It was.
“Well, Dylan Jekker, a friend of mine told me he drove off in your car by mistake the other night. He was at a strip club and got pretty drunk. The car’s an Audi. The registration in the glove box indicates it’s yours. Is that true?”
Drove off by mistake?
What a crock.
The doors were locked.
The keys weren’t in the ignition.
“Yeah, that’s mine,” Jekker said. “Where is it?”
“We can bring it to you if you want.”
“Okay, good.”
“It will need to be later this afternoon,” the man said. “That will give you time to get to the bank.”
The bank?
“What is this, a shakedown? You steal my car and now you think you can sell it back to me? You little punk—”
The man laughed.
“Steal,” the man said. “Such a strong word. I don’t know if you ever watch the news, but they’ve been airing this story about some poor woman named Samantha Rickenbacker who got killed Tuesday night. Her roommate, a sweet young thing named Tessa Blake, disappeared. The police are searching like crazy, but so far they haven’t been able to come up with that one critical clue that they need so bad.”
Jekker paced, knowing where this was going.
“Go on,” he said.
“The weirdest thing happened. It turns out that there’s an envelope under the front seat of your car,” the man said. “Inside that envelope are pictures of the woman who disappeared—Tessa Blake. We thought you probably wouldn’t mind having those pictures back. We can bring them, if you want, when we drop off the car. But we were wondering if you had a reward out for them.”
Jekker kicked a chair.
It fell over.
“Stop being cute,” he said. “How much?”
“We were thinking that a hundred thousand is a nice round number, that is, if there’s a reward out for them. We hope there is, because then you get them back and we never saw them.”
Jekker didn’t know who was on the other end of the line but he did know one thing.
It was the next person he would kill.
41
Day Six—June 16
Saturday Morning
WHEN THE EARLY RAYS OF DAWN worked their way into the bedroom, London reminded herself that she didn’t get to bed until two in the morning because of the redeye, and that it was way too early to get up. But the anticipation of the upcoming day wouldn’t let her get back to sleep.
So she threw off the sheets and took a shower.
Wearing shorts and a pink T-shirt, she peddled the Trek to the McDonald’s on Alameda, sat down at a corner table and propped herself up with caffeine. She no longer had any doubts that a human trafficking conspiracy existed and that it emanated from Denver.
But where in Denver, exactly?
Vesper & Bennett?
At first she had thought, yes, absolutely, based on a number of things: Venta had a feeling that the firm who called her was large. The call came from a payphone in the lobby of the V&B’s building. V&B was in the process of opening an office in Bangkok. Thomas Fog was willing to cough up twenty grand without much of a fight. Fog wanted a comprehensive release, one broad enough to wipe out torts, conspiracies and any other type of action. Someone ran London off the road on her bike, and maybe even tried to kill her, not long after she made contact with V&B. Someone slashed Venta’s tires.
But now she had new information.
The calls to Rebecca Vampire had come from the lobby of a different building. That didn’t mean that someone from V&B hadn’t walked over there and made them, but it did raise at least a shadow of a doubt, enough to make London focus on the flip side of the V&B “evidence.”
ANYONE COULD HAVE USED THE PHONE in the lobby of V&B’s building. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for V&B to agree to pay an alleged claim by a P.I., even if it was highly questionable, if for no other reason than to avoid the cost, time and embarrassment of a trial. Twenty grand was chump change. If V&B was going to pay an alleged claim, it also wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask for a standard release. Finally, there was no telling who ran London off the road. It could have been some drunk or someone who just didn’t see her. Teenagers could have slashed Venta’s tires.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized just how thin the case against V&B was.
No, thin wasn’t even the word.
Microscopic.
If she filed the case at this point, the court would have no option but to bounce it out on its ass, and would probably assess attorney fees against her for bringing it.
Not good.
VENTA PICKED HER UP AN HOUR LATER, looking like the winner of the genetic gene pool. She wore an aqua tank top and abbreviated white shorts that showcased tanned muscular legs. Unlike yesterday in Miami, when she had her hair in a ponytail, it now hung loose and full.
Very exotic.
“How’s Teffinger?” London asked.
“He scares me,” Venta said.
What?
Why?
“If he’s reckless with me, I’m going to break.”
London nodded.
“That’s the problem. The higher you go, the farther you fall. It’s called gravity. The secret is to pack an emotional parachute, just in case.”
“How do you do that?” Venta asked.
“I don’t know. Just be sure you don’t dump all your friends, I guess.”
“I want you to meet him.”
“Really?”
Venta nodded.
“Yeah. Would you mind?”
No, she wouldn’t.
Not at all.
They found a free 2-hour parking spot near 10th and Bannock and then headed over to the financial district, an easy fifteen minute hike. When they got to the Republic Plaza Building, they found a cluster of public payphones. Venta dialed the number that had been used to call Rebecca Vampire.
No ringing.
They found another cluster.
Same thing.
No ringing.
They finally located the phone they were looking for on the fourth try. It turned out to be near a restaurant at the north edge of the building.
“Maybe someone from V&B was over here at another law firm for depositions or something. He ate at the restaurant and made the calls either before or after,” Venta said.
“Were the calls made around the noon hour?” London asked.
Venta shrugged.
“I don’t remember. We’ll have to ask Mackenzie.”
THE BUILDING DIRECTORY listed hundreds of tenants. Venta pulled a small spiral notebook out of her purse and began writing down every one that could be a law firm.
Then something weird happened.
Two Asian men walked across the lobby, immaculately dressed in suits and ties, looking like lawyers, intense, on a mission, carrying leather briefcases.
Venta squeezed London’s elbow and said, “Follow them!”
42
Day Six—June 16
Saturday Morning
TESSA BLAKE’S BODY HADN’T SHOWN UP YET, at least as of last night. Until and unless it did, Teffinger was prepared to treat her as alive even though lots of contemporaries would say that he was trying to blow smoke upwind. He got up an hour before daybreak and jogged in the dark.
Venta’s perfume hung on him.
It was barely perceptible but strong enough to pull up the memory of last night, when she got back from Miami and crawled into bed at two in the morning, horny, not in the mood to be denied, as if Teffinger could or would.
Venta.
Venta.
Venta.
Who was she?
Where was she taking him?
He picked up the pace, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn. What he really needed was a full workout at 24-Hour Fitness every day for a month but that hadn’t happened in over three years when he took over as the head of the homicide unit.
Back ho
me, he smelled coffee.
Venta was in the kitchen making pancakes, wearing one of his T-shirts.
“You’re going to abandon me today,” she said. “I can already tell.”
He walked over and pulled up the shirt to see if she wore anything underneath.
She didn’t.
He slapped her ass.
It hardly moved.
“Got to,” he said. “But I’ll make it up to you tonight.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. We’ll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Right.” He poured a cup of coffee, headed for the shower and added over his shoulder, “Up to ten dollars.” She stuck her tongue out. “By the way, did I say thanks for the coffee?”
“No.”
“I will,” he said.
HE ATE PANCAKES FROM A PLATE IN HIS LAP as he drove to headquarters. The FBI profiler, Dr. Leanne Sanders, was sitting at his desk working on something when he walked into the room—a surprise. The aroma of caffeine floated in the air.
She glanced at her watch and said, “You used to get up early.”
He gave her a sideways look and headed for the pot.
As he poured a cup he said, “The first rule of the forest is, don’t mess with Sasquatche before he’s had his coffee.”
She grinned.
“Good analogy, except we’re not in a forest, and you’re not Sasquatche.”
Then she laughed as if she had just heard a joke.
“What?” he asked, curious.
“I almost added, ‘Notwithstanding the similar IQs.’”
He grinned.
“But you didn’t say it, because you’re so nice.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That and the fact that I don’t want to insult Sasquatche.”
He laughed and then asked, “So what’s the latest and greatest with your Frenchman? What’s his name—?”
“Boudiette.”
“—Right, Boudiette.”
“He hasn’t resurfaced since he attacked me,” she said. “He’s still technically checked in at the Adams Mark Hotel downtown, but he’s un-technically AWOL.”
“Is he still in Denver?”
“My guess is yes,” she said. “We still think that the lawyer, Mark Remington, is his target. So we’re tracking him, hoping to catch Boudiette in the act.”
“Do you think that will work?”
“Probably not.”
“Why is Frenchie after the lawyer?”
“We don’t know.”
He studied her.
“How’s your head?”
She shook it, as if to test whether it was there.
“It’s still attached.”
HE SHOWED HER COPIES OF THE PICTURES of Tessa Blake and explained how the originals had been found by a highway trash crew. She confirmed that they were the kind that would be given to a hit man.
“Maybe Frenchie,” Teffinger said.
“Right,” she said. “Except he wasn’t in Denver yet.”
He put a disappointed look on his face.
“You sure know how to ruin a good theory with facts.”
“Here’s another fact,” she said. “A hit man wouldn’t throw pictures of a target out a car window. That’s what shredders are for.”
“So what do you make of them?”
She took a closer look.
“They were definitely taken with a telephoto lens,” she said. “And you can tell by her face that she didn’t know it was going down. So they were definitely taken surreptitiously. Any prints?”
Teffinger held his hands up in surrender.
“A few,” he said. “Most belonged to the woman from the trash crew who found them. But we pulled a couple of others too. Unfortunately they didn’t match up to anyone.”
“They never do.”
SUDDENLY HIS CELL PHONE RANG and the voice of Jena Vernon came through. Most people along the front range knew her as the charismatic roving reporter from the Channel 8 TV news. Teffinger knew her from the old high school days back in Fort Collins when she was the ticklish tomboy down the street.
“Do you know Dick Zucker, our weatherman?” she asked.
“Not personally,” he said.
“I know not personally, but you know who he is, right?”
He did.
“Well, he has a 20-year-old daughter named Brandy Zucker. She didn’t come home last night. She’s been missing since yesterday afternoon and isn’t answering her cell phone.” Jena said. “Dick’s totally freaked out.”
“The girl’s probably out partying somewhere,” Teffinger said. “You were twenty once, remember?”
“I know Dick,” she said. “He doesn’t exaggerate. Can you talk to him or something?”
Teffinger winced.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” he said.
“I’d consider it a personal favor,” Jena said. “If you do it, I’ll let you tickle me again the next time we’re down by the river.”
Teffinger pulled up a high school memory, one he hadn’t thought of in years, Sunday afternoons down by the river with Jena and Jana, wrestling and goofing around.
“I don’t get down there much anymore,” he said.
“It doesn’t have to be at the river,” she said.
“Be careful,” he said. “I’m going to call your bluff one of these days.”
“So you say.”
43
Day Six—June 16
Saturday Afternoon
JEKKER WOUND UP BEAR CREEK CANYON with the river on his left and the radio off, trying to decide if the man blackmailing him with the photos was a problem. The police would know Jekker’s identity as soon as he released Tessa Blake. She’d be able to describe being held in a mountain setting with three boxcars. Even a dumb-ass civil servant detective would be able to locate the place sooner or later and trace the ownership to Jekker.
His fingerprints were everywhere.
He couldn’t remove them in ten years, not even with an army of Molly Maids.
So, within a very short time, Jekker’s name would be on an arrest warrant for the murder of Samantha Rickenbacker and the abduction of Tessa Blake, followed by an insanely intense manhunt. The blackmailer didn’t really pose much of an additional threat. More evidence, yes. But the cops would already have all the coffin nails they needed.
The blackmailer was shooting blanks but didn’t know it.
The important thing at this point was to keep him from going to the cops before Jekker got out of the country, meaning he needed to leave today if possible.
Or stall him until Monday.
Or pay him.
Or kill him.
Of course, there was one other option. That was to kill Tessa Blake and kill the blackmailer too, if he could. That would get Jekker out of the cop net. But then he’d be in direct disregard of his orders to release Tessa Blake. At a minimum, he’d have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder and wondering if a rifle was pointed at the back of his head.
How did everything get so complicated?
And then there was the stripper, Bethany.
If he took her with him to Europe, she’d probably end up bolting after she found out he was wanted. The only way he could have a future with her was to not get wanted in the first place, meaning he would have to kill Tessa Blake and the blackmailer.
He passed Idledale and turned onto his road, kicking up a trail of dust.
The gate was locked, as it should be, and the twig that he put on top of the lock was still in place.
Good.
He passed through, relocked the gate behind him, and headed up the road.
JUST AS THE BOXCARS CAME INTO SIGHT, his phone rang and the voice of Bethany, the stripper, came through. She sounded nervous.
“Some guy’s been stalking me,” she said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “My only guess is that he’s someone from the club.”
“Every time I turn around he’s there,” she said.
“You’ve seen his face?”
“Yeah, but I don’t recognize him.” She paused and then added, “I’m scared.”
Jekker knew what she wanted.
The timing couldn’t have been worse.
But he couldn’t deny her.
“I’ll take care of him for you,” he said.
“He’s big,” she warned.
AT THE END OF THE ROAD he killed the engine and looked through the windshield to be sure Tessa Blake’s boxcar was still locked.
It was.
Perfect.
He stepped out of the vehicle and stretched as he walked, still trying to sort everything out.
Amsterdam would be a good place to live. Damn near everyone there spoke English. He could get an apartment on one of the canals. Both Paris and London were only a short train ride away. He could vacation on the French Riviera and play blackjack in Monte Carlo. Maybe he’d spend a week or two in Greece every now and then—get some culture.
He pictured Bethany with him.
Why?
He didn’t know.
There was just something about her.
No sounds came from Tessa Blake’s boxcar.
Jekker pictured her passed out and numb from being on the hard floor for so long.
“Lucy, I’m home,” he said in his best Ricky voice.
No response came.
As he pulled the key out of his pocket, something whizzed past his ear, not more than an inch away, and ricocheted off the lock.
A bullet.
He turned and spotted a movement on the side of the mountain, more than two hundred yards off, and dove under the railroad car.
44
Day Six—June 16
Saturday Morning
LONDON FOLLOWED the two Asian men into the elevator and watched as they pressed floor thirty-nine. Everyone faced the front and said nothing on the way up. When the men got out, one of them turned and looked at her.
Not towards her, at her.
Their eyes locked and for some frightening reason she felt like prey being studied by a predator.
Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Page 12