Lawyer Trap (25 page)

She propped her head up with one hand and looked at him. “So when do I get the whole deal?”

“When the case is over.”

“Which is when? Never?”

“As soon as I can get it that way, believe me.”

She ran her fingers through his hair.

“You're so old-fashioned sometimes,” she said.

“Not old-fashioned,” he said, “just experienced in how the courts work. I can't end up catching this guy and then having some sleazy defense attorney muck everything up and get him off by being able to tell the jury that the detective—me—and a person of interest—you—were banging each other's socks off.”

“Simple solution,” she said, “we just don't tell anyone. It's called a First Amendment right to privacy.”

Teffinger shook his head, got out of bed, and headed for the shower. “It's not that simple,” he said over his shoulder.

“Why? Don't you know how to lie?”

He stopped and turned.

“Oh, I can lie all right, but that's not the question,” he said. “The question is, do you feel like going for a jog?”

She laughed.

“You just gave me a workout, in case you didn't notice.”

“Come on,” he said. “Two miles.”

She got out of bed.

“I guess I owe you that.”

“I'll go slow,” he added.

She laughed.

“As if you have any other speed.”

They actually ended up doing three miles, and showered together afterwards. Then Teffinger ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to headquarters.

Mid-morning he got a very unexpected and strange phone call. When he hung up, he swung by Sydney's desk and said, “You got time to take a ride?”

“No, not really.”

“Good, come on.”

“Why, what's going on?”

“Fresh blood.”

They took the 6th Avenue freeway west into Golden, then headed north on Highway 93, riding parallel to the Rocky Mountain foothills under a cloudless Colorado sky. Five miles later, in unincorporated Jefferson County, they turned west on a gravel road that rolled toward the mountains through a treeless terrain.

A mile or so later, they came to where they were headed.

Six or seven police cars punctuated the spot.

Teffinger pulled in at the end of the line and killed the engine.

They checked in with a scribe and then got escorted by a small but serious-looking sheriff by the name of Ben Baxter out to the gravesite, which was about fifty yards off the road.

“The dumb shit buried her in an arroyo,” Baxter said. “The rain last night uncovered her.”

Teffinger nodded.

The gravesite, so far, hadn't been disturbed.

The woman still laid in the ravine, her face sticking out, plus one hand and part of an arm. The rest of her still lay under the dirt, which would have been mud last night, but had mostly dried at this point.

A nail had been pounded into her forehead.

“Looks like he buried her about eight or twelve inches down, is all,” Teffinger said.

“Right. Not too deep,” Baxter said, “which is one of the reasons we called you.”

“This is our guy,” Teffinger said. “No question in my mind.”

Baxter nodded.

“It's your case if you want to take the lead,” Baxter said. “You guys are better equipped for this stuff anyway. We don't get much of this out here.”

“Lucky you,” Teffinger said. “Sure, we'll take it. You want us to process the scene?”

Baxter shrugged.

“You may as well. We'll support you, of course—whatever you want, just holler.”

“Fine,” Teffinger said. “The first thing I want is everyone back on the road and then move a half mile down, people and vehicles. We'll need casts of everyone's boots, so don't let anyone go anywhere.” He looked at a hawk, circling high, riding a wind current. “The interesting thing will be whether there's another body stacked underneath.”

“Or nearby,” Sydney added.

Paul Kwak came out with a crime unit and processed the scene in that slow, methodical way of his. As near as they could tell, the body had been buried last night before the rain started, meaning that none of the countless boot marks now in the area were likely to be relevant.

No stacked body was found underneath.

No other gravesites were found nearby.

No pop cans, cigarettes, or other such items were discovered in the vicinity.

The grave had been dug with a shovel.

The shovel was no longer there.

With any luck, it got put into the trunk of a car or the back of an SUV after the event, dropping residue. Kwak took several soil samples to use for comparison later if the opportunity ever arose.

Watching, off to the side, Teffinger told Sydney, “The victim's got a good body. I wouldn't doubt it a bit if she's that stripper you were telling me about.”

“Agreed.”

“What was her name?”

“I don't remember it off the top of my head, but I have it written down.”

“Where?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “In a notepad, on my desk.”

“Call headquarters and see if someone can find it,” Teffinger said. “Then have them run a background check on her.”

She wandered off and talked into a cell phone.

Five minutes later she came back. “The stripper's name is Samantha Stamp—stage name Chase,” she said. “I called the club to see if she'd shown up for work yet. When I told the guy I was a detective he muttered ‘bitch' under his breath and hung up.”

Teffinger frowned.

“That wasn't very nice.”

70

DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

THURSDAY MORNING

W
hen Aspen got to work at 7:15 Thursday morning, she found an envelope on her chair. Inside was an unsigned piece of paper that said: Go to the Starbucks on the 16th Street Mall at 9:00 a.m. Come alone and don't tell anyone.

She suspected the note came from the same person who accused Christina Tam of being a spy.

Fine.

Let's find out who it was.

She showed up five minutes early, didn't see anyone she knew, ordered a latte, and took a table by the wall. A Billie Holiday song dripped down from ceiling speakers, painful and lamenting. A few minutes later, a man walked over and sat down. He looked vaguely familiar and wore an expensive gray pinstriped suit over a red silk power tie. He looked to be in his early thirties, thin set, and balder than he should be.

“I'm Conrad Conrad,” he said.

She recognized the name.

He was an attorney in the firm.

In the environmental section.

“Sorry to be so mysterious,” he said, “but I felt it best that we met somewhere away from the firm. I hope you don't mind.”

She shook her head.

“No, this is fine. So what's going on?”

The man looked around, apparently saw no one of interest, and refocused on her. “The word's going around that you're asking questions about Rachel,” he said. “Maybe even doing an ad hoc investigation of some sort.”

She didn't know whether to admit it or not.

But did.

“Of some sort,” she said. “Maybe.”

“I have some information for you,” he said. “But first you have to promise that you won't tell anyone that I told you.”

She considered it.

“I don't know what you're going to tell me. So I'm not sure I can promise that.”

He frowned.

“It's for your own good,” he said.

“Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?”

He slurped the coffee and paused, deciding whether to talk or not.

Then he looked her in the eyes.

“This happened back in March of this year,” he said. “I was working late one night, after nine o'clock, and one of the cleaning ladies—an older Hispanic woman—stepped into my office to empty my trash can. I could tell she was upset about something and asked her what was wrong. She said she was in the hallway passing by one of the offices upstairs. The door was closed. She heard a commotion inside and stopped to listen. To her, it sounded like a man was forcing himself on a woman. The woman was telling him to stop. He didn't and she got louder, yelling for him to stop. Then the cleaning lady heard stuff breaking.”

“What are you saying? That someone in the firm was raped?”

The man shifted in his seat.

“Let me finish,” he said. “I had the cleaning lady take me up and show me the office she was talking about. It turned out to be the office of Rachel Ringer. When we got there, though, the door was open and no one was inside. There didn't appear to be anything broken.”

“Rachel Ringer?”

“Right.”

“Are you saying she was raped?”

The man held up his hands in surrender. “I asked her about it the next day. She said the cleaning lady must have been hallucinating because no such thing happened. She said she wasn't even in the office last night.”

“So someone else got raped, then, in Rachel's office?”

“Maybe,” the man said, “maybe not. I had the feeling that Rachel wasn't telling me the truth. So I snooped around a little and found out that her keycard had in fact been used for an exit that evening, meaning she had been there. I never told her that I found out about that, though.”

“So she lied to you.”

He nodded. “That's my feeling. I don't know if she was actually raped, however, or whether someone just came on to her extra strong. In any event, whatever happened, it was clear that she didn't want to talk about it or do anything about it. Since she didn't press it, I didn't either. You're the only person I've ever told.”

“What about the police? After she disappeared? You didn't tell them any of this?”

He shook his head.

“No. And I'm not real proud of that, for the record. I guess I was more concerned about not making a tidal wave inside the firm that would come back to drown me.”

She shifted in her seat.

“I have kids in private schools,” he added.

“I have to take this to the police,” she said. “I'll leave your name out of it. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. I should have done it myself.”

“Okay. By the way, are you the one who left me a note saying that Christina Tam is a spy?”

No.

He wasn't.

In fact, he hardly even knew Christina Tam.

Conrad Conrad left and was almost out the door when Aspen caught up to him. “Who was the man in Rachel's office that night?” she asked.

“I don't have a clue.”

“Do you remember the date when it happened?”

“Not really.”

“You said you were staying late,” she said. “Would you be able to look on your calendar and figure out what day it was?”

He cocked his head.

“Probably.”

“Good. Let me know.”

71

DAY ELEVEN–SEPTEMBER 15

THURSDAY MORNING

D
raven woke around 9:00 a.m. feeling like a dried leather shoe. His muscles screamed from burying the tow-truck woman out in the goddamned rock-infested mountains yesterday. Burying the stripper later in the day had been a lot easier, but had still taken its toll.

He looked at Gretchen, still sleeping.

Nice.

He stretched and hit the shower, getting the water as hot as he could stand it. Unfortunately, today he'd need those same muscles again, to bury the tattoo woman.

He didn't care.

Putting an end to that phase of his life would be worth it, whatever the cost.

When he got out of the shower, Gretchen was up and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with hot coffee made.

“So what's the plan today?” she asked.

“I have some surveillance work I need to do,” he said.

“Can I come?”

He laughed.

“No,” he said. “It's all confidential stuff.”

“Can you drop me off downtown first, then?”

“Why?”

“The Granada won't start,” she said. “And I don't feel like sitting around here by myself all day.”

He nodded.

Then he pulled out his wallet and gave her a thousand dollars.

“In case you see something you need to have,” he said.

They ate breakfast.

Then she gave him a long slow blowjob, until he came in her mouth.

He dropped her off downtown, gave her a long sloppy kiss, turned the radio to an oldies station, and then wove his way into the mountains toward the cabin.

On the way, Swofford called with bad news.

“The client's schedule got all jacked up yesterday and he didn't make it into town,” Swofford said. “So we're going to Plan B, which is, you go up to the cabin and feed the woman, let her go to the bathroom, walk her around a little, etcetera. Basically, just keep her alive and in relatively good shape.”

Draven slammed his hand on the dashboard.

“This is nuts,” he said.

Swofford couldn't agree more but said, “We have no choice.”

“Yeah?” Draven said. “Well you know what I think? I think that when I get up there this morning I'm going to find that the poor woman choked on her own tongue last night.”

Swofford laughed.

“I hear you, but this guy's paid a lot of money. We owe him some indulgence.”

“This is more trouble than it's worth,” Draven said.

“Sometimes that's the way it works,” Swofford said.

Draven shifted thoughts.

“I scooped out this new one—Davica Holland—last night,” he said. “She's a rich bitch, meaning she's going to be a lot trickier than the average snatch.”

“I know that.”

“A lot trickier,” Draven emphasized. “I'm thinking twenty-five grand trickier.”

Swofford laughed.

“Nice try, but I've already given the client a fixed price. Here's the good news, though. No rush with her. Take your time, do it right, and then let me know when you have her. The client's totally flexible on the timing. Don't hurt her, though. She can't be marked up.”