Lawyer Trap

by R. J. Jagger

No other gravesites were found nearby.

  No pop cans, cigarettes, or other such items were discovered in the vicinity.

  The grave had been dug with a shovel.

  The shovel was no longer there.

  With any luck, it got put into the trunk of a car or the back of an SUV after the event, dropping residue. Kwak took several soil samples to use for comparison later if the opportunity ever arose.

  Watching, off to the side, Teffinger told Sydney, “The victim’s got a good body. I wouldn’t doubt it a bit if she’s that stripper you were telling me about.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t remember it off the top of my head, but I have it written down.”

  “Where?”

  She tilted her head, thinking. “In a notepad, on my desk.”

  “Call headquarters and see if someone can find it,” Teffinger said. “Then have them run a background check on her.”

  She wandered off and talked into a cell phone.

  Five minutes later she came back. “The stripper’s name is Samantha Stamp—stage name Chase,” she said. “I called the club to see if she’d shown up for work yet. When I told the guy I was a detective he muttered ‘bitch’ under his breath and hung up.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  70

  DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

  THURSDAY MORNING

  When Aspen got to work at 7:15 Thursday morning, she found an envelope on her chair. Inside was an unsigned piece of paper that said: Go to the Starbucks on the 16th Street Mall at 9:00 a.m. Come alone and don’t tell anyone.

  She suspected the note came from the same person who accused Christina Tam of being a spy.

  Fine.

  Let’s find out who it was.

  She showed up five minutes early, didn’t see anyone she knew, ordered a latte, and took a table by the wall. A Billie Holiday song dripped down from ceiling speakers, painful and lamenting. A few minutes later, a man walked over and sat down. He looked vaguely familiar and wore an expensive gray pinstriped suit over a red silk power tie. He looked to be in his early thirties, thin set, and balder than he should be.

  “I’m Conrad Conrad,” he said.

  She recognized the name.

  He was an attorney in the firm.

  In the environmental section.

  “Sorry to be so mysterious,” he said, “but I felt it best that we met somewhere away from the firm. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, this is fine. So what’s going on?”

  The man looked around, apparently saw no one of interest, and refocused on her. “The word’s going around that you’re asking questions about Rachel,” he said. “Maybe even doing an ad hoc investigation of some sort.”

  She didn’t know whether to admit it or not.

  But did.

  “Of some sort,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “I have some information for you,” he said. “But first you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone that I told you.”

  She considered it.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to tell me. So I’m not sure I can promise that.”

  He frowned.

  “It’s for your own good,” he said.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”

  He slurped the coffee and paused, deciding whether to talk or not.

  Then he looked her in the eyes.

  “This happened back in March of this year,” he said. “I was working late one night, after nine o’clock, and one of the cleaning ladies—an older Hispanic woman—stepped into my office to empty my trash can. I could tell she was upset about something and asked her what was wrong. She said she was in the hallway passing by one of the offices upstairs. The door was closed. She heard a commotion inside and stopped to listen. To her, it sounded like a man was forcing himself on a woman. The woman was telling him to stop. He didn’t and she got louder, yelling for him to stop. Then the cleaning lady heard stuff breaking.”

  “What are you saying? That someone in the firm was raped?”

  The man shifted in his seat.

  “Let me finish,” he said. “I had the cleaning lady take me up and show me the office she was talking about. It turned out to be the office of Rachel Ringer. When we got there, though, the door was open and no one was inside. There didn’t appear to be anything broken.”

  “Rachel Ringer?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you saying she was raped?”

  The man held up his hands in surrender. “I asked her about it the next day. She said the cleaning lady must have been hallucinating because no such thing happened. She said she wasn’t even in the office last night.”

  “So someone else got raped, then, in Rachel’s office?”

  “Maybe,” the man said, “maybe not. I had the feeling that Rachel wasn’t telling me the truth. So I snooped around a little and found out that her keycard had in fact been used for an exit that evening, meaning she had been there. I never told her that I found out about that, though.”

  “So she lied to you.”

  He nodded. “That’s my feeling. I don’t know if she was actually raped, however, or whether someone just came on to her extra strong. In any event, whatever happened, it was clear that she didn’t want to talk about it or do anything about it. Since she didn’t press it, I didn’t either. You’re the only person I’ve ever told.”

  “What about the police? After she disappeared? You didn’t tell them any of this?”

  He shook his head.

  “No. And I’m not real proud of that, for the record. I guess I was more concerned about not making a tidal wave inside the firm that would come back to drown me.”

  She shifted in her seat.

  “I have kids in private schools,” he added.

  “I have to take this to the police,” she said. “I’ll leave your name out of it. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No. I should have done it myself.”

  “Okay. By the way, are you the one who left me a note saying that Christina Tam is a spy?”

  No.

  He wasn’t.

  In fact, he hardly even knew Christina Tam.

  Conrad Conrad left and was almost out the door when Aspen caught up to him. “Who was the man in Rachel’s office that night?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Do you remember the date when it happened?”

  “Not really.”

  “You said you were staying late,” she said. “Would you be able to look on your calendar and figure out what day it was?”

  He cocked his head.

  “Probably.”

  “Good. Let me know.”

  71

  DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

  THURSDAY MORNING

  Draven woke around 9:00 a.m. feeling like a dried leather shoe. His muscles screamed from burying the tow-truck woman out in the goddamned rock-infested mountains yesterday. Burying the stripper later in the day had been a lot easier, but had still taken its toll.

  He looked at Gretchen, still sleeping.

  Nice.

  He stretched and hit the shower, getting the water as hot as he could stand it. Unfortunately, today he’d need those same muscles again, to bury the tattoo woman.

  He didn’t care.

  Putting an end to that phase of his life would be worth it, whatever the cost.

  When he got out of the shower, Gretchen was up and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with hot coffee made.

  “So what’s the plan today?” she asked.

  “I have some surveillance work I need to do,” he said.

  “Can I come?”

  He laughed.

  “No,” he said. “It’s all confidential stuff.”

  “Can you drop me off downtown first, then?”

  “Why?”

  “The Granada won’t
start,” she said. “And I don’t feel like sitting around here by myself all day.”

  He nodded.

  Then he pulled out his wallet and gave her a thousand dollars.

  “In case you see something you need to have,” he said.

  They ate breakfast.

  Then she gave him a long slow blowjob, until he came in her mouth.

  He dropped her off downtown, gave her a long sloppy kiss, turned the radio to an oldies station, and then wove his way into the mountains toward the cabin.

  On the way, Swofford called with bad news.

  “The client’s schedule got all jacked up yesterday and he didn’t make it into town,” Swofford said. “So we’re going to Plan B, which is, you go up to the cabin and feed the woman, let her go to the bathroom, walk her around a little, etcetera. Basically, just keep her alive and in relatively good shape.”

  Draven slammed his hand on the dashboard.

  “This is nuts,” he said.

  Swofford couldn’t agree more but said, “We have no choice.”

  “Yeah?” Draven said. “Well you know what I think? I think that when I get up there this morning I’m going to find that the poor woman choked on her own tongue last night.”

  Swofford laughed.

  “I hear you, but this guy’s paid a lot of money. We owe him some indulgence.”

  “This is more trouble than it’s worth,” Draven said.

  “Sometimes that’s the way it works,” Swofford said.

  Draven shifted thoughts.

  “I scooped out this new one—Davica Holland—last night,” he said. “She’s a rich bitch, meaning she’s going to be a lot trickier than the average snatch.”

  “I know that.”

  “A lot trickier,” Draven emphasized. “I’m thinking twenty-five grand trickier.”

  Swofford laughed.

  “Nice try, but I’ve already given the client a fixed price. Here’s the good news, though. No rush with her. Take your time, do it right, and then let me know when you have her. The client’s totally flexible on the timing. Don’t hurt her, though. She can’t be marked up.”

  “Has he paid yet?”

  “Yep, cold hard cash.”

  “Good.”

  “As soon as you have her, let me know and I’ll get your cut to you.”

  Suddenly a deer appeared on the road.

  From out of nowhere.

  Just standing there, staring at the vehicle.

  Draven hit the brakes as hard as he could.

  72

  DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

  THURSDAY EVENING

  The club, Cheeks, was packed when Teffinger showed up shortly after six o’clock. Strippers were on all five stages and lots more were grinding out in the crowd, giving table dances. He ordered a Bud Light, leaned against the bar, and then called Sydney at home.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Call Cheeks again and see if the same guy answers who called you a bitch before. Then call me back and let me know.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Just a little something.”

  A minute later the phone behind the bar rang. A large man with a shaved head and a muscle shirt answered, muttered a few words, and then hung up. Ten seconds later Teffinger’s phone rang.

  “The same guy answered,” she said.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He watched the dancers, particularly the ones giving the table dances. They were friendly, very friendly in fact, rubbing their crotches in the guys’ faces and occasionally sticking a hand down someone’s pants.

  Suddenly a woman appeared in front of him. By the time he registered her as there, she had already put her arms around his neck and brought her lips to within inches of his.

  “I’ve got a special table dance that I’ve been saving just for you,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  She rubbed her stomach against his.

  “We can go over there, in the corner,” she said, pointing. “You can feel my pussy if you want.”

  “How much?”

  “Only ten dollars.”

  Teffinger pulled out his wallet and handed her a ten-dollar bill, but remained leaning against the bar. “There’s a dancer who works here called Chase,” he said. “Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  “Her real name’s Samantha Stamp.”

  “Don’t know her.”

  Teffinger pulled a photograph out of his shirt pocket. “This is her,” he said.

  She looked at it, then at him. “She works nights,” she said. “I work days.”

  Teffinger nodded.

  “Who’s in charge around here?”

  Teffinger ended up in a back room three times smaller than it should have been. The walls closed in as soon as the manager, a man named John Stevens, shut the door. Teffinger explained that the body of a woman had been found today, a woman who they subsequently identified as Samantha Stamp—Chase. He explained that he’d be in the club tonight talking to the dancers to see if anyone had any information.

  The manager himself had none.

  But he had no problem with Teffinger talking to the women.

  “You can use my office if you want,” he added.

  Teffinger smiled and stood up. “One more thing,” he said. “One of my associates called here today. The man who answered hung up on her when she identified herself as a detective. He called her a bitch.”

  The manager stared at Teffinger and said nothing.

  “It turns out that it’s the guy behind the bar, the one with the shaved head,” Teffinger said. “I’m sure that’s not the way you do business around here.”

  The manager agreed.

  “Absolutely not,” he said.

  “So my suspicion is that you’re going to walk out there right now and fire his ass,” Teffinger said. “The rest of my suspicion is that I won’t call vice and have them live down here for the next month.”

  The man considered it.

  “Both your suspicions are right,” he said.

  Teffinger shook his hand. “Good. Be sure he knows why you’re letting him go. And be sure to point me out to him. If he has a problem with anything, he can come over and talk to me about it face-to-face.”

  The manager frowned.

  “The guy’s dangerous,” he said.

  Teffinger headed out of the room and said over his shoulder, “Be sure you point me out.”

  The day dancers knew nothing. The night shift started wandering into the club shortly before seven and disappeared into a back room. They showed up in the crowd a half hour later, looking drunk and stoned and loose. Teffinger talked to six of them before he finally found someone with something to say, a petite black-haired beauty who went by the name of Mercedes.

  She had actually talked to Chase on Monday, the day she disappeared, because they were supposed to go to the gym together. Chase told her that she had to cancel to do a trick that afternoon, someone from the club who was paying her big bucks.

  “That’s all I know,” she added. “I never heard from her again.”

  “What’d she say about the guy she was going to meet?”

  Mercedes shrugged.

  “Nothing. Just that she was going to meet him.”

  “She didn’t mention a name?”

  “No.”

  “Or describe him?”

  “No.”

  “Where were they going to meet?”

  She held her hands up in surrender.

  “I don’t know.”

  The shaved-head man wasn’t behind the bar any more—now he sat on the other side of it, getting drunk and staring Teffinger down. Teffinger looked him dead in the eyes and then headed for the men’s room.

  Come on, asshole. Bring it on.

  73

  DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

  THURSDAY NOON

  Over the lunch hour, Aspen left the office early, ran the six blocks to her car, took I-25 northbound to the Boulder Turnpike, and then hea
ded west. She tried to call Nick Teffinger several times on the way, but he never answered. Directly ahead through the windshield loomed the Rocky Mountains, getting bigger with each passing mile. Boulder sat at the foot of the mountains, with good views of the Flatirons from almost everywhere.

  She drove around until she found a free two-hour parking spot, several blocks beyond The Hill, across Broadway. Then she hoofed it down to the University of Colorado campus.

  The day was gorgeous.

  Students were everywhere.

  Every single one of them was dressed for comfort.

  Sarah Ringer was waiting for her on the front steps of the library. While she wasn’t the spitting image of her sister, Rachel, there was enough of a resemblance that Aspen recognized her. She looked to be about twenty-three, tanned and fit. After greetings and chitchat, they walked through campus, surrounded by the timelessly beautiful rock buildings.

  “Like I indicated on the phone,” Aspen said, “I’m trying to figure out what happened to Rachel. This morning I got a disturbing report that Rachel might have been raped one night at the law firm, on March 14th to be precise.”

  Then she told Conrad Conrad’s story, without disclosing his name.

  “If that’s true,” Aspen said, “I have to think that it’s somehow involved in why she disappeared, which was only two weeks later. My gut tells me that if she confided in anyone about what happened that night, it was you.”

  Over in a grass field, four guys played Frisbee.

  Carefree.

  “If she did tell me something,” Sarah said, “why would I tell you?”

  Aspen shrugged.

  “Because I’m trying to find out what happened. She was my friend.”

  Sarah shifted a worn backpack to her other shoulder.

  “Let me think about it for a minute,” Sarah said. “I need to figure out if Rachel would want me to talk to you or not.”

  They walked in silence.

  Then Sarah said, “She was sexually assaulted, but not raped, at least technically, since there was no penetration.”

  “By who?”

  “She wouldn’t say, but I always had the impression it was someone she knew. My guess is either another attorney in the firm or a client. Anyway, the whole thing really had an impact on her, but at the same time she almost seemed to defend the guy, saying he was drunk, lonely, stuff like that. She couldn’t stay at the firm though, she knew that much. She was already floating her resume when she disappeared.”