jack Colder’s cell phone records showed no communications to or from Portia Montrachet or the D.C. investigator, Oscar Benderfield; not four years ago in the months leading up to Seth Lightfield’s murder; not recently; not ever. The records did show a long-lived relationship with Susan Smith, just like she said, abruptly ending three months before Lightfield was murdered.
The negative didn’t mean much, not to Teffinger.
Colder could have used landlines.
He could have used someone other than Portia to kill Lightfield.
Sydney’s face appeared in front of his.
She was excited.
She was stressed.
“Come look at this,” she said.
This was the surveillance tape that showed the boxer, stopped on still frame.
“What do you see?”
Teffinger studied it, not seeing anything he hadn’t seen before.
“I don’t know; the boxer.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Look in the background.”
He did.
Several people were walking.
One was a woman.
She looked vaguely familiar.
Sydney tapped on the woman’s face and said, “Do you recognize her?”
No.
He didn’t.
“She’s Susan Smith, the Molly Maid.”
He looked closer.
“No she isn’t,” he said.
“Yes she is.”
They compared the photo of the woman from her file against the one on the screen.
Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Page 5