Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by Jagger, R. J.

  The place oozed money and power.

  The receptionist—a conservatively dressed woman—sat at a contemporary glass desk that resembled a futuristic command center. She wore a hands-free telephone and directed incoming calls to their destinations on a nonstop basis. She momentarily fixed her eyes on London’s ketchup stain but kept all expressions off her face. Behind her, in a glass-walled conference room with a commanding view of the Rocky Mountains, twelve or fifteen attorneys sat in high-back leather chairs at a cherry wood table, concentrating on a professionally dressed woman giving a Power Point presentation.

  Two attorneys walked into the area, talking intently, and disappeared down a hall at the opposite end.

  Neither of them looked at London.

  So this is what the elephant looks like.

  It was even bigger than she thought.

  She turned and walked out.

  It wasn’t until she got in the elevator that she noticed her hands trembling.

  SHE GOT BACK TO HER APARTMENT AFTER FIVE and peddled past her worn-out, broken-down Chevy—a vehicle that hadn’t run in six months because a new transmission hadn’t fallen out of the sky and landed in it. It still served a purpose, though, as a storage unit. She kept her winter clothes in the trunk and all of her old law books in the back seat.

  There was no need to worry about anyone taking the radio.

  They did that long ago.

  She ate a Lean Pocket off a paper plate as she paced back and forth.

  Damages weren’t the issue.

  If there was liability—emphasis on the if—the damages were huge. London couldn’t even begin to guess what a jury might award to redress a woman who had been held in sexual slavery for over a month. It would probably be a pile of money that could be seen from outer space.

  So the issue wasn’t damages.

  The issue was liability.

  How could London possibly prove that the most prim and proper law firm in Denver—correction, in the world—was engaged in a conspiracy to enslave a woman? The concept seemed so bizarre. What jury would possibly believe that without a pile of proof?—a pile that could be seen from outer space, to be exact.

  12

  Day Three—June 13

  Wednesday Morning

  TEFFINGER LIVED ON A DEAD-END STREET nestled in the side of Green Mountain where the houses looked down on Denver fifteen miles to the east. His house was a green split-level, third from the end, backing to the mountain. The neighborhood had no flowers because flowers were deer candy. Foxes, rabbits and rattlesnakes roamed the mountain. At night, the coyotes barked, and every once in a while the skunks stank. Traffic noise didn’t reach this far.

  Teffinger had drapes in his bedroom but never closed them.

  He needed the room to lighten when the sun came up, just to be absolutely sure he didn’t waste a minute of the day. He liked the night but loved the day.

  Nothing got him more stressed than waking up late.

  This morning he woke an hour before sunrise because that’s the only time he could carve out of his life to jog. His body wouldn’t let him get out of bed right away, so he turned onto his back.

  Venta lay next to him breathing deep and steady.

  Listening to her, right then and there, he realized something. She needed to move in with him, today, so he could repeat this moment tomorrow and the next day and the next.

  He must have shifted his weight because Venta moaned and said, “Are you awake?”

  “No.”

  She climbed on top of him and wiggled until he got hard.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “My life doesn’t work like this.”

  “It does now,” she said.

  HE HADN’T BEEN AT HEADQUARTERS for more than fifteen minutes, not even long enough to inhale the first pot of coffee, when dispatch called and said, “Got some more job security for you.”

  Teffinger fired up a second pot of coffee, filled a thermos, and then headed to the crime scene, which turned out to be a vacant house on the south edge of Denver, a house for sale.

  A white Molly Maid car sat in the driveway. Three uniforms were in the process of stringing tape around the perimeter of the property.

  Teffinger recognized one of the officers—Adam Woods—a triangular bodybuilder with a taste for steroids, one more guy who had traded his hair for muscles.

  “I’ll be damned, the big guns,” Woods said when he spotted Teffinger.

  “Still pumping, I see.”

  “You got to do what you can,” he said.

  According to Woods, the neighbor looked out the kitchen window this morning, saw a body and called the police. “She came over when we got here,” Woods said. “Other than seeing the body this morning, she doesn’t know anything.”

  “She didn’t hear anything or see anything?”

  “Nada.”

  “Does she know when the Molly Maid car showed up?”

  Woods frowned.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her that.”

  A black-and-white magpie landed on the roof of Teffinger’s truck. He walked over and shooed it off.

  Bird droppings ruined paint.

  Then he headed to the backyard to view the body.

  A white female in her early twenties lay on the ground with her head twisted radically to the side, indicating a severely broken neck. Teffinger kneeled down for a closer look.

  The woman had an energetic face, even in death.

  She struck him as someone who sang hip-hop with the window open as she drove, someone far too young to die.

  He said, “I promise.”

  Then he stood up, surprised at his words, words he hadn’t muttered in over a year.

  “About time,” he said to himself.

  HE WALKED UP TO THE TUNDRA, not wanting to mess up the scene until it had been fully photographed and processed, only to discover the magpie back on his roof. “Go on, get out of here.” When the bird flew off, Teffinger opened the door and stood on the floorboard to be sure the paint was okay.

  Damn it.

  A large liquid splat sat smack dab where it shouldn’t.

  He grabbed a Kleenex out of his pocket and wiped it off, trying to not get any on his hands, just as Sydney pulled up and walked over.

  “My universe is back to working the way it’s supposed to,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “It’s an inside joke.”

  “What are you going to do with that Kleenex?”

  Good question.

  He threw it into the bed of the truck.

  “It’s going to blow out of there,” Sydney said. “That’s littering.”

  He knew that.

  “Well, what do you propose I do with it?”

  “Set it inside, on the floor mat,” she said. “Then throw it away when you get home.” Teffinger knew she wouldn’t give him any peace until he complied, so he did.

  “Happy?”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s the body?”

  OVER THE NEXT FEW HOURS THEY DISCOVERED a truckload of useful information. First, the victim, a 21-year-old named Samantha Rickenbacker, was a stocker for the Home Depot in Golden, and didn’t work for Molly Maids like they first thought.

  But her roommate—Tessa Blake—did, and in fact was assigned to the car in the driveway. Blake’s purse was found under the driver’s seat. The house didn’t belong to a Molly Maid client, so if Tessa Blake had been at the scene and came to clean—which seemed obvious given the vacuum cleaner and bag of products in the backyard—she was moonlighting.

  The two women rented an apartment together in Arvada.

  No one answered the door when Teffinger knocked—not the first time, at ten, or the second, at eleven, or the third, at noon, when they arrived with a search warrant.

  “So where’s Tessa Blake?” Sydney asked.

  “That’s the question,” Teffinger said. “She’s either involved in this up to her ass or she’s another
victim. My money’s on the latter.”

  “Why the latter?”

  “Because if she was involved, she wouldn’t have left the car behind, much less her purse,” he said.

  Sydney nodded.

  “So she’s another victim,” she said.

  “That’s my guess,” Teffinger said. “The bigger question is whether she’s a live victim or a dead one.” He paused and added, “I made a promise to the dead woman.”

  Sydney was shocked.

  “I didn’t know you did that anymore,” she said.

  “Neither did I,” he said.

  “So how does this other woman, Tessa Blake, fit into the promise?” Sydney asked.

  “It extends to her, by default.”

  She cocked her head.

  “That means you’re going to work my ass to the bone.”

  “Both of our asses,” he said. “I have one too, remember.”

  She laughed.

  “You call that an ass?” she said. “That’s not an ass. That’s just a place where an ass is supposed to be.”

  13

  Day Three—June 13

  Wednesday Morning

  JEKKER SLEPT WITH THE DOORS of the boxcar open last night so he’d be able to hear an approaching car in the unlikely event that someone had tracked him, but no sounds cut through the black Rocky Mountain air other than the occasional howling of coyotes. He woke early morning to a rummaging noise in the corner. A black squirrel saw Jekker throw the covers off, froze for a heartbeat, and scampered out the door. Jekker stepped outside, took a long heaven-sent piss on a lodge pole pine and then pounded on Tessa Blake’s boxcar.

  “Everything okay in there?” he shouted.

  Silence.

  “Answer me!”

  More silence, then, “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “In a minute,” he said.

  Unfortunately for Tessa Blake, she managed to pull the hood off and run a good distance last night while Jekker found himself busy snapping the other woman’s neck. He didn’t catch her until she made it around the corner of the house to the street, under a streetlight to be precise.

  She pulled his ski mask off in the fight.

  That gave her a good look at his face, meaning that release was no longer an option.

  She would have to die at the end. Too bad, but she’d brought it on herself. He got the coffee pot going, showered, grabbed the .357 SIG, and then opened the heavy door of his captive’s boxcar. She cowered in the corner, wearing the same look on her face as the black squirrel.

  Jekker grinned at the similarity.

  “Get out here,” he said.

  She obeyed.

  Now, by the light of day and up close, Jekker realized how small and frail the woman was. She couldn’t be taller than five-one, and probably weighed in at ninety or ninety-five. What she lacked in size she more than made up for with her eyes, big brown eyes that took up half her face, peeking out timidly from behind pitch-black hair.

  Her lower lip quivered.

  She wouldn’t try to escape, he could already tell.

  He turned his back while she used the facilities, then chained her left ankle to an eyebolt in the middle boxcar and fed her cereal and coffee.

  She said nothing, watching his every move.

  Suddenly his cell phone rang.

  He swallowed, dreading what was about to come, and stepped outside to talk in private.

  IT TURNED OUT HE WAS RIGHT.

  The voice on the other end said, “You had some collateral damage last night, a woman by the name of Samantha Rickenbacker.”

  Jekker kicked the dirt.

  “This isn’t an exact science,” he said. “Sometimes things happen.”

  “We hire you to have things not happen,” the voice said. “If we wanted things to happen, there are a hundred different people we could call.”

  “I have Tessa Blake,” Jekker said. “That’s what you wanted and that’s what you got.”

  “We can’t afford slop,” the voice said. “That causes huge problems on our end.”

  Jekker already knew that.

  He decided not to mention the other complication, namely that Tessa Blake saw his face.

  HE CLOSED THE PHONE AND STOOD THERE, not knowing if the call was meant as a slap on the wrist or something a lot more serious. On the one hand, he had already established himself with years of loyal service and perfectly executed operations. On the other hand, he had broken Rule No. 1, set in stone on day one and emphasized many times thereafter.

  No collateral damage.

  Ever.

  Understood?

  Yes.

  We hope so.

  Also, Jekker had let the woman see his face, which meant that she had to die. He didn’t know if this was the beginning of the end, but one thing he did know—his job wasn’t one that you got fired from and then retired to some warm place with white sand and women in bikinis bringing you little drinks with umbrellas. The end of the relationship most likely meant the end of his life.

  At least they’d try.

  Who would they send?

  It would probably be one of Jekker’s counterparts. Unfortunately, he had no idea who they were. He knew there was at least one more like him, and maybe two, operating in Europe, and probably at least one more right here in the States.

  He had no idea if they were male or female, tall or short, or young or old.

  He needed to keep his guard up as if he was being hunted by the best in the world, starting immediately.

  He also needed insurance.

  He needed something he could hold up and say, “Take a good look. If you kill me, this will come back to bite you in the ass.”

  HE WALKED BACK TO THE BOXCAR and found Tessa Blake sitting at the table exactly as he left her. Seeing her gave him an idea.

  “Who wants you dead?” he asked.

  Her lower lip trembled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You pose a threat to somebody. Who is it?”

  She looked genuinely puzzled.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think!”

  He must have had a fury in his voice because she cowered as if expecting him to strike her.

  “Nobody,” she said. “I’m just a maid.”

  “Do you sniff around when people aren’t home?”

  “No.”

  “Do you take things?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Her face trembled and then she broke into tears.

  He could care less.

  They meant nothing.

  He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head back and stuck the barrel of the SIG in her mouth.

  “I said, why are you here?”

  When she tried to mumble something, he pulled the steel out.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. All I want to do is go home. Please don’t hurt me. I’m pregnant.”

  14

  Day Three—June 13

  Wednesday Morning

  AT THREE IN THE MORNING, London crawled out of bed, fired up her computer and typed a draft letter, addressed to the Managing Partner of Vesper & Bennett:

  The undersigned represents Venta Devenelle. Ms. Devenelle was retained by Vesper & Bennett (V&B) to perform services in connection with the surveillance of Robert Copeland. V&B agreed to pay Ms. Devenelle $20,000 plus expenses, whether her surveillance was successful or not. In reliance upon this agreement, Ms. Devenelle traveled to Bangkok, Thailand, and incurred expenses of $7,238. The total owed to Ms. Devenelle is $27,238, less $10,000 (paid to date), leaving a balance due and owing of $17,238. Ms. Devenelle requests payment of this outstanding balance forthwith.

  Very truly yours,

  London Vaughn, Esq.

  Attorney-At-Law.

  Then she went back to sleep.

  AT TEN IN THE MORNING—WEARING KHAKI PANTS, a white blouse and black le
ather pumps—London pushed through the glass doors of Vesper & Bennett and walked to the receptionist with her client Venta Devenelle at her side.

  “Who’s the managing partner of the firm?” she asked.

  The receptionist studied her, wondering whether to answer, and apparently saw no downside because she said, “Thomas Fog.”

  London set an envelope on the fancy glass station.

  “We have a letter for Mr. Fog,” she said.

  The receptionist looked at it, explained that she would be sure Mr. Fog received it, and asked if there was anything else.

  “We’d like it delivered now if we could,” London said. “We’re going to wait for a reply.”

  “You’re going to wait?”

  “Right.”

  She and Venta took seats on a couch at the far end of the reception area.

  London swallowed and looked at Venta.

  “First blood,” she said.

  Venta nodded.

  Earlier this morning, over coffee at Starbucks, London had explained her strategy. The first thing they needed to do was to get V&B to admit that it had hired Venta. Asking for money due and owing was the best way to get that admission.

  An hour later the receptionist walked over.

  “Mr. Fog has been in meetings all morning,” she said. “He asked me to tell you that he’ll look at the letter this afternoon and call you tomorrow.”

  London shook her head.

  “Tomorrow’s too late,” she said. “Tomorrow we file a lawsuit as soon as the court opens. If that’s what Mr. Fog wants, we’re happy to leave now.”

  The receptionist frowned.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. “Let me see how he wants to handle this.”

  Twenty minutes later, London and Venta were escorted into a small conference room.

  They waited there for over an hour.

  Then a 40-ish pleasant-looking man wearing an expensive suit walked in and closed the door behind him. He had deep blue eyes, the kind that look at someone and understand them immediately, he kind that can tell if someone is lying or not—trial lawyer eyes.

  HE HAD THE HARRIED AIR OF SOMEONE trying to squeeze twenty hours of work into eight. He shook both their hands and said, “I’m Thomas Fog and I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting. Please accept my apologies. I’ve read your letter, Ms. Vaughn, and have had my assistant try to verify that the firm hired Ms. Devenelle.” He frowned. “So far, we’re not having any luck.” Then to Venta, “Who was it exactly that you spoke to?”