Lawyer Trap

by R. J. Jagger

  Instead of going to the office, Teffinger and Sydney went straight to Tops & Bottoms and ended up meeting with a curvy, feminine woman with a soft voice and liquid blue eyes named Rose Abbott. They left an hour later with more than they hoped for. Teffinger also had a standing invitation for a free session with the lovely Ms. Abbott any time he wanted.

  “We all have fantasies,” she said. “Even you.”

  “Me?”

  “Right.”

  “What are my fantasies?”

  She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You call me when you’re ready.”

  Half an hour later, they sat in the reception area of Hogan, Slate & Dover, LLC, sipping coffee and waiting.

  Teffinger wasn’t sure that this was the smartest thing to do.

  His gut told him to slow down, stay hidden, get more evidence, maybe even enough to bring charges. His other gut told him to ignore his first gut, and to stomp on the guy now with the hope that he’d crawl under a rock and at least not hurt anyone else in the immediate future.

  A contemporary abstract oil painting on the opposite side of the room kept drawing his eye, so he wandered over past the leather chairs, the coffee tables, and the fresh flower arrangements to take a look at it. The signature said RABBY. The paint was scooped on with a pallet knife, a half-inch thick in some places. Most of the canvas was fairly smooth and earth toned, a backdrop for the strategically placed pops and rivers of thick bright colors.

  A lot of thought had gone into it.

  And passion.

  It was the kind of piece where the average Joe Blow on the street would look at it and say, I could do that.

  It was that deceptively good.

  Sydney walked over and checked out the signature.

  “Rabby,” she said. “I’ve heard of that guy. I think his first name’s Jim.”

  “I couldn’t paint like that,” Teffinger said. “Not because it’s abstract but because you can tell that he had to set it down and let some parts of it dry before going on. I need to get it done in one sitting and see if I have a dud or a keeper.”

  “Men,” she said. “Instant gratification.”

  He sipped coffee and said, “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

  “No, it’s okay, except when you’re with a woman in the bedroom.”

  He smiled, picturing it. “You don’t want it there.”

  “No. Not even close.”

  They finally ended up in Derek Bennett’s office with the door closed, sitting in expensive leather chairs. The man was Teffinger’s size, six-two, maybe even bigger. His suit was loose, but not so loose as to totally hide the troll-like muscles underneath. His shirt was white and stiff. His eyes protruded too far, as if someone tried to suck them out with a vacuum tube.

  Paint his head green and he’d be a frog.

  “Thanks for seeing us without an appointment,” Teffinger said. “I’m going to get right to the point. We’re investigating two homicides and we noticed that you have connections to both of the victims.”

  Bennett looked insulted. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Teffinger said. “We just have a few questions.”

  The stress lines on Bennett’s face didn’t lighten.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Well, one of the victims is Rachel Ringer, and you know her of course,” Teffinger said.

  “Everyone who works here knows her,” Bennett said.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Meaning I’m one person of about two hundred and fifty.”

  Teffinger nodded and fought the urge to bring up the other connectors—someone, probably Bennett, half raped Rachel one night; Bennett drove a silver BMW, the same kind of car in the photograph from Brad Ripley’s safe, the photograph of the building where the four women were killed; and the conversation between Bennett and Jacqueline Moore about a killing, overheard by Aspen Wilde. As fun as it would be to whip those little facts out and slap the smugness off Bennett’s face, Teffinger couldn’t do it without fear of implicating the help he’d received from Aspen Wilde. So he smiled instead and changed subjects.

  “Right,” he said. “Lots of people knew Rachel. The more curious question I have involves a dead woman by the name of Samantha Stamp, also known as Chase. She was a dancer at a strip club called Cheeks. But that’s not what interests me. What interests me is that she also worked part-time at a place called Tops & Bottoms. Have you ever heard of that place? Tops & Bottoms?”

  The smug expression was gone now.

  Teffinger could tell that the man was trying to decide if he should lie or not.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because we talked to the proprietor of that establishment. Certain names came up during that conversation. Yours was one of them.” He sipped coffee, letting the implications hang. “The rumor is that you like to stick pins in the girls.”

  Bennett shot out of his chair, his hands balled in fists, and violently pushed a pile of papers off the desk.

  They landed halfway across the room.

  Teffinger didn’t move.

  Instead he took another sip of coffee.

  “Get your ass out of my office!” Bennett said. Then he looked directly at Sydney. “That means your ass too.”

  Teffinger stood up, drank the last of the coffee and set the cup gently on the desk. Then he looked Bennett directly in the eyes. “You really shouldn’t talk to ladies like that. It could come back to haunt you.”

  Sydney didn’t speak much on the walk back to the car. Then, right after they almost got run over at Welton by a car bursting through the wrong end of a yellow light, she said, “I think it worked.”

  Teffinger agreed.

  “He’s running scared. Hopefully scared enough that he’ll think twice about doing anything else stupid. I almost decked him when he talked to you that way,” Teffinger added.

  “I want to be there when we catch his ass,” she said. “I want to look him right in the eyes.”

  On the drive back to the office, Teffinger flicked the radio stations as he pulled his phone out to call Aspen Wilde. He paused at a song he’d never heard before. The singer had a nasally voice that sounded like Bob Dylan. The lyrics were something about a pump that didn’t work because the handles got taken by the vandals. He waited until it finished, then dialed Aspen.

  “I don’t know if you heard,” he said, “but me and Sydney were at the firm just a little bit ago, meeting with Derek Bennett. We put some heat on him.” He filled her in on the details, including the fact that he’d been careful to keep her out of it. “Here’s the reason I’m calling. The guy’s a powder keg and he’s going to start exploding. If you hear of him doing anything out of the ordinary, and want to tell us about it, that would be fine with us.”

  “Done deal,” she said. “Count on it.”

  “Thanks.” Teffinger almost hung up, but said, “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he added. “Just keep your ear to the ground. And don’t let anyone know you’re doing it. Things are going to start getting really dicey from this point on.”

  82

  DAY TWELVE–SEPTEMBER 16

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  Aspen brought Christina Tam up to speed on the noose that Teffinger was dangling around Bennett’s neck. Then they took turns going up to the 45th floor, ostensibly to visit the dead-files room but actually to see if anything weird was happening in Derek Bennett’s neck of the woods.

  Nothing was.

  Nothing obvious, at least.

  Bennett was in his office with the door closed.

  Mid-afternoon, Aspen took a stroll down the 16th Street Mall to clear her head, hugging the sunny side of the street. The city vibrated, with lots more people around than usual, poised on the edge of the weekend.

  A deep blue cloudless sky floated overhead.

  She ended up sitting on a bench by Cali
fornia Street.

  Someone sat down next to her.

  When she looked over, she couldn’t believe who it was.

  Jacqueline Moore.

  Cruella.

  Clearly this wasn’t a chance encounter. The power lawyer must have discovered that Aspen was feeding information to Teffinger. She was here to fire her.

  “We need to talk,” Moore said. The tone of her voice was serious. Aspen bit her lower lip and tried to appear as if she wasn’t afraid.

  “Sure,” she said. “What’s up?”

  Moore didn’t answer.

  Instead she looked around. Her hair appeared to be slightly disheveled and her makeup wasn’t as crisp and sharp as normal. Her blouse sagged out of her skirt and could have been tucked in better. The normal confident look in her eyes wasn’t there.

  “I’m leaving the firm,” she said.

  Aspen studied her, to see if this was some kind of a joke, but found no lies.

  “You are?”

  Moore nodded. “As soon as I leave here I’m heading back to the office to type up a resignation. With the grapevine the way it is, I have no doubt that everyone will be celebrating by the end of the day.”

  “Why are you leaving?”

  The woman let out a nervous chuckle, as if there was so much to the answer that she didn’t even know where to begin. “That’s not the question,” she said. “The question is, why am I telling you before anyone else?”

  Aspen cocked her head.

  Good point.

  “Okay, why?”

  “Because I want to be sure I get a chance to warn you before all hell breaks loose. You need to get out of the firm. My advice to you is to go and go quickly, while you still can.”

  The words shocked Aspen.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Moore shook her head. “I can’t get into it. Just trust me. Your life is in danger.” Then she stood up and looked at Aspen one last time. “I’ve done what I could to warn you. If something happens after this, it’s not on my shoulders.”

  Then she walked away.

  Aspen sat there for a few moments and then stood up and walked in the direction away from the firm. She called Teffinger from Civic Center Park and told him what had just happened.

  “My suspicion is that this is some kind of fallout from the heat we put on Bennett,” he said. “Something’s going on and I have no idea what it is. But I do know that things are in motion and that I can’t have you in harm’s way. I don’t want you snooping around anymore.”

  “But …”

  “No buts,” he said. “At this point you’re officially out of it.”

  “But I’m your only inside source.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “It’s not going to happen. If I were you, I’d think very seriously about getting out of the firm. Right now. Today. In fact if you don’t, you’re crazy.”

  She headed back to the firm, walked into Christina Tam’s office, closed the door, and filled her in on everything. Then added, “I had a stray thought, walking back here.”

  “Oh? What kind of stray thought?”

  “It relates to the dead guy in New York—Robert Yates,” she said. “Do you remember when we were talking about who might have a motive to kill him, if he was successful in taking over Omega and then merging it with Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I thought of someone else who has a motive.”

  “Who?”

  “Derek Bennett.”

  Christina tried to find the connection but couldn’t. “I don’t follow,” she said.

  Aspen stood up. “I got to make a run to the restroom. You’ll figure it out by the time I get back.”

  But Christina didn’t figure it out, so Aspen told her. Bennett spent almost all of his time working on Omega cases, his bread-and-butter client. In the antitrust suit brought by Omega against Tomorrow, Bennett had been Omega’s pit bull, the dirty dog who didn’t play fair, the driving force behind the mega-judgment in favor of Omega and against Tomorrow. If Robert Yates succeeded in his goal of gaining control of Omega and bringing it under the umbrella of Tomorrow, then he’d control Omega’s legal work.

  Robert Yates, of course, hating Bennett the way he no doubt did, wouldn’t give Bennett an ounce of work to save his life.

  Bennett would be washed up.

  Even Blake Gray wouldn’t be able to protect him.

  Robert Yates, no doubt, would demand that Bennett be completely removed from the firm as a condition of giving the firm any further work.

  “So Bennett killed him. He was smart enough to look into the future and figure out that he was boxed in. So he took Yates out as early as he could, before anyone could figure out that he had a motive.”

  Christina worked out the details, looking for an inconsistency or a flaw in the theory. “How the hell do you think this stuff up?”

  Aspen laughed.

  “I don’t know. It just comes to me.”

  “You’re in the wrong business, lady. There’s only one thing that doesn’t make sense. Bennett was in Denver when Robert Yates got killed, so he couldn’t have done it.” She smiled. “Other than that little fact, very good theory.”

  Aspen stood up, put her hands on the desk and leaned across. “Let me rephrase it,” she said. “Bennett killed Yates. By hiring someone to do it.”

  83

  DAY TWELVE–SEPTEMBER 16

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  Draven found a perfect grove of trees in the open space about a half mile behind Davica Holland’s house. He looked around one last time, still saw no one even remotely close, and then lay down flat next to a log. A stick pushed against his stomach. He pulled it out and threw it to the side.

  There.

  Perfect.

  This would work.

  He got up long enough to pull a pair of Bushnell binoculars out of the backpack, then flopped back on his belly and pulled in the view.

  Damn!

  Davica Holland was in the backyard by the pool, reclined in a lounger, facing his direction, pointing her chin at the sun.

  Totally naked.

  Nicely tanned.

  Her feet were comfortably apart. He studied the area between her legs and decided that he was actually seeing her pussy.

  The corner of his mouth turned up.

  “Sweet.”

  The woman was hot—not just mildly hot, sizzling hot. He already knew that after he snatched her, before he turned her over to the client, he’d spend more than a little quality time with her.

  Maybe even a full day.

  In fact, definitely a full day.

  Maybe two.

  He could already feel his cock between her legs.

  And sandwiched between her tits.

  “Oh, man.”

  She shifted in the lounger, pulling her arms over her head to tan her armpits.

  So nice.

  So incredibly sexy.

  He pulled the lens away from her long enough to train on the house, looking for a way in. From what he could tell, there were at least three doors on this side of the house. Also, there was a window well on the south edge of the structure, near the back. He could hop down into it and be out of sight, then pry open the window with a crowbar.

  Lots of options.

  The big issue is whether she had an alarm system. He hadn’t seen any signs in her front yard warning of one. Even if she had one, he’d probably be able to get to her pretty fast if he came for her while she was sleeping. Then he could get her out the back, through the open space to his car, and be gone by the time anyone pulled up to the front of the house.

  He trained the binoculars back on her.

  She was masturbating now.

  Keeping the binoculars in his right hand, he shoved his left hand down his pants and rubbed his cock, picturing his cum on her face.

  In one minute he was rock hard.

  He maintained control, timing it so that he came exactly when she did.

  Later tha
t afternoon, Draven was back at the farmhouse, throwing rocks at squirrels and anything else that moved, when Swofford called. “The client’s supposed to be getting into Denver soon to finish off the tattoo woman.”

  “He better be,” Draven said. “I’m sick of having her around. She’s a serous liability at this point.”

  “Agreed. I told him twenty-four hours, max. We can’t wait any longer than that.”

  “Good,” Draven said. A robin perched on a limb, about fifty feet away, chirping. Draven threw a rock at it, missing by more than five feet but scaring it enough to send it scrambling into the sky. “Also, we got a slight complication at the cabin. Apparently some water guys are going to be coming around to check out the well for some stupid reason. They’re only going to be there a couple of minutes and won’t need to go into the house or anything, but I’m not sure when they’re coming, so I moved the woman over to the place I’m staying at in the meantime.”

  “Smart move. God, nothing’s easy.”

  “You got that right,” Draven said. “Anyway, I positioned some wood by the well, which they’ll have to move, so I’ll know when they’ve been there.”

  “Well, tomorrow’s Saturday,” Swofford said. “We won’t have to worry about them over the weekend.”

  Draven agreed.

  “Changing subjects, how are you coming along with Davica Holland?”

  “Circling and closing,” Draven said.

  “Good.”

  “She’s a looker,” he added.

  “So I hear. Just remember to not mark her up. That’s for the client to do. He’s very insistent on that.”

  84

  DAY TWELVE–SEPTEMBER 16

  FRIDAY EVENING

  Jacqueline Moore lived in an expensive penthouse loft on Larimer Street, not far from Coors Field in the heart of LoDo—a place befitting the stature of a senior partner in one of Denver’s most established law firms. After work, about six o’clock, Teffinger pointed the Tundra toward that loft to have a chat with her.

  Mean charcoal clouds blew in and filled the sky.

  Rain dropped on the city.

  He set the windshield wipers to intermittent, but they made a godawful noise every time they raked back, so he turned them off and made a mental note to replace the blades.