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

by Jagger, R. J.

  “We added a couple of thousand to cover any associated attorney fees,” he said. London handed the check to Venta for her inspection. “So, I think that concludes our business.”

  London cocked her head.

  Something was wrong.

  She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

  Then Fog pulled a stapled set of papers out of the envelope, about four pages. He slid the document across the table to Venta as he looked at London and said, “We’ll need Ms. Devenelle to sign a release, of course, just so all the paperwork is in order.”

  Venta pulled a pen out of her purse and started flipping to the last page.

  “Hold on,” London said. Then to Fog, “You don’t mind if we read this first, I assume.”

  He looked at his watch. “Of course not. Why don’t we do this? You read it and talk to your client about it while I duck back to my office and return a few phone calls. Then we’ll wrap things up.”

  “Fine.”

  WHEN FOG STEPPED OUT, London whispered in Venta’s ear, “This room could be bugged a thousand different ways. Let’s go down to the lobby so we can talk in private.”

  They left the bike against the wall and the check on the table.

  Then headed down to the lobby, bought coffee and took a table in the indoor courtyard under a large green umbrella. After London read the release she tossed it on the table, took a swallow of coffee and smiled.

  “I thought so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This release isn’t something that just acknowledges that you’ve received payment in full for P.I. services rendered,” London said. “It’s a thousand times broader than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, it’s a full release of any and all claims that you might possibly have against the law firm, known or unknown, for whatever reason, from the beginning of time until present.” She studied Venta’s face and added, “What that means is, if you really do have a claim for conspiracy, this release would bar you from bringing it.”

  “So what are you saying? That they know we’re thinking about other claims and are trying to cut them off at the knees by buying us out on the contract claim?”

  London nodded.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she said.

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Venta said.

  London shook her head.

  “No we can’t, can we?”

  21

  Day Four—June 14

  Thursday Morning

  THE WIND KICKED UP DURING THE NIGHT, churning the lake into a sloppy chop. Venta slept through it but Teffinger was already half awake, worrying about Tessa Blake, and ended up climbing topside several times to be sure the anchor was holding.

  Each time the 25# CQR was still cemented to the bottom.

  The boat had swung south but wasn’t drifting.

  He dressed before dawn, pulled the anchor and motored into the marina through the dark, managing to dock the vessel without scraping the hull in spite of the wind. Then they drove home. He showered, slapped Venta on the ass and headed for the door. Venta grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back inside and wrestled him to the floor.

  “I want rug burns,” she said.

  Teffinger rolled her over, pinned her down and kissed her.

  “Tonight,” he said. “I’m already late.”

  “Now.”

  “Tonight,” he repeated. “Be warned.”

  HE ATE CEREAL IN THE TUNDRA as he drove to headquarters.

  Traffic was thin.

  Most of the maniac drivers were still asleep.

  Not all of them, but most.

  Coffee, lots of coffee, that’s what he needed, and not later, now, right this minute.

  He got to work before anyone else as usual and fired up the coffee machine. Waiting, he noticed that his shirt was buttoned crooked and decided that right now, before coffee, he didn’t care. As soon as the stream started falling, he put his cup under it but only filled it halfway, and cut the rest with hot water and cream.

  Ah, delicious.

  It immediately flowed into his veins and started to make the world right. The FBI profiler, Leanne Sanders, Ph.D., walked into the room fifteen minutes later, looked at the pot and said, “That last cup’s mine.”

  She wore an expensive summer dress-suit.

  A diamond the size of a small planet weighted her left hand.

  The hem of her skirt fell five inches above her knees not too high to be improper but high enough to accentuate the shapeliest pair of legs to walk the planet. Teffinger scooped her up in his right arm and swung her around.

  She leaned back, looked at him and made a weird face.

  Then she undid his buttons and re-buttoned them properly.

  “Good thing I’m here to take care of you,” she said, patting his chest.

  “You have no idea.”

  She looked at him again as if sensing something hidden but not being able to put her finger on it. Then she said, “God, I don’t believe it. You’re in lust again. I can see it on your face.”

  He grinned.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE TESSA BLAKE CASE as he made another pot of coffee, hoping she’d shed light on the matter. She listened patiently and asked, “Any chance she has rich relatives or a rich boyfriend? Maybe they got a ransom demand we’re not aware of.”

  Teffinger grunted.

  “Nothing like that,” he said. “The whole thing just baffles me. It’s too weird to be a garden-variety abduction. Someone went to too much trouble. There’s something sinister going on that I just can’t get my arms around.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look as she checked her watch.

  “Have to run,” she said. “My target lands at DIA in two hours.”

  “Tell me about him,” Teffinger said. “What’s his name again?”

  “Jean-Paul Boudiette.”

  “Right, him,” he said. “What’s INTERPOL want with him?”

  She stood up, kissed him on the cheek, headed for the door and said over her shoulder, “Suspicion of murder. I’ll call you later.”

  Teffinger watched her as she walked.

  Just before she got to the door, Sydney entered the room, hugged Leanne and said, “Did you know that the guy behind you is staring at your ass?”

  Leanne looked at Teffinger, then back at Sydney.

  “I thought I felt something,” she said.

  AFTER SANDERS LEFT, Sydney poured a cup of coffee and plopped down in one of the two worn-out leather chairs in front of Teffinger’s equally worn-out desk. “I’ve been checking up on Venta Devenelle,” she said.

  Teffinger winced.

  “Don’t do that,” he said.

  She ignored him.

  “She’s legit,” Sydney said. “She really is a duly licensed California P.I. The only thing out of the ordinary that I noted is that she made a police report a couple of months ago. It seems that both her house and her office were broken into. Her computers disappeared and so did a lot of her files. Maybe that has something to do with why she’s relocating to Denver.”

  Teffinger frowned.

  He didn’t care.

  “You really have to stop telling me this stuff,” he said. “I don’t want to know things about people unless they want me to.”

  She shrugged and pulled an envelope out of her purse.

  “I have the police reports if you want to see them,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Shred them,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Now,” he said.

  She walked over to the shredder and stuffed the envelope in.

  “Happy?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll be happy when we find Tessa Blake.” The oversized industrial clock on the wall, the one with the twitchy second hand, drew his eye for a heartbeat. “She’s our primary focus today,” he said. “We need to get real brilliant, real fast.�
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  22

  Day Four—June 14

  Thursday Afternoon

  AT THE BOXCARS, JEKKER SHOT THE BOW until his arm screamed from repeatedly pulling back the 45-pound string. A bright blue Colorado sky floated above and the pines charged the air with a wonderful, sticky-sweet aroma that only existed in the mountains. The sunshine, as always, went straight to his brain and brightened everything.

  Last night he convinced himself that his back was marked.

  Now, in the daylight, he wasn’t so sure.

  He hoped not.

  He had worked long and hard to get his life to a perfect state.

  The call he was waiting for came mid-afternoon. “Is the woman awake?”

  “She is.”

  “Did you prepare her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  “Fine. Hold on.”

  JEKKER POUNDED ON THE BOXCAR WITH A CLOSED FIST, unlocked the Master padlock, swung the heavy door open far enough to enter, and waved an eight-inch serrated knife at his captive as he climbed in. She cowered in the corner and peered out with frightened eyes from behind greasy black hair.

  “Time to talk,” Jekker told her. “Remember, don’t say a word until I give the go-ahead. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “Otherwise there’s going to be some serious drama.”

  The woman swallowed.

  “Are you still there?” Jekker questioned into the phone.

  “Yeah,” the voice said. “Go ahead and put the phone up to her ear. I’m going to patch our caller in. Once I do, don’t say anything. I don’t want him to hear your voice.” Jekker sat down next to the woman, got his ear next to hers and put the phone between them.

  “Be good,” he said.

  A MAN’S VOICE CAME THROUGH, one that Jekker had never heard before. “Who am I speaking to?” the man asked.

  Jekker’s captive looked at him, seeking permission to answer.

  Jekker nodded.

  “This is Tessa Blake,” she said.

  “Are you the same Tessa Blake who works for Molly Maids?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your social security number?”

  “750-293-8286,” she said. “No, wait, 750-923-8286.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She told him.

  “What color are your curtains?”

  “Blue.”

  “You have a window facing the back parking lot, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a sticker on that window. What’s it say?”

  “I don’t remember a sticker,” she said.

  “Think.”

  She did and then remembered.

  “It says, Warning—Guarded by Attack Ferrets. It’s not ours. The previous renters put it there.”

  The line went dead.

  JEKKER SMILED, PATTED THE WOMAN on her head and said, “You did good. Did you recognize the person talking to you?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any idea who he was?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  Jekker shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She looked hesitant, as if she wanted to ask him something but was afraid.

  “What is it?” Jekker asked.

  “Can I come outside for a while? I don’t like being alone in the dark. I won’t do anything wrong, I promise.”

  Jekker stood up and shook his head.

  “No,” he said.

  Then he hopped out, closed the door and relocked it, picturing the darkness closing in on the woman.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER HIS CELL PHONE RANG.

  “That went well,” the voice said. “I was afraid that she’d shout something out.”

  “I had a knife in her face,” Jekker said.

  “Good move. I’ll be in touch. Remember, we’re not going to want her body found if we decide to kill her.”

  Jekker nodded.

  “I already have a place,” he said.

  23

  Day Four—June 14

  Thursday Evening

  THE WIND KICKED UP AFTER SUPPER and then the rain came. London and Venta wound through the side streets of Lakewood with the windshield wipers on full until they became confident that no one followed. They ended up in a dim hole-in-the-wall bar on Union, sipping bad wine and nibbling pretzels, in the booth near the restrooms, Venta’s treat.

  Outside the weather pounded.

  Soft country-western music played, barely audible above the storm, just enough to dampen the air.

  London kept her back to the seat and one eye on the door.

  “The big question we have at this point is—how do we proceed?” London said. “I have to admit, when you first told me your theory, I didn’t think we’d actually find anything to support it. I mean, face it, most law firms aren’t in the slave trade business.”

  Venta cocked her head.

  “Most law firms aren’t international in scope,” she said. “They don’t have the connections.”

  “True, but still—”

  “Having been there, I can tell you one thing,” Venta said. “It’s very lucrative. There’s a real demand for tall, blond women like me in that part of the world. Lots of men are looking for a different flavor and are willing to pay insane money to get it. There’s a lot of sick little perverts out there with deep wallets.”

  London nodded.

  “How sick exactly? Give me an example.”

  Venta retreated in thought. A deep-seated seriousness washed over her face. Then she told a story so vivid and detailed that London felt as if she was right there.

  VENTA WOKE UP NERVOUS, primarily because they hadn’t booked a single session for her yesterday, and in fact let her spend most of the day getting sun and stretching her legs outside in the courtyard. That wasn’t because she hadn’t been demanded, she had, no doubt about that.

  No, it was because they wanted her well rested and in good shape for today, meaning something brutal for an important client, one who would reach deep in his pocket and would expect an equal amount in return.

  They didn’t come for her until mid-morning, after she had paced back and forth in her cell for hours. They took her to a dungeon she hadn’t seen before—bigger than the others and stocked with more devices, no doubt reserved for special clients.

  Unlike the prior times, they didn’t fasten her down anywhere. Five minutes after they left, an Asian man entered, fifty or so, with thinning black hair and a stern look.

  He was short, incredibly short, no more than five-one or two, and thin.

  Venta’s first thought was that she could take him in a fair fight. Her second thought was that she better not try. Something in his eyes was wrong, off, diseased almost.

  “I have purchased you for the whole day,” he said. The words didn’t surprise her as much as the fact that he spoke English, very good English. “You will do everything I say without protest. Things are going to be bad for you, but if you resist me in any way, or if you show me even the slightest disrespect, things will be a hundred times worse. Do you understand what I just said?”

  She nodded.

  “Say it!” he said.

  Her lower lip trembled.

  “I understand,” she said.

  He bound her in a standing spread-eagle position, stretched tight and gagged, with her feet poised on large air-filled balls. He felt every nook and corner of her body, twisting her nipples and playing with her, until her leg muscles lost control and her feet slipped off the balls.

  She fell into a hanging position, supported only by her wrists and ankles.

  She swung and wiggled as much as she could in protest, hoping against hope that the little freak had at least some measure of decency left in his soul.

  Instead of letting her down
he walked over to the wall and lifted a small, sharp whip off a hook.

  “I think we’re warmed up now,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

  LONDON WAVED HER HAND, not able to listen to any more.

  “Enough,” she said.

  Lightning suddenly exploded, so close that London lifted up. When she realized that the building hadn’t been hit, she took a long swallow of wine.

  Then she looked at Venta.

  “We know V&B is dirty,” she said. “But we still don’t have any tangible proof.”

  “What about the check they offered?”

  London shook her head.

  “That was tendered in connection with what the law calls a settlement discussion,” she said. “That means that nothing that happened in the meeting, including the fact that they offered payment, can be used as evidence at trial. It’s excluded from admission under Rule 408.”

  “Well that sucks,” Venta said.

  London nodded, very true.

  But she said, “The law works that way to encourage settlement discussions. If a party’s offer could be used as evidence against them, then no one would ever make an offer, meaning no cases would ever settle, meaning five times as many cases would end up going to trial.”

  “So what do we do?”

  London drained the rest of her wine, then got the bartender’s attention and held up two fingers.

  He poured two new glasses, carried them over and set them on the table. Venta handed him a ten and told him to keep the change. He grinned as if he had just won the lottery and said thanks in a voice that meant it.

  London twisted the new glass.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she said. “The thing that impresses me about the whole operation is that they have to get the woman—in this case, you—to voluntarily travel to Bangkok. Like you said, it would be too messy to try to abduct someone here in the States and then try to sneak them halfway across the world. Commercial airlines would be out of the question, meaning they’d either need private planes or some sort of water travel. Either way, there would be a thousand things that could go wrong.”