Sudden Guilt (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  She put her hand on his crotch and rubbed. “What do you think I mean?”

  He chuckled.

  “It’s too small,” he said.

  She stepped out of the car and got into the back.

  “Let’s find out,” she said.

  Teffinger considered it. It would be tight but not impossible. Apparently she wasn’t about to take no for an answer because her pants and thong were already coming off.

  “Come on,” she said. “I want you to think of me every time you get in here.”

  He climbed back.

  She straddled him.

  Then she rocked back and forth, slowly at first, but with an ever-increasing tempo. Her breathing grew deeper and deeper as she worked herself into more and more of an animal frenzy. Then she flung her head wildly and made a sound that Teffinger had never heard before. She continued gyrating for another minute and then collapsed on his chest.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  Teffinger agreed.

  And held her tight to prove it.

  SUDDENLY THEY WERE BOTH STARVED and headed for the kitchen. On the way, Teffinger put the cell phone to his ear. The line had gone dead.

  He pictured the other phone sitting in a puddle of water.

  Killed by the storm.

  Meaning the call had come from an outside location.

  The phone had still been working when the storm first reached Teffinger’s house. That meant that the call originated from somewhere east of here. Because that’s the direction the storm was moving.

  And not just east, but east and close.

  Because the storm had reached it at some point in the last fifteen minutes.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Day Eight—May 12

  Monday Night

  ______________

  AFTER TARZAN GOT THE WOMAN’S CAR hidden safely inside his garage, he grabbed her purse and the papers from her glove box and carried them into the stairwell where no one would see him. There he shined a flashlight on them.

  Inside the purse he found cash, lots of cash, almost five thousand dollars according to a quick count, plus a number of platinum credit cards.

  The woman certainly wasn’t hurting for money.

  She turned out to be someone named Nicole Ta’Veya White from Santa Fe. He didn’t recognize the name and had never been to Santa Fe. In fact, he didn’t even know anyone from there.

  Now he knew some stuff, but not nearly as much as he needed. He still had no clue why she was stalking him or who her friend was, the one he almost snatched earlier this evening until she stepped out of her car to piss—holding a gun.

  The lucky little thing.

  HE STUFFED THE MONEY IN HIS POCKET.

  Then he left the purse and papers where they were and headed for the mechanical room. The woman was still unconscious. He carried her up to the loft, kept the lights off, set up a tri-fold screen so she’d be hidden from any prying eyes that might come from the outside, and laid her face down on the floor.

  He tied her wrists together behind her back, tied her ankles together and looped her wrists to her ankles with a third rope in a classic hogtie position.

  Throughout it all she didn’t move a muscle or open her eyes. The gash on his head bled again from all the movement and strain. He stepped back into the shower, washed the blood out of his hair, and then sat on the floor and applied pressure to the wound with a warm, wet towel for what seemed like a long time.

  He wondered why Del Rae hadn’t called yet.

  Strange.

  She should have.

  When the bleeding stopped he eased down onto the mattress and closed his eyes. Almost immediately the world disappeared.

  THE NEXT THING HE KNEW, THE WOMAN GROANED and pulled him out of a pitch-black sleep. His head throbbed and he instinctively put his hand to it. The wound must have opened again because dried blood caked his hair.

  Lots of blood.

  Maybe the injury was more serious than he thought.

  He muscled his bulk off the mattress, walked over to the bathroom naked and took a piss.

  Then he headed over to the woman and shined a flashlight in her face.

  She looked at him defiantly.

  So he pulled her hands to the side and slapped her ass as hard as he could and said, “That’s for the two-by-four.” When she screamed he said, “Shut up or I’ll gag you.”

  She must have sensed seriousness in his voice because she immediately grew silent.

  He slapped her again, harder this time.

  She gasped but said nothing.

  “Now, Nicole Ta’Veya White, you’re going to tell me what you’re up to and I’m going to decide whether you live or die.”

  Before he could say anything else the phone rang.

  Probably Del Rae.

  No doubt to tell him that the lawyer had killed his wife exactly as planned and that she’d be over in a half hour to screw his brains out.

  He answered.

  The voice that came through had so much stress laced in it that it took him a moment to process the fact that it actually was Del Rae.

  “We got problems,” she said. “Big problems.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Day Eight—May 12

  Monday Night

  ______________

  TWO MINUTES AFTER PAIGE GOT IN THE CAR, black rain fell out of a mean sky. She turned on the wipers, an automatic reaction, and drove to the service road for the rock quarry on the west side of Mitch Mitchell’s neighborhood, where she and Ta’Veya parked before.

  Ta’Veya’s car wasn’t there.

  She smacked her hand on the dash.

  Now what?

  She killed the lights, then the engine, and sat behind the wheel thinking, while a heavy sky pummeled the roof. She pulled her phone out to call Ta’Veya for the umpteenth time.

  But got no signal.

  No doubt because of the storm.

  Come on.

  Where are you?

  She closed her eyes and listened to the weather, with the weight of the day suddenly pressing down. Then she realized something. She’d run out of the hotel room so fast that she forgot the gun. The realization forced her eyes open. What she saw she could hardly believe.

  HEADLIGHTS REFLECTED FROM THE REARVIEW MIRROR into her face.

  She turned her head.

  A car approached from behind, jerking with twitchy motions on the bumpy gravel road. She looked ahead, at the quarry, to see if there were any signs of life.

  There weren’t.

  Nor should there be.

  No one mined at night.

  What to do?

  She cranked over the starter and the engine fired up. She wanted to leave the headlights off but the world was too black for that. She turned them on and floored it.

  The car behind her sped up.

  She swallowed.

  She hoped that a light-bar would turn on, meaning the car was a cop simply checking out a suspicious vehicle. She’d have a story ready by the time he got to her. But no light-bar appeared. Nor would the car be kids looking for a place to party. They’d avoid other cars, not chase them.

  It had to be Mitchell.

  He or his neighbor must have been keeping an eye on the area—waiting for them to show back up. She shouldn’t have stopped once she found out that Ta’Veya’s car wasn’t here. She should have immediately turned around and left.

  Lightning flashed.

  All this was because she was just too stupid for her own good.

  The other car closed in.

  She sped up.

  The tires slipped in the mud and gravel, on the edge of a spinout. But she kept her foot on the gas. It did no good. The other car reduced the gap. Then she remembered that Mitchell drove a pickup, probably a four-wheel drive.

  She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  How could she be so stupid to forget the gun?

  The quarry loomed in front of her.

  A lightning bolt ripped across th
e sky, illuminating large pyramids of gravel and several giant front-end loaders. The other car was right on her tail now.

  Then it rammed her.

  The back end of her vehicle spun around, slammed into a deep waterhole with a giant splash, and jerked to a violent stop. When she floored the gas pedal the wheels spun and threw water but got no bite.

  She put it in reverse and floored it.

  Still no traction.

  Not even close.

  The other vehicle slid to a stop.

  She opened the door and ran.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Day Nine—May 13

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  TEFFINGER PULLED HIMSELF OUT OF BED at 5:00 a.m. on Tuesday morning, intent on squeezing every possible hour out of the day in hopes of getting to Tashna Sharapova before it was too late. He showered downstairs so he wouldn’t wake Rain, gave her a soft kiss while she slept and then put a note on the kitchen table officially reserving her for tonight.

  When he got to headquarters the lights were already on.

  More important, the coffee pot was full.

  Nice.

  Very nice.

  He poured a cup as Sydney walked into the room and set a white bag next to the pot.

  “Are those donuts?” he asked.

  She pulled one out and took a bite.

  It was white cake with chocolate frosting, his absolute, all-time favorite.

  “No, they’re these new miniature salads,” she said. “Very good for you.”

  “Well, I better have one then,” he said. “You know what a health freak I am.”

  “Yes I do.”

  He took a bite.

  Delicious.

  “Best salad I ever tasted,” he said. “I’m going to marry you some day. I hope you know that.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a threat.”

  “Thanks for being here,” he said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “I had a feeling you’d be in early.”

  He frowned.

  True, he was there early, but not because he was busting with brilliant ideas, or even non-brilliant ones.

  HE FILLED HER IN WITH ALL THE DETAILS about the mysterious phone call last night and she agreed to run it to ground, just in case it was somehow connected to Tashna Sharapova. She got busy working the phone and fax and a short time later handed him a piece of paper with a phone number and said, “The call came from Nicole Ta’Veya White.”

  Teffinger looked at the phone number and recognized it as Ta’Veya’s.

  “Are you sure?”

  She was and asked, “Is that your Ta’Veya?”

  Teffinger nodded and said, “I didn’t know her first name was Nicole.”

  “I like Ta’Veya better,” Sydney said.

  Teffinger did too.

  “She might not have been in trouble,” Sydney said. “She might have been pissed because you blew her off for Rain St. John.”

  Teffinger raised an eyebrow.

  “You think? I don’t follow.”

  “She may have just called you and then threw the phone on the ground and walked away; something in the nature of a statement, if you will.”

  He pictured it and grunted.

  “See,” he said. “That just supports my theory that guys can never win. No matter what we do, we lose.”

  Then he called Ta’Veya.

  Her phone didn’t respond.

  “Do me a favor and see if we have the phone number of her friend anywhere in the file, that law student. What was her name?”

  “Paige something.”

  “Right, Paige Deverex, the one with the Mustang. See if she knows where Ta’Veya is and if she’s okay,” he said. “If you can’t find her number have someone drop by her apartment.” He pulled another donut from the bag and took a bite. “Oh,” he said, “one more thing. See if Ta’Veya’s phone company can get us an approximate location of the call. They should know what tower picked up her signal. I’m guessing it was in Lakewood or western Denver.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Why do you say that?”

  He told her about his storm-killed-the-phone theory.

  She said, “So, you’re face down in a mud puddle right now.”

  He nodded.

  “If I’m right.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  He grunted.

  SHORTLY AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK Robert Sharapova called and wanted to know if Teffinger had any new leads. “No, I wish I did but I don’t,” Teffinger admitted.

  “Let’s get a reward out for information,” the lawyer said. “Not ransom money for her return, but money for information that leads to her return. Maybe someone knows where the guy is and will rat him out.”

  Teffinger considered it.

  “Let me think about it,” he said. “The problem is that every idiot in the world ends up calling and then we end up spending all our time chasing down false leads. We usually don’t do something like that until down the road, when we have more time.”

  The lawyer hesitated.

  Teffinger sensed friction.

  “You’re the boss,” the lawyer said. “Just remember I’m here to help any way I can.”

  Teffinger thanked him, hung up and looked at Sydney.

  “That was the husband,” he said. “He wants to write a check and get her back.”

  “How much?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Do it,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t and she ends up dead, he has something to blame you with,” she said. “I can already hear it. If only they’d put out the reward like I told him to, blah blah blah.”

  Teffinger shrugged.

  “I could care less about that,” he said. “He can blame me all he wants after the fact. But I don’t see the reward as the best angle right now and don’t have time to get sidetracked by it today. If I ever get to the point where I start molding an investigation to cover my behind instead of getting to the bottom of things, shoot me.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Right here in the forehead.”

  She nodded.

  “Just because you’re mentioning it for the first time now doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of it already,” she said.

  He grinned.

  The oversized industrial clock on the wall, the one with the twitchy second hand, said 8:18 a.m. “If the guy’s going to kill her, it will be by this time tonight,” Teffinger said

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know but we better do it fast.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER the chief—Forrest Tanker—walked in and creased every wrinkle in his sixty-year-old face. “Put out a reward for information in the Tashna Sharapova case,” he said. “Fifty thousand.”

  Teffinger explained his theory.

  The chief listened patiently and said, “I’ll get you extra help to man the phones and keep you out of it unless something looks incredibly good,” he said. “That way it won’t get in your way and no one’s head will end up rolling down the street and dropping into a gutter if the woman turns up dead.”

  Teffinger stared at him.

  “Have you ever had your head roll down the street and fall into a gutter?” the chief asked.

  “No.”

  “Trust me. It’s no fun.”

  Teffinger didn’t really care if it was any fun or not.

  Right now he could only think of Tashna Sharapova.

  She wasn’t having any fun.

  He was pretty sure of that.

  HE POURED ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE and then flopped down into his chair.

  Then it came to him.

  Something he hadn’t thought of before.

  He grabbed Sydney’s arm.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Ten seconds later they were halfway down the hall.

  “Hold it” Teffin
ger said, turning around. In two heartbeats he returned with a donut and fresh cup of coffee. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Day Nine—May 13

  Tuesday Morning

  ______________

  WHEN DEL RAE FINALLY SHOWED UP, it was four in the morning and she looked like she’d been dragged around by the storm all night. Her hair was tangled and matted, her makeup was long gone, and her clothes were wrinkled. The cuffs of her jeans were caked with mud.

  Tarzan put her in a bear hug and pulled her tight.

  “What happened?”

  “In a minute,” she said. “Fix me a drink first.”

  By the time Aaron got the rum and coke out, Del Rae had already stripped and turned on the shower. He brought the drink over as she felt the temperature of the water and handed it to her as she stepped into the spray. She downed it in one long swallow, said “Another one, please.”

  Aaron cocked his head.

  “Well someone had quite the night,” he said.

  “You’re not even going to believe it.”

  Five minutes later she stepped out, toweled off and slipped into one of Aaron’s long-sleeve shirts. Her hair hung wet, soaking the cotton wherever it touched.

  They ended up sitting on the mattress in the dark, she with another rum and coke in hand, he with a beer.

  “Better?” Aaron asked.

  She nodded and took a sip.

  “So what happened?”

  “Coyotes,” she said.

  He wrinkled his forehead.

  “Coyotes?”

  “Yeah, they look like dogs except they live in the wild.”

  He knew it was a joke and he was supposed to laugh but he couldn’t. He needed to know what happened and how much trouble they were in.

  Then she told him the story.

  EVERYTHING WAS GOING GOOD RIGHT UNTIL THE END. She was driving and the lawyer was in the passenger seat. They were heading to the abandoned house with the radio off. The lawyer twisted the box cutter in his hands, anxious to get it over with. The wipers were on full speed, fighting a heavy storm that had pounded them for the last twenty minutes. They made it all the way to the dead-end road and were halfway down it, not more than a mile from the hideaway, when it happened.