Lawyer Trap

by R. J. Jagger

“Can you bring the building up on the monitor?”

  He could and pulled it up on a 30” flat-panel screen.

  Electronically it was brighter and clearer but still didn’t give up any secrets.

  “So how do I find this place?” Teffinger asked.

  Kwak cocked his head.

  “Find the BMW,” he said. “Then do something to make it go back there. And follow it when it does.”

  Teffinger laughed.

  “Do you have any simpler ideas?”

  He didn’t.

  “I’m a complicated man,” he said.

  56

  DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Aspen and Christina sat at the bar in a half-filled tavern near Larimer Square, drinking white wine too fast and bowing to the luck gods for letting them get out of the law firm alive and undetected. The crowd seemed like young professionals, dressed for success, taking a mid-week breath of life on their way to the weekend.

  Christina seemed even more rattled than Aspen.

  “So I still don’t get it,” Aspen said. “Some woman in New York goes into a suicide-by-bus routine. Derek Bennett calls her a dumb bitch and agrees with whoever it was on the other end of the phone that things are reaching critical mass—his words, critical mass.”

  Christina took a sip of wine.

  No, not a sip, a drink.

  “Bennett’s turning out to be one strange piece of work,” she said. “And that gun. Why does a lawyer need a gun in his office? It gives me the creeps just knowing it’s in the building, much less that he’s the one who has it.”

  She shuddered.

  “That was a stroke of genius, by the way. That whole battery thing.”

  Christina frowned.

  “Sorry I didn’t think of it sooner,” she said. “I was a heartbeat away from pulling the fire alarm when I thought of it.”

  “That would have been subtle.”

  Two men came over, wearing suits, very polite, and wanted to buy them drinks.

  They let them.

  Then they headed back to Christina’s.

  While Christina went to shower the day off, Aspen fired up her laptop and plugged into the Internet to do a little research. The suicide-by-bus woman, Rebecca Yates, turned out to be a still-gorgeous ex-model who had landed a full-time job as a trophy wife ten years ago. Other than giving her husband’s money away to charities, and parading her face in every high-society function this side of the moon, she really didn’t have many other dimensions.

  Her husband—Robert Yates—on the other hand, turned out to be quite the story. A self-made man who worked his way up to Harvard and later said it was the most boring four years of his life. It did, however, springboard him onto a path that eventually landed him as the president, CEO, and majority shareholder of Tomorrow, Inc., a satellite communications company.

  He and eight-year-old daughter Amanda Yates were playing Frisbee in Central Park on a nice July afternoon earlier this summer, a common ritual. Except this time they died.

  Both had been ripped open with a jagged knife.

  The prevailing theory being that a robbery had gone bad.

  The father resisted and ended up on the wrong side of the blade.

  That left the girl.

  A witness.

  So she had to go too.

  There were no solid leads or suspects.

  Even to this day.

  Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been much of a story, except the guy was richer than God and everyone wondered what the wife would do afterwards. Most expected her to live it up. Who wouldn’t? She was young, beautiful, filthy rich, and single.

  But, strangely, she actually grew despondent instead.

  She threw herself in front of a bus.

  When Christina came out of the shower, Aspen told her the story.

  “He was President of Tomorrow, Inc.?”

  “Right.”

  She scrunched her face.

  “We had major litigation against that company,” she said. “We represented Omega in a federal case in D.C. against Tomorrow. An antitrust case based on predatory pricing. Our client got a judgment against Tomorrow for over a hundred million dollars.”

  “Wow.”

  “They appealed and managed to dodge having to post a supersedeas bond,” she added. “But the case comes up for oral argument next month.”

  “Do they have any basis for reversal?”

  “According to the powers that be, no. So Tomorrow’s on the verge of writing a very big check to our client.”

  Aspen spun around in her chair.

  “This is getting too complicated,” she said.

  “Forget about it,” Christina said. “Obviously it has nothing to do with Rachel. We need to stay focused on Derek Bennett the weirdo sadist and not Derek Bennett the antitrust lawyer.”

  “You’re right.”

  She looked at her watch.

  10:42.

  “I’m ready to hit the sack.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Christina had only one bed, but it was big enough that neither of them felt uncomfortable sharing it. They said goodnight and snuggled in. Five minutes later Aspen said, in a very low voice, “Are you sleeping yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Robert Yates got killed on July 22nd. We need to find out if anyone from the law firm was in New York at that time.”

  Christina moaned.

  “Go to sleep.”

  57

  DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13

  TUESDAY MORNING

  With a gut full of pancakes, Draven kissed Gretchen goodbye under a cloudless Colorado sky, pulled her T-shirt up and licked her left nipple, and then pointed the front end of the Granada towards the cabin, intent on getting everything done today that he needed to get done. In a perfect world, he would have just waited at the farmhouse until Swofford called and said the coast was clear. But he figured it would be smarter to head out now and get Mia Avila the hell out of there before Gretchen started to freak out again, or came up with some wild idea to bring the woman inside and feed her.

  His story was already thin.

  He didn’t know how long she’d actually believe it.

  Better to not press his luck.

  So he headed down the road.

  It was times like this that he wished he had Swofford’s number, or—better yet—actually knew who Swofford was. But the rules had been set up long ago, and the communications only went one direction, and always came to him from a mystery voice calling from a public phone.

  “It’s safer for everyone that way,” Swofford said.

  So far, the arrangement had been good.

  Swofford always came through with the money.

  How the hell did Swofford get the clients?

  That was the question.

  Draven could cut Swofford out of the deal altogether if he could just solve that little puzzle. And why shouldn’t he? After all, he was the one doing all the heavy work and taking all the risk.

  Well, most of the risk, anyway.

  He skirted around downtown Golden and headed west, winding into Clear Creek Canyon, one of the most beautiful places on the face of the earth, with its steep rock walls and frothing mountain river. The radio reception immediately went to hell.

  Then, shit!

  He noticed that the gas gauge read full. There was no way that could be right, not with all the miles he’d driven. The goddamn thing must be broken.

  So how much gas did he have left?

  Probably not much.

  He could be riding on fumes for all he knew.

  So, what to do?

  Suddenly the bitch Mia Avila moaned and started to move.

  He was just about to tell her to shut up when the engine sputtered and died.

  Goddamn it!

  He managed to get onto the shoulder, barely clear of the road. When the woman moaned again, something exploded in Draven’s brain and he punched her in the head so hard that his ha
nd felt like it broke.

  The moaning immediately stopped.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d killed her or not.

  Ten seconds later a cop car pulled behind him and turned on the light bar.

  Draven waved at them, as friendly as he could, and walked over. “No problems,” he said. “I just ran out of gas. Someone’s bringing some up and should be here pretty quick.”

  The driver got out.

  “You’re awful close to the road,” he said.

  “I’m over as far as I can get,” Draven said, which was true. “Like I said, they should be here pretty soon.”

  The cop scratched his nose and surveyed the area.

  “I’m just worried that someone’s going to come around the corner a little too tight and clip you.”

  Draven shook his head and said, “I think I’m okay.”

  The cop studied the other side of the road, which had twice the shoulder, maybe even three times. “I’d feel better if you were over there,” he said. Then to his partner: “Jake, watch the traffic for a moment, will you? I’m going to push this guy across the street.” Back to Draven: “What I need you to do is put the car in neutral and steer it into that spot over there. Can you do that?”

  Draven nodded.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  The cop walked to the front end of the car. “Did you just buy this?” he asked.

  “Yesterday,” Draven said.

  “Next time, talk to me first,” the cop said. “My neighbor had one of these. Bought it new and it fell apart in about three months.”

  Draven swallowed and tried to look amused.

  “Now you tell me,” he said.

  Then the cop started pushing.

  At that exact second Mia Avila groaned.

  Draven coughed to mask the sound, then punched the radio button and worked the dial until he found a station, filled with static but good enough for what he needed.

  He knew the song.

  “Johnny B. Goode” by Chuck Berry.

  Must be an oldies station.

  “Take your foot off the brake,” the cop shouted.

  Draven did.

  Pay attention you dumb shit.

  The cop couldn’t move the vehicle by himself, so his partner came over to assist. Two minutes later, the rust-bucket of a car sat on the other side of the road, far enough from the pavement to where it wouldn’t be clipped.

  Draven thanked them and said goodbye.

  The woman was making noises again.

  As the cops started across the road, a Hummer sped around the bend, going too fast and hugging the inside track. It clipped the rear end of the police car, only catching it by a foot or so, but crushing the metal and spinning the vehicle into the middle of the road. The cops dived for cover. The taillight shattered and the rear tire exploded.

  “Goddamn it!” one of the cops shouted.

  The Hummer hardly got scratched but the cop car ended up in the middle of the twisty canyon road, blocking traffic in both directions. The rear quarter-panel had bent into the tire, not only flattening it but also locking it in place so that the vehicle couldn’t be pushed.

  Cars were already backing up.

  Draven’s first instinct was to just calmly walk down the road until he was out of sight and then run. But he was at least five miles into the canyon. If anyone found the woman, there would be no way he could make it back to town before they caught him.

  Unless he confiscated a car.

  Say the last one in line.

  He walked back to the Granada, slipped behind the wheel and closed the door. The woman made no sounds but he had no idea if it was because she was unconscious or she was just being careful.

  “You’re not going to die,” he said. “I’m going to let you go, just like always. Unless you screw up and do something stupid. If you do that I’ll take you out. You’ll give me no choice. Do you understand?”

  Silence.

  Not a word.

  He poked her.

  She didn’t respond.

  He twisted the knife in his hands. Maybe he should just stick it in her head, right here right now, and get it over with. True he’d have a body in the car with him, but at least it would be a guaranteed quiet one.

  But then again, if he did get caught, a charge of kidnapping would be a whole lot better than murder.

  Shit.

  What to do?

  Just then one of the cops walked over.

  “We’re going to push you a little farther onto the shoulder,” he said. “See if we can open up a lane and get this traffic moving.”

  Draven nodded.

  “Good idea.”

  They pushed him farther onto the shoulder while he steered and did his best to not take his knife and just start slashing everyone in sight.

  Then he called a tow truck.

  58

  DAY NINE–SEPTEMBER 13

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Draven’s tow truck showed up forty minutes later, not long after the cop car got pulled onto a flatbed and disappeared down the canyon. A big-boned woman climbed out. The sleeves of her shirt had been ripped off, displaying thick, muscular arms.

  Tattooed arms.

  Biker-Mama arms.

  “You the call I’m looking for?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  She studied him up and down, and then said, “You got quite the body going there. I might have to give you a discount.”

  She wasn’t his type, but he smiled, not wanting to piss her off.

  “Thanks for coming so fast.”

  She focused on his scar but didn’t say anything about it. Instead she motioned to her body. “It’s all muscle under these clothes,” she said.

  “You look good,” Draven said.

  She smiled.

  “Of course it doesn’t just fall out of the sky and land on me,” she said. “I work my ass off in the gym. Monday I squatted four ninety-five. A personal best.”

  Draven nodded, actually impressed.

  “Five plates on each side,” he said.

  “Very good.”

  It took her only a few minutes to hook up the Granada, and then they headed down the canyon.

  The radio played a country-western song that Draven had never heard before. He tapped his hand to it, feeling good and watching the scenery roll by.

  “We used to tube here quite a bit,” he said, referring to Clear Creek. “A good ten of the times I’ve come the closest to death were right there in that water.”

  She shook her head with disapproval.

  “You got to be nuts to mess with that river,” she said. “You’d never catch me on it in a million years. I’d rather be on a Harley any day of the week.”

  Draven smiled.

  “Statistically the river’s safer. Every other driver’s an asshole.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “But I don’t know too many people who have drowned on a Harley. I don’t know how I’m going, but it isn’t going to be by drowning. That’s one thing for sure.”

  At the bottom of the canyon they took Highway 93 north toward Boulder, running through the rolling plains at 50 mph, parallel to the foothills. Clouds were building over the mountains.

  In another ten minutes they’d be at the farmhouse.

  He’d be home free.

  Then the woman repeatedly looked in the rearview mirror, so many times that Draven turned around to see what had her attention all of a sudden. He saw normal traffic, nothing unusual, and most importantly no cops.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I thought I saw something move inside your car.”

  His mind scrambled, needing a story, fast. But nothing good came to the surface.

  “Yes!” she said. “I just saw movement. I’m sure of it. There’s someone in your car.”

  She looked at him for an explanation.

  He stared back and then put on a face as if he just realized what the situation was all about. “Oh, that,” he said. “Nothing
to worry about. That’s just my girlfriend. She’s major drunk, sleeping it off.” He smiled. “She probably got a little freaked out with the car tilted up and me not in it. She’ll be fine.”

  The woman didn’t seem satisfied.

  “I can’t have a passenger in a car under tow,” she said. “It’s against the law.”

  Draven pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and held it out towards her.

  “For your inconvenience,” he said. “We’re almost there anyway.”

  She looked at the bill but didn’t take it.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “If I get busted I lose my license.”

  “We won’t get busted. We’ll be at my place in five minutes. If we get stopped I’ll just say you knew nothing about it.”

  She looked in the rearview mirror again and started to slow down.

  “We need to move her up here in the cab,” she said.

  Draven shook his head with disapproval.

  “She’s been throwing up for two hours. You sure you want that in here?”

  She grimaced.

  “Unfortunately we got no choice. I’m down to the last few points on my license.”

  They continued to decelerate.

  Then pulled onto the shoulder and stopped.

  Draven surveyed the traffic and found it moderate, flying by at sixty or more. Even if someone did think they needed assistance, no one would want to slow down from that speed and stop.

  He knew what he had to do but tried to think of another way out.

  Nothing good came to mind.

  He opened the door and stepped out. “She’s pretty heavy,” he said. “I’m going to need your help.”

  She hopped out and met him at the passenger door of the Granada, on the side of the vehicle facing away from the traffic. He opened the door and said, “Can you pull her out? I strained my back a couple of days ago.”

  The woman bent inside and said, “It looks like her hands are tied.”

  That’s when Draven drove the knife into her spine.

  59

  DAY TEN–SEPTEMBER 14

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Wednesday morning, instead of heading to the office, Tef-finger drove straight to the railroad spur where the four bodies had been dumped. By the time he got there, the first thermos of coffee started to run through him and he made a quick detour behind the 55-gallon drum.