Lawyer Trap (14 page)

“He flies in Monday night, then he'll drive up to the cabin Tuesday morning, so you need to have the stripper in place by then at the latest. He wants to be sure she's snatched before he gets to Denver. Is all that doable?”

“I'm pretty sure,” he said.

“Handle the tattoo woman any way you want. Just be sure you have the stripper at the cabin by Monday evening. This guy isn't the kind of person I want to screw around with.”

“No problem.”

After he hung up, Draven went into the bedroom to check on his little catch, Mia Avila. Lying there, naked and hogtied, she looked incredibly vulnerable. He played with her hair.

She made wonderful little noises through her gag.

“So, what should I do with you? Kill you myself or save you for the next guy?”

Either way, he should definitely have a little fun first.

He turned her on her back and played with her nipples, then ran an index finger up and down her incredibly smooth stomach.

“Feels good, doesn't it?”

37

DAY SEVEN–SEPTEMBER 11

SUNDAY

O
n Sunday morning, Teffinger wanted to take Davica for a ride in the ′67, maybe up to Red Rocks or old town Morrison, somewhere in that geography, where the mountains were big and the traffic lights were few—stop for a cup of coffee somewhere. But he knew deep down that he wouldn't be able to relax and enjoy it.

Not with so much going on.

So instead he got up early, showered in the guest bathroom so he wouldn't wake Davica, left her a note that he was reserving her for this evening, and headed to the office. He hadn't been there more than ten minutes when Barb Winters, the dispatcher, a woman with new breast implants and a new wardrobe, called.

“Got a body for you,” she said. “And it's not mine.”

Teffinger frowned.

“Where?”

“Way out east, past Monaco.”

Teffinger knew the area well and pulled up an image of meticulously restored tutor mansions sitting on tree-lined boulevards, the home of Denver's rich, powerful and elite.

“Katie Baxter's on call and she's taking it,” Winters added. “She just wanted me to let you know about it in case you were in the mood to drive out there and bring her a cup of coffee.”

Fifteen minutes later Teffinger arrived at the scene with a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups.

The house turned out to be a brick castle, well guarded by a designer wrought-iron fence, with a long cobblestone driveway that ended at a six-car garage.

Money.

Money.

Money.

Some people had too much of it.

He slipped on gloves, checked in with the scribe, and walked into the house. In the lobby he found a huge oil painting, almost three feet square. He'd never seen it before but immediately recognized it as a Delano. The work, titled “Navajo Boy,” depicted an Indian boy of ten or eleven, wearing a red shirt and red bandanna, walking with a heavily packed and very tired mule in a desert setting. A panting dog followed.

Teffinger got up close and studied the brushwork.

Many of the strokes were thick and bold, with heavy paint, obviously applied when the painting was almost complete. They were the kind of strokes that took guts, because they had to be laid on perfectly the first time, otherwise they'd ruin the painting.

“Good for you,” Teffinger said.

He found Katie Baxter in the bedroom with the body of a man who had been shot in the face and didn't have much of it left.

“Lovely,” he said. “Who is he?”

Baxter jumped and said, “Don't sneak up on me like that.” She wore black pants, tennis shoes and a dark blue blouse that did nothing to show off the world-class chest beneath. “His name's Brad Ripley,” she said. “Apparently some kind of high roller with a propensity for coke and women.”

She pointed to a plastic bag of white powder on the nightstand.

Teffinger bent down and examined it.

It looked like cocaine, all right.

A lot of cocaine, in fact.

“So someone shot him and didn't take the coke?” he questioned. “What's wrong with that picture?”

Katie nodded.

“That's the same weird thought I had,” she said. “Nor did they take his Rolex or the wallet in his back pocket with over five grand in it.”

Teffinger felt his curiosity perk.

“So, we're either dealing with a very bad thief, or something else altogether,” he said.

Katie cocked her head.

“I'd say it's a hate thing,” she said. “Someone didn't want to see his face anymore.”

Teffinger agreed.

“Make a list of his enemies,” he said. “Your killer's somewhere on that piece of paper.” He took one more look at the hole where the man's face used to be, and then headed for the door. “I'm around as a backup if you need me. Otherwise, run with it.”

38

DAY SEVEN–SEPTEMBER 11

SUNDAY MORNING

A
spen rolled over in bed and almost continued sleeping when she realized that everything was a little off—the feel of the pillow, the smell of the air, the texture of the sounds. She opened her eyes, found herself in a strange dark room, and bolted upright as her heart pounded.

Where was she?

She held her breath, listening for danger, but detected none. Then she remembered Blake Gray insisting that she be somewhere safe last night and checking her into the Adam's Mark Hotel in downtown Denver.

Another room connected to hers.

In that room was a man named Larry Speaker, a professional bodyguard and part-time black-belt instructor, packing a SIG .45 and a Concealed Weapon Permit.

She got out of bed, checked the connecting door and found it just as she had left it before going to bed last night—closed but unlocked.

She opened it as quietly as she could and peeked into the other room. She found her protector, Speaker, curled up on his side under a white blanket, breathing deep and heavy.

Okay.

She had survived the night.

But what about two months from now, when the bodyguards and hiding places were long gone?

The clock said 5:30
A.M.

She dressed without making a noise and went down to the hotel's fitness center. One other person was there, a middle-aged bald man walking on a treadmill and watching an early morning news program on the monitor. He smiled and said hello when she walked in, but she could tell he wouldn't be hitting on her.

She worked the weights for thirty minutes and then spun the stationary bike until her legs burned.

When she got back to her room, Speaker was there, pacing, dressed and stressed, talking frantically into a cell phone. When she stepped into the room he said, “Goddamn it! Don't ever do that again without leaving a note.”

She felt like shit.

He was absolutely right.

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I wasn't thinking.”

He must have read something in her voice because he immediately softened and said, “Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're okay.”

“Sorry,” she said again.

He nodded.

“No problem.”

She showered, packed, put a note on the nightstand, and then quietly slipped out of the room. The note said: Larry. Thanks for protecting me last night. Sorry again for the brain-fart.

She headed back to her apartment but found yellow crime tape on the door and didn't know whether she should enter even though it was her place. She decided she probably shouldn't and drove to Einstein's for coffee and a bagel instead.

Then her cell phone rang.

Christina Tam's voice came though.

“Are you still alive?”

Aspen grunted.

“As far as I can tell. Why? Do you have your eye on my office?”

“God, no. Your office sucks.”

Twenty minutes later Christina showed up, waved, got in line to buy a coffee and then joined her. She wore tennis shoes and a short white skirt that emphasized smooth golden legs.

“I've been thinking about what you asked me,” Christina said, slurping at the cup.

“What's that?”

“About whether Rachel Ringer had a lover,” she said.

“Meaning what? She did?”

“No,” she said, pushing her glasses up. “But a thought came to the surface while I was trying to go to sleep last night. I saw Rachel once, at a restaurant, having lunch with Blake Gray. I was going to go over and say hello, but their body language told me they wanted to be alone, so I stayed back.”

Aspen considered it.

She didn't find it particularly compelling.

“Probably discussing a case,” she said.

“Could be,” Christina said. “But I didn't get that impression. They were in this real private booth, way in the back of the restaurant. I didn't see any briefcases or papers with them. And Rachel had this look on her face as if she was about to slip under the table and give him a blowjob.”

Aspen laughed.

“Rachel never struck me as the blowjob type.”

“Maybe, but she had the blowjob look,” Christina said.

Aspen cocked her head.

“There's a look for that?” she asked.

Christina nodded.

“Show me,” Aspen said.

Christina paused at first and then put on her best blowjob face.

Aspen couldn't help but laugh.

Then Christina got serious and said, “I have an idea.”

39

DAY SEVEN–SEPTEMBER 11

SUNDAY MORNING

D
raven stayed at the cabin Saturday night, mounting Mia Avila before he went to sleep, and once again in the middle of the night. She didn't mean anything to him, emotionally that is. Gretchen—who thought he was on an all-night stakeout on an important case—was the one.

In fact, he even thought of her when he came.

He slept late Sunday morning, having downed a little more Jack than he probably should have. Then he finally crawled out of bed, threw water on his face, dressed, and jogged all the way down to Highway 119 and back.

Pine scent hung thick in the air.

The early autumn Colorado sky didn't have a single cloud.

There wasn't a wisp of wind.

The temperature was nice.

By the time he got back he was wide awake, energetic and very glad to be alive.

When he walked into the bedroom, Mia Avila watched his every move.

“Do you want a shower?” he asked.

She nodded and mumbled as if asking him to remove the gag.

He did and she immediately gulped for air.

“Don't say a goddamn word,” he said. “Otherwise it goes back on.”

She stared at him, sizing him up, not daring to utter a single syllable. He warmed the shower, untied her, and then marched her in. He let her close the curtain but stayed in the room. She didn't come out until the hot water turned to warm water and the warm water turned to cold water. Then she turned the faucet off and opened the curtain just a touch, enough to stick her head out.

“Can I have a towel?” she asked.

Draven threw her one. She dried off behind the curtain, wrapped it around her body and then stayed there.

“Get out here,” Draven said.

She pulled the curtain open, sized him up, and must have decided that he wasn't playing around, because she stepped out. Her hair dripped on the floor.

Suddenly Draven felt hungry.

“You want some breakfast?” he asked.

She nodded. “That would be nice.”

He sat her in one of the orange vinyl chairs at the kitchen table and said, “Put your hands on top of your head and leave them there.”

She hesitated, but then complied.

He kept a good eye on her, made two bowls of cereal, carried them over and put one in front of her. She started to bring her hands down and he said, “Not yet.”

She kept them up.

The towel unwrapped and fell into her lap.

She knew better than to reach down.

He got the coffee pot started then sat down and told her she could eat now.

She brought her hands down and immediately covered up.

“Don't even think about trying anything,” he warned.

“I won't.”

She devoured the cereal so fast that he realized just how long it had been since she last ate. He fixed her another bowl and watched her.

“Just let me go and none of this ever happened,” she said. “I won't tell a soul. Not a single soul. I promise.”

Draven smiled.

How many times had he heard that before?

“Oh, really?” he said.

“I promise,” she said. Her voice took on an animated tone, as if she believed she could actually talk her way out of it. Draven played along, asking her the details of how they would work things out, and how he could be sure she wouldn't ever tell anyone.

Then she said something he didn't expect.

“If you don't let me go they'll find you sooner or later,” she said. “I put the two thousand dollars in the safe, with a note that it's from you.” He must have reacted to the words, because she seemed to brighten. “Your fingerprints are all over the money.”

He stood up, put his hands in the middle of the table and leaned towards her.

“What does the note say, exactly?”

“Money from Nash Evans for Denver tattoo. The police will eventually figure out that I left the shop with you and never came back.”

Then he remembered telling her that was his name.

Good thing, too, in hindsight.

He eased back in his chair.

“That's not my real name,” he said.

The smug look fell off her face.

But then she said, “It doesn't matter. The name's in the logbook. So is the name of the woman I was tattooing when you came in. When the police ask her about Nash Evans, she's going to describe you.”