Sydney brushed plaster off his shirt.
Then they locked up and fought traffic on the way back to headquarters, not getting a single good song on the radio except “California Dreaming.”
BACK AT HIS DESK, cooling his heels until the lab could get the safe open, Teffinger pushed papers and tried to not get too nervous. Kate Baxter showed up mid-afternoon and took a chair.
“Sorry I couldn’t join you,” Teffinger said. “What was the guy’s name again?”
“Porter Potter.”
“Tell me it was an accident,” he said. “I don’t want any more job security around here.”
“It was,” she said.
He nodded.
“Chalk up one for the good guys,” he said.
“Right.”
“Winters said he hit his head or something.”
“He fell changing a light bulb,” Kate said.
“Well that’s dumb.”
“Drunk is more like it.”
Teffinger grinned. “One more example of Don’t Drink and Do Stuff.”
Kate laughed.
“The poster child.”
Then a serious expression washed over her face.
“What?” Teffinger asked.
“He might have been drinking because of his daughter,” she said. “Do you remember that airplane crash at the Jefferson County Airport earlier this year? The one where six people died?”
No.
He didn’t.
“She was on that plane,” Kate said.
“That’s a shame.”
She nodded.
“He still has her pictures all over the place,” she added. “Dozens of them. She looks a lot like Tessa Blake.”
“My Tessa Blake? The Molly Maid?”
Kate nodded.
“They could have been sisters,” she added.
73
Day Nine—June 19
Tuesday Afternoon
JEKKER GOT ANOTHER HOUR OF HIS LIFE sucked away in the canyon traffic jam. Then the idiots in charge announced that the road wouldn’t reopen at all. It would be closed for the indefinite future because the boulder needed to be blasted into manageable chunks to be removed. Also they were bringing experts in to look at the canyon walls to determine if other outcroppings were in danger of breaking off. Everyone had to turn around and squeeze through Morrison, which had been designed for horses and wagons instead of a New York rush hour.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Move your ass.
Get the hell out of my way.
Don’t try to squeeze in front of me you jerk.
I’ll take you down.
I’ll take you down to Chinatown.
Jekker was so frazzled by the time he finally punched through all the congestion and got to the wide-open lanes of C-470 that he couldn’t even sing along with Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.”
The canyon closure was more than an inconvenience, it was the death knell for one of the two escape routes from the boxcars.
Now there was only one way out and one way in, namely a long circular route of many miles up I-70, through Evergreen and then back down Highway 74.
What a pain in the ass but he had no choice, so that’s the route he took.
THREE MILES FROM THE BOXCARS, Jekker encountered a police roadblock. A baby-faced cop told him that the canyon ahead was closed due to an accident and possible rockslides, but then let Jekker through when he told him he had a place up the road, this side of the accident.
“Just keep a lookout,” the cop said.
“Will do.”
Jerk.
How was Jekker supposed to do that?
Be looking up as he drove?
Two miles later something weird happened. A helicopter sat on the canyon road. Two others circled directly above. The chopper must have just landed because there were no cars by it.
Three people stood outside, two men and a woman.
Jekker recognized the woman.
She was Jena Vernon, the green-eyed TV 8 reporter, blond, very hot.
He actually had a dream about her once. They were making out in the backseat of a car at night. She was a dog in heat, insatiable, nothing more than a heaping pile of animal lust. She had Jekker’s cock in her hand and was trying to get him to put it in, but he was holding out, teasing her, making her beg for it. That’s when a pack of flying monkeys showed up and carried the car into the sky, miles and miles above the earth, almost into outer space, and dropped it.
Weird.
JEKKER PULLED UP TO THE CHOPPER AND STEPPED OUT.
“You guys okay?” he asked.
A man wearing jeans and T-shirt, no doubt the pilot, said, “We’re fine. But if you’re trying to get up the road, this bad boy isn’t going anywhere for a while.”
It turned out that they had been covering the car that got squashed by the boulder, developed problems and made an emergency landing. A mechanical crew was en route to evaluate the aircraft but probably wouldn’t be able to repair it in place. That meant that a crane would need to be brought in to lift the aircraft onto a flatbed.
“We’re looking at some serious time,” the pilot said.
Jekker half listened as the pilot talked and half focused on Jena Vernon, now sitting on the riverbank and tossing rocks into the water. She wore beige cotton pants and a short-sleeve white blouse, simple but sexy. He walked over and sat down.
“You see that boulder sticking out of the river over there?” he asked, pointing.
She did.
“I’m not going to tell you my name unless you can hit it with a rock.”
She checked him out then stood up and threw a rock.
She missed and threw another.
And another.
And another.
Then she hit it, just barely, on the side, but a hit nonetheless.
She sat down and said, “Okay, so what’s your name?”
“Dylan.”
She shook his hand.
“I’m Jena Vernon.”
“I know,” he said.
Five minutes later her phone rang. She told Jekker, “Excuse me a moment,” and answered. Then, into the phone, “Teff—no, I’m okay—honest—well, yeah, there is one thing you could do now that you mention it—get me drunk and take advantage of me—I am serious—”
She hung up and said, “An old friend of mine.”
“Lucky guy,” he said.
74
Day Nine—June 19
Tuesday Night
THE THREE WOMEN FOLLOWED THE BLACK SEDAN as it looped around towards Larimer Square but then lost it after getting stuck at a light. That was fine with London. Her watch said midnight and her body said sleep.
Twenty minutes later she was back at her apartment. She took a quick shower and stretched out face down in bed, wearing flannel pajama shorts and a tank top, barely awake. She didn’t look up when Hannah turned off the living room lights and walked into the room.
“Long day,” Hannah said.
“Mmm.”
“What you need is a backrub,” Hannah said.
Sure.
That would be okay.
Hannah straddled her and kneaded her shoulder muscles. “Feel good?” she asked.
Yes it did.
London kept her eyes closed and her head in the pillow. The bed felt so incredibly good. Hannah felt like an old friend. Nothing else in the world existed.
Hannah’s hands were under London’s shirt now, so nice.
It rode up higher.
Then Hannah said, “Let’s get this off.”
London didn’t say yes but didn’t say no.
Hannah pulled it up and over London’s head.
“That’s better,” Hannah said. “Now we have something to work with.”
The woman’s touch became lighter, more like a caress than a rub, and explored London’s sides and underarms. Then she scooted down towards London’s feet and massaged he
r ass.
London almost said something but didn’t.
It felt too good.
“You may as well get the full body massage,” Hannah said.
“Mmm.”
Hannah went to work on her thighs.
And calves.
And feet.
Then back up her legs to her ass.
When Hannah pulled London’s shorts off, she didn’t protest.
A few minutes later Hannah said, “Time for the front.”
To London’s surprise, she rolled over onto her back.
Hannah straddled her stomach and stretched her arms above her head.
London let her and then left them there.
Vulnerable.
Open.
Curious.
Hannah ran her fingers down London’s arms, slowly, and caressed her underarms and sides and stomach for a long time. Then she ran her fingers in little circles on London’s nipples.
Little sparks fired in London’s brain.
Then Hannah moved down, put her face between London’s legs and used her tongue; her warm, wet tongue. After a few minutes she said, “I’ve never done this before. Does it feel okay?”
Yes it did.
Very okay.
Incredibly okay.
AFTER THE LONGEST AND MOST INTENSE ORGASM of her life, London got a drink of water. When headlights appeared in the parking lot, she took a quick peek to see who was keeping such late hours.
The headlights came from a black sedan.
It slowed as it went by.
London felt mean eyes looking out from behind the deeply tinted windows. Then the vehicle sped up and disappeared out the other side of the lot.
She shivered and said, “We have company.”
75
Day Nine—June 19
Tuesday Afternoon
PAUL KUBIAK CALLED WITH BAD NEWS. Alan English’s safe held car titles, insurance polices, and a small amount of cash, but no bondage CDs. Teffinger said thanks, hung up, and slammed his hand on the desk. The coffee in his cup rippled.
Sydney walked over and took a chair.
She looked tired.
“I got through to about half of English’s passengers so far,” she said. “No one knows what he did with his free time. The way it worked is, they would usually be there anywhere from one to seven days. English was on his own until it was time to leave. A couple of the guys admitted to frequenting the blowjob bars but said they never saw English there.”
“That means he’s dirty,” Teffinger said.
“How so?”
“If he’d been doing normal things like sightseeing, it would have come out.”
Sydney shrugged.
Maybe.
She didn’t know.
When Teffinger told her that English’s safe didn’t have any CDs she said, “Then they don’t exist.”
Teffinger disagreed.
“They exist,” he said. “And the fact that he hid them so well tells me they’re personal—pictures taken by him of his own victims.”
“Come on, Teff,” she said. “We tore that place apart.”
He shook his head.
“He’s got a secret compartment somewhere.”
She looked confused.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
He ran his fingers through his hair and said, “What do you mean?”
“It’s almost as if you want Venta to be dirty.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then how come whenever the evidence points the other way, you don’t accept it?”
“Because not finding something isn’t evidence,” he said. “It’s only evidence when you do find it and see what it says.”
She cocked her head.
“That’s bull and you know it,” she said. “Personally I think you’re just scared.”
“Well you’re right about that.”
“Scared that she isn’t a killer,” Sydney said. “Scared that you let her in your life. Scared that you’re not the only one in control of you anymore.”
He raked his hair back.
“I didn’t know you had a degree in psycho babble.”
She patted his hand.
“Well now you know.”
HE ALMOST GOT IN THE TUNDRA and headed back to English’s, but couldn’t think of where else to look. Ten minutes later Kate Baxter cornered him at the coffee pot.
“We may have a break in the Brandy Zucker case,” she said.
Teffinger raised an eyebrow.
“What kind of break?”
“We got a call from someone named Mary Zang who’s a waitress at a truck stop in Grand Junction,” she said. “She saw the news report and thinks that the woman truck driver might be this lady who stops there once in a while.”
“Run with it,” Teffinger said.
“How far?”
“Drop everything else,” he said. “This poor girl’s been missing too long. We either have a homicide or a homicide-in-the-making. Either way I want to nail this guy.”
Kate retreated in thought.
“If you’re really serious, then I’m going to hop in the car and follow the trail.”
“You mean to Grand Junction?”
“Right.”
He looked at his watch.
“If you leave now you’ll be there by dark.”
SHE GOT UP AND HEADED FOR THE DOOR. Then she came back and said, “I almost forgot to tell you. That guy that you and Leanne Sanders were so interested in, Mark Remington, was a lawyer with Vesper & Bennett, right?”
He nodded.
“Yep.”
“Did you know that our latest dead guy, Porter Potter, had his deposition taken by a Vesper & Bennett attorney recently?”
No.
He didn’t know that.
“Small world,” she said.
TWO MINUTES LATER TEFFINGER’S CELL PHONE RANG. It turned out to be the realtor, Jim Hansen, returning his call from this morning.
“This involves the murder of Samantha Rickenbacker at the house you have listed,” Teffinger said.
“I figured that.”
“Before the night in question, did you get any strange calls? You know—someone who wanted to confirm that the owners weren’t living in the house or something like that?”
The man hesitated.
“I don’t recall anything like that.”
76
Day Nine—June 19
Tuesday Afternoon
JEKKER BACKTRACKED A QUARTER MILE, found a place off the road big enough to park the Audi, and hoofed it to the boxcars on foot—a forty-five minute trek. Tessa Blake was apprehensive when he rolled open the door to her boxcar, with good reason—she was supposed to be free.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re still on track to set you free. Unfortunately we had a complication last night.”
He held his hand out.
She took it and he helped her out of the boxcar.
“What kind of complication?”
He told her about the storm and the unfortunate event of running over the biker woman. “After that happened, I had to get the Audi off the road.”
She cocked her head, deciding whether to believe him or not.
“Today we had another setback,” he said. “The road is blocked in both directions.” At first she didn’t believe it, but he gave her so many details that she had no choice.
“As soon as one way or the other opens up and I can get a car in and out of here, you’re free,” he said. “Until then we have to sit tight.”
“I can’t be in the boxcar anymore,” she said.
He understood and said, “You don’t have to while I’m here, as long as you behave yourself.”
“You know I will,” she said. “I’ve already proved that. I’m proving it right now. Can I take a shower?”
Sure.
SHE COOKED SUPPER and they ate on the deck steps. News helicopters flew back and forth. “See,” he said, pointing. “Down that w
ay they’re covering the car that got squashed. The other way they’re covering the news chopper that made the emergency landing.”
She believed him.
After supper they shot the bow.
The woman was actually starting to show some skill.
Then they walked up and down his driveway until their legs ached.
After dark they put on long-sleeve shirts and drank wine.
Then he chained her in the bed with him and closed his eyes.
THE TV 8 HELICOPTER should be off the road by tomorrow, meaning Tessa Blake would be dead 24-hours from now.
“Pleasant dreams,” he said.
“You too.”
He thought about Jena Vernon and wondered if he could recapture his dream about her if he kept thinking about it before going to sleep, minus the flying monkeys this time.
77
Day Ten—June 20
Wednesday Morning
THE RTD HAD NO KNOWLEDGE of what happened to the Trek after the genius bus driver disappeared with it on Monday night, so London took the Wrangler to work as a temporary solution. She parked it on the other side of Broadway in a free 2-hour spot and hoofed it six blocks to the Eatery. Then she spent the morning carrying plates of food to ungrateful people who thought a 50-cent tip was more than fair.
She hated being there but the rent was due in ten days.
During the morning break, she stepped outside and called Venta. Hannah had already told her about the black sedan trolling past the apartment last night.
“Teffinger told me something weird last night,” Venta said.
“What?”
“Apparently there’s a guy named Porter Potter,” she said. “He was changing a light bulb and managed to fall and crack his head open. It turns out that he had recently been deposed by a Vesper & Bennett attorney. Also, he had a daughter who died in a plane crash earlier this year. It turns out that this missing girl who’s all over the news—Tessa Blake—looked a lot like this guy’s daughter.”
London chewed on it.
“So what’s Teffinger’s take on all that?”
“Nothing,” Venta said. “He just thinks it’s really weird that V&B keeps getting linked to bad stuff.”
Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Page 21