by R. J. Jagger
“A top,” she said.
Jasmine smiled. “No problem. We have three subs working tonight. None of them have any problem surrendering to a woman. I think you’d especially like Antoinette. She’ll do bondage, light spanking, cum control, obedience training, submissive wrestling, and just about anything else you might have in mind.”
Aspen pictured it.
“The room’s totally soundproof,” Jasmine added. “And totally private. There are no cameras or anything like that. Whatever happens in here is between you and your sub. The rate is a hundred dollars an hour for the room, which goes to the house. The girls work for tips. The minimum tip rate is a hundred an hour. So, would you like to meet some of the girls?”
Aspen nodded.
“Sure. Why not?”
48
DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12
MONDAY AFTERNOON
On the way back to Denver, Draven swung by the stripper’s apartment. She scrunched her face as she looked at the Granada and almost didn’t get in, but changed her mind when he handed her the remaining eight hundred dollars.
“Nice ride,” she said, sliding over on the bench seat until she was next to him.
“My Porsche is in the shop.”
Her face brightened.
“You have a Porsche?”
“A 911 Turbo,” he said, which was true. That, his house on the beach, and his whole other existence was in Malibu, all under his real name, Jack Brentwood.
“Red, I hope.”
“That’s the only color,” he said. “If it ain’t red, it’s dead.”
She rubbed her hand on his thigh. “Do you want to know what I have in store for you, for paying me so well?”
He pulled into traffic.
“Sure, why not?”
She moved her hand to his cock.
“Okay,” she said. “But don’t come before we get there.”
He drugged her on the way to the cabin, then carried her into the second bedroom, stripped her down to her thong, and secured her spread-eagled to the bed, double-checking the knots to be absolutely sure there was no way she could escape.
Then he walked into Mia Avila’s room, carrying the logbook that he’d gotten from her tattoo shop, and bitch-slapped her across the face before she could make a sound.
“You screwed with me,” he said. “That was a very wrong career move.”
She mumbled something through the gag.
He could pry the safe combination out of her, but he really didn’t care about it anymore. He already had the logbook, which was the main thing. Without that, the police wouldn’t be smart enough to tie him to the other woman getting the tattoo, Isella Ramirez. And without her, they wouldn’t get a description of him.
Plus he’d had enough of that stupid town.
It stunk.
It stunk with biker heat.
It stunk with cop heat.
Better to just stay away.
His phone rang, and Swofford’s voice came through.
“How you coming on that stripper?”
“Done deal,” he said. “She’s already at the destination.”
“Good. What’d you decide to do with the other woman?”
“She ended up pissing me off, so I’ve got something special planned for her. Something slow.”
“As long as she doesn’t turn into a problem.”
“She won’t,” he said.
49
DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12
MONDAY EVENING
Teffinger had been the only one in homicide for some time now. When the windows turned black and started to reflect the fluorescent ceiling lights, and he had to fight to stay focused, he knew the useful part of the day had come to an end.
He headed to Davica’s.
She fed him.
Then they ended up in the garage, sitting in the ′67 Vette in the dark, drinking Bud Light from the bottle.
“Heaven,” he said.
“Rough day?”
“Not really,” he said. “A rough day is when I’m the victim and someone else is doing the investigation.”
She smiled.
Headlights came up the street and swept a pattern of light across the garage walls. Then they disappeared and everything returned to black. Teffinger held his hand up in front of his face and couldn’t see it.
“Dark,” he said.
“Sort of weird,” she said.
He agreed.
“Good weird, though.”
Halfway through the second round, he told her about the day.
“This Brad Ripley guy is getting more and more interesting,” he said. “It turns out that the woman he killed, Tonya Obenchain, the real estate agent, disappeared between two house showings, sometime between one and three in the afternoon. Today we found out that Ripley was in a meeting during that time period, all afternoon in fact.”
“So he’s not the one who abducted her?”
“Apparently not,” Teffinger said. “But he’s the one who killed her, the one in the snuff film.”
“So two people are involved? Is that what you’re saying?”
Teffinger nodded.
Even though she couldn’t possibly see him in the dark.
“At least two,” he said. “We found out some other stuff too. He set the whole thing in motion on March 15th. On the 18th, he withdrew a hundred and fifty thousand from his bank.”
“So that’s connected to the killing?”
Teffinger didn’t know.
“It could have been for coke, or gambling debts, or who knows what. All we know is we can’t trace it. Then,” he added, “we found out that he flew to Vegas in July. He stayed for almost two weeks and lost a boatload of money. A Titanic full. He ended up cashing out a lot of stocks to pay casinos. I’m talking millions.”
“I hate that place,” she said. “They ought to just wipe it off the face of the earth. All it does is fill people full of false sunshine and then suck their money away.”
Teffinger took a long drink of beer.
He didn’t agree, at least not totally, but didn’t feel like getting into it.
“Anyway,” he said, “the gambling problem might be connected to the hole in his face. Maybe he did something stupid like go to some after-hours place to win money to pay back the casinos. Then he lost there too and couldn’t pay up.”
“Do people actually still do that?” she asked. “I mean, rough people up over gambling debts? I thought those days were all in the past.”
Teffinger sighed.
“Money’s a motivator,” he said. “Always was, always will be. Anyway, I was hoping Ripley would be nothing more than a two-hour puzzle, but he’s turning more and more into a two-story question mark.”
She played with his hair.
“Maybe you need some stress relief,” she said.
Then his cell phone rang.
50
DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13
TUESDAY NOON
The Mountainside trailer park, no doubt once a quiet place nestled in the foothills of unincorporated Jefferson County between Golden and Lakewood, now sat in close proximity to no less than three interstate systems. Aspen eased her Honda through the narrow lanes until she found the trailer she was looking for—Number 65. A vehicle occupied the one and only parking space for the unit, so she parked near the main office and headed back on foot, solidly overdressed in her attorney attire. She had no idea how anyone could actually sleep around here with all the freeway noise. Several large cottonwoods shaded the park, still green but with hints of autumn yellow.
She knocked on the door.
Vibrations came from inside and the curtains moved.
A woman opened the door.
She looked to be about twenty-eight and, without makeup, could hardly be described as stunning. Still, she was pretty, and had high cheekbones and classic lines. She probably scrubbed up pretty good.
“Are you Sarah Maine?” Aspen asked.
The woman nodded, then look
ed past Aspen to see if anyone else was with her.
“Yeah. Are you a cop?”
Aspen laughed.
“Me?”
The woman was clearly serious.
“Not hardly,” Aspen said. Then she held up a picture of Derek Bennett, a printout from the firm’s website. “Do you know this man?”
She said nothing.
But the expression on her face said it all.
“Why?”
“I need to ask you a few questions about him,” Aspen said. “You’re not in any kind of trouble or anything. I’m just trying to help a friend.”
The woman almost opened the door, but then said, “My place is a mess.”
Aspen shrugged.
“I don’t care about that.”
“Wait here. Let me put my shoes on.”
They ended up walking down a trail that started at the far end of the trailer park and headed into the foothills. Aspen did her best to keep dust from kicking onto her shoes and nylons. On the way, she explained that she suspected Derek Bennett of being involved in a murder.
“Me and a friend followed him last night,” she said, “to Tops & Bottoms. We stayed in the parking lot until he came out, then I went inside to see what the place was about while my friend waited outside in the car. She spotted you coming out about five minutes after Bennett left. She said you looked stressed. We figured that you were the one he had the session with.”
“We can’t talk about our customers,” Sarah said.
Aspen nodded.
“Of course not,” she said, “as a general rule. But this is entirely between you and me.”
Something caught her eye.
A coyote.
About fifty yards off, loping through the field.
Two more followed.
“Coyotes,” she said.
“They’re all over,” Sarah said. “They won’t hurt you.”
“So what kind of sessions do you do with Bennett?”
The woman looked hesitant, deciding whether to talk or not, then said, “I get a thousand an hour. You see the way I live. I can’t afford to lose that money.”
“Honest,” Aspen said, “this doesn’t go anywhere beyond me. Believe me, I’m no stranger to money problems.”
Suddenly the coyotes barked and yelped.
Now they were scrambling, chasing something in the rabbit-brush.
“Found some lunch,” Sarah said. She looked at Aspen. “Derek Bennett’s a mean son-of-a-bitch. I don’t like serving him, even at a thousand an hour, but I have a sister with some medical problems. That’s where all the money goes.”
Then she described Bennett’s routine.
Aspen pictured it, biting her lower lip so hard that she almost drew blood.
The money wasn’t enough.
“Did he ever talk about killing anyone?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure,” Sarah said.
“What’s that mean?—you’re pretty sure.”
She shrugged. “He calls me a little bitch-whore and tells me I’m getting what I deserve. I mean he’s intense. In my opinion, he’s the kind of guy who could kill someone in a heartbeat, so long as he could justify it in his own mind. Somehow he justifies what he does to me. He doesn’t even see me as a real human being.”
“You’re just his little bitch-whore.”
“Exactly.”
“What about the name Rachel Ringer? Did he ever mention that name to you?”
Sarah wrinkled her forehead, going deep.
“The name seems familiar for some reason, but I can’t place the context.”
“She was one of the four women found dead at the railroad spur.”
Sarah looked confused.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Her name’s been in the news,” Aspen added.
“I don’t watch the news.”
When they got back to the trailer park, they hugged and Aspen thanked the woman for talking. “And like I said, this is just between you and me. I understand money problems.” Sarah looked doubtful, so Aspen added, “See that Honda over there? That’s mine.”
The woman grinned.
“I’m glad you said that. Now I feel better.”
The meeting took longer than Aspen had planned. By the time she arrived back at the law firm, her entire lunch hour was gone and then some.
Christina spotted her almost immediately, slipped into her office, and closed the door.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’ll give you the details later,” Aspen said. “But it’s worse than I thought. We need to get into Bennett’s office and have a look around.”
She sensed that Christina was going to say no, it was too risky. But instead she said, “Okay.”
“Tonight,” Aspen added.
“Fine.”
“Cruella’s too.”
Christina looked confused.
“But if Bennett killed Rachel, how could Jacqueline Moore possibly be involved?”
Aspen shrugged.
“I don’t know. All we know for sure is that she is. Maybe she found out about it and is helping him cover it up. Or maybe she put him up to it in the first place. Remember, she and Rachel had a personality conflict. All I know for sure at this point is that we need to find out.”
“Maybe we should just go to the police and tell them what we have,” Christina said.
“No,” Aspen said. “They don’t have the kind of access we do. For better or worse, this is on our shoulders. Or my shoulders, at least.”
“Our shoulders,” Christina said.
Aspen studied her.
“Maybe it’s time for you to back out,” she said. “You’ve been here a while and actually have something to lose.”
Christina shook her head.
“I need to know where I’m working,” she said. “And whether I want to bother building my career here.”
Aspen nodded.
“Okay. Tonight, then.”
51
DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13
TUESDAY MORNING
Still 95 percent asleep, Draven twisted from his left side to his right, sending a stiff but short ripple through the mattress. When the ripple didn’t ricochet back he opened his eyes, just a slit. He was in the bed at the farmhouse and recalled drinking too much JD last night and screwing Gretchen like a rock star before passing out. He’d woken up three or four times during the night to piss, and each time Gretchen had been lying next to him, motionless and breathing deep and heavy.
But now she wasn’t.
Then he heard noises from the kitchen and remembered that she wanted to get up early and make him pancakes for breakfast.
He rolled onto his back and put his hands under his head.
Dawn had broken, but not by much.
Gretchen sang.
Too low and off-key for him to figure out the song.
“What are you singing?” he shouted.
She walked in wearing only a T-shirt, straddled him and pinned his arms above his head.
She kissed him.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. What were you singing?”
“La Isle Bonita.”
“Never heard of it. Sing it to me.”
She pinned his arms tighter. “No. I’m too embarrassed.”
“I’m not going to let you go until you do,” he said.
She moved her weight higher on his chest.
“Not let me go? I’m the one who has you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
He flipped her, then straddled her and pinned her arms over her head.
“Now who has who?”
“That’s not the question,” she said.
“Oh?”
“The question is who’s going to turn the pancakes over before they burn.”
“Tricky,” he said. “Very tricky.”
He brought her hands together, clamped them in his left hand, and then reache
d down with his right and tickled her armpits until she went nuts and begged for mercy. Then he released her and headed for the shower.
Shit!
He suddenly remembered Mia Avila, outside in the Granada, under a blanket on the floor of the back seat, drugged and chained to the seat brackets. He couldn’t leave her at the cabin last night, not with the client coming in to do Chase.
He threw on a pair of jeans and stepped out to check on her.
There she was.
Exactly as he’d left her last night.
“Good girl,” he said, and then headed back inside for a shower.
Gretchen slapped his ass as he walked by. “I’m the dessert,” she said. “In case you’re interested.”
“Oh, I’m interested all right.”
He got the water as hot as he could and then stepped inside and lathered up. Today would be busy. He’d have to clean the cabin and dispose of the stripper’s body after the client left, for starters. He also needed to kill Mia Avila sometime today and get rid of her remains.
When he got out of the shower, the farmhouse smelled like pan-cakes—buttery, delicious pancakes. He dressed in the bedroom and shouted into the kitchen, “God, that smells good. I’m starved.”
No response.
“Gretchen? You there?”
Nothing.
Weird.
He walked into the kitchen.
She wasn’t there.
“Gretchen?”
Silence.
He stepped out the front door and couldn’t believe his eyes. Gretchen stood next to the Granada, with the door open, looking into the back seat.
At Mia Avila.
She turned and stared as he walked toward her.
Then she ran.
52
DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13
TUESDAY MORNING
Teffinger met with Sydney late Tuesday morning. She had run down all the phone calls that Brad Ripley made on March 15th. In fact, she had personally called every number and talked to the person Ripley had talked to. She asked them what they talked about and took careful notes.
Everything was legit and unremarkable.
Only one call remained unexplained.