Lawyer Trap (6 page)

14

DAY THREE–SEPTEMBER 7

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

W
hen a well-dressed woman walked into Aspen's office mid-afternoon and closed the door behind her, Aspen knew that something was going on and it wasn't going to be pretty.

“I'm Jacqueline Moore,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I was in your seat twenty-one years ago. Welcome to our humble abode.”

Aspen swallowed.

Jacqueline Moore, Esq.

Nickname Cruella de Ville.

Aspen had heard the rumors.

None of them were particularly good.

“We're both busy, so I'm going to get right to the point,” the woman said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Aspen's desk. She looked to be about forty-five with perfectly manicured hair and nails, the kind of person who could walk into any boardroom or highbrow party and chat it up with the best of them.

Her outfit was expensive and her jewelry large.

No wedding ring.

“One of the bad things about my particular job,” she said, “is being responsible for setting course corrections when they're needed. Some people will tell you I thrive on it. I don't, and that's the truth. But someone has to be the mouthpiece for the firm's policies, and we decided long ago that if only a few people did it, they'd in effect serve as the lightning rods for any negative feelings that might arise.” She paused. “But hopefully there won't be any of those.”

Aspen remembered the balance in her checkbook.

$82.00.

No matter what happened, she'd have to be polite.

The woman patted Aspen's hand. “This is just a small matter,” Jacqueline said. “Hardly anything, really. It's come to our attention that you've contacted one of the firm's clients, namely Dr. Beverly Twenhofel. Is that true?”

Aspen nodded.

So that's what this was about.

“Yes.”

“Apparently in connection with some type of investigation you're conducting into the disappearance of Rachel Ringer. Is that true also?”

Aspen nodded.

“I'm just trying to figure a few things out.”

“I understand.” Jacqueline looked sympathetic. “Rachel's a wonderful person,” she said. “We all miss her and we all want her back. But the police are working on it. And the firm has hired two top-notch investigators who are also working on it. What we can't have is individual attorneys running around trying to solve the case. It makes the firm look amateurish. It makes us look like we're not focused on legal matters. Do you see where I'm going with this?”

Aspen nodded.

She did indeed.

Jacqueline stood up, smiled and walked to the door.

“Your heart's in the right place,” she said. “It's good to have you with the firm.”

Then she was gone.

Aspen's hands trembled and she gripped them together to make them stop.

It didn't work.

15

DAY THREE–SEPTEMBER 7

WEDNESDAY

D
raven didn't intend to develop feelings for the whore—Gretchen—but did, and that screwed everything up. His initial plan was to have her go to the bar this evening, come on to one of the bikers, and then lure him into the back alley for a blowjob. Then Draven would pop out of the shadows and give the asshole a lesson he'd never forget.

The problem is that the scumbags would figure out what had happened, afterwards, and go after the woman.

She wouldn't be hard to find, not in a town this small.

This morning, when he first hired her, he didn't give a shit what happened to her.

Now, unfortunately, he did.

He had to regroup and figure out how to get one of the bikers separated from the pack.

After lunch at Wendy's, Gretchen asked, “What now?”

Draven thought about it.

The sky above was clear.

The temperature was absolutely perfect.

“Let's take a hike somewhere,” he said.

She beamed.

“I know the perfect place.”

They ended up at the Pueblo Reservoir, which looked like a mini Lake Powell. Gretchen knew a trail that descended into the back of a canyon. They hiked down—well over a mile from the car—found the place deserted and went skinny-dipping.

The rocks baked the water and kept it surprisingly warm, especially in the shallow spots.

Draven felt the need to show off and swam across the canyon, about a hundred yards, as fast as his overhand stroke would take him.

When he got back Gretchen was impressed.

“You look like Tarzan,” she said.

He beat his chest and did his best Tarzan yell.

A lizard darted by and Draven chased it. It took a full three or four minutes, but he finally caught it. Holding it by the tail, he walked toward Gretchen swinging it back and forth.

“Got a friend for you,” he said.

She screamed and jumped in the water.

“Don't you dare!”

He tossed the lizard on a bush and jumped in after her.

Then it was time to make love. Right there in the water. They both knew it.

Neither hesitated.

This time, unlike Monday night, she kissed him.

Long and deep.

He kissed her back.

Afterwards they dressed and sat in the sun. Draven's thoughts returned to the bikers.

“I have some scumbags after me,” he said. Then he told her the story of what had happened in the bar Monday night and how his apartment had been trashed yesterday.

“I heard about the bar,” she said.

“You did?”

She nodded.

“The word's out that one of them got beat up in the bathroom.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“I know that jerk,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yep. They call him Two-Bits, but his real name's John Sinclair. I know his three friends, too. They're all first-degree assholes. They gang-raped me one night, the little pricks. One of them paid money for it, but the other three jumped in and took me for free. To me, that's rape, not to mention that my ass bled for a week.”

Draven felt his jaw muscles tighten.

“Do you know where they live?”

She nodded.

“Yeah, why?”

16

DAY THREE–SEPTEMBER 7

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

T
effinger wadded up a piece of paper and tossed it up in the air, trying to get it to land in the middle of the snake plant. It hit one of the outer edges and bounced onto the floor. Then his cell phone rang. He couldn't find it at first but followed the sound to his left pants pocket.

He answered just as Sydney pulled up a seat in front of his desk, wearing a nice pants outfit with a matching jacket, one he had never seen before. She looked exceptionally good, and he glanced at her as if to say, “Just give me a second.”

“Teffinger,” he said.

“Mr. Teffinger?” The voice belonged to a woman, a crying woman. He sat up and concentrated.

“Yes, this is me.”

“Mr. Teffinger, this is Marilyn Black.”

Marilyn Black.

He didn't recognize the name.

“You gave me your card once,” the woman said. “You said you'd help me.”

Still no memory.

“Calm down,” he said. “Tell me what's going on.”

“I met you down on Colfax,” she said, “when you were asking us questions about Paradise. You gave me your card and said I could call you if I ever needed help.”

Still nothing.

Then he suddenly remembered.

She was one of the hookers from the Rainbird Bar, a young woman, probably no more than twenty or twenty-one, with needle marks in her arm. Teffinger had interviewed her in connection with the murder of Paradise—a hooker who ended up with a six-inch knife in her eye. He told her to get off the drugs and get off the street and get her life back on track. He said he'd help, if she ever needed it.

He gave her his card and even wrote his home phone number on the back.

“I remember you now,” he said. “How can I help?”

She cried. “Can you come and get me?”

He got directions.

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Just hold on.”

Standing up, he looked at Sydney. “I have to run,” he said. “But here's what I need you to do. First, get a cadaver dog down at the railroad tracks. If there are any more bodies buried around there, I want to know about it now rather than later. Do that ASAP. It's starting to cloud up and I'm afraid it's going to rain.”

She nodded.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said.

“You're always a step ahead of me,” he said. “Then, in your spare time …”

She laughed.

“… we need to start getting as much background information as we can on Angela Pfeiffer and Tonya Obenchain. Somehow they're both connected to the person who killed them, and we need to find out what that connection is. Let's start by getting lists of their friends, work, schools, clubs, vacations, hobbies and whatever else you can think of where they might have overlapped, either with each other or with the same man.”

Ten seconds later, he trotted past the elevators, ran down the three flights of stairs to the parking garage, and squealed out in his truck. He found Marilyn Black on Colfax, sitting on the sidewalk under a payphone, shaking and disoriented.

He double-parked the Tundra in the street and ran over.

Then he picked her up and put her in the vehicle.

“I'm taking you to the emergency room,” he said.

She looked at him vaguely, then closed her eyes and slumped over.

He stepped on the gas.

A half block later, a man stood in the street, waiting to cross. Teffinger recognized him as one of the local drug pushers. Maybe even the one who'd been supplying Marilyn Black. He pointed the truck at him and stepped on the gas even harder.

The man jumped out of the way at the last second and gave Teffinger the finger.

17

DAY THREE–SEPTEMBER 7

WEDNESDAY EVENING

A
s the day progressed, Aspen found herself more and more concerned about the visit this afternoon from senior partner Jacqueline Moore. She kept her lowly associate ass in her chair until six o'clock and then uneventfully walked out of the office and drove home.

She immediately drank a glass of wine.

Then she poured another and sipped it as a Lean Pocket heated in the microwave. She ended up on the couch watching the news and trying to figure out if she had already slid too far down a slippery slope.

She couldn't afford to get fired.

Not if she wanted to continue eating.

She paced, then stopped at the window and looked out. A dark sky threatened rain. She wouldn't be surprised if it poured like a madman in the next ten minutes.

The news caught her attention.

The body of a woman named Tonya Obenchain had been discovered yesterday buried in a shallow grave not more than a hundred feet from the grave of Angela Pfeiffer, who was discovered Sunday afternoon by a homeless man passing through the area. Both women disappeared earlier this spring. It was too early to tell if the same person killed both women, but police weren't ruling out any theories at this point.

Interesting.

The two dead women both disappeared earlier this spring.

That's when Rachel vanished too.

She set the wine down, fired up the computer, and printed out all the newspaper articles she could find on Tonya Obenchain and Angela Pfeiffer.

Not only did both women disappear earlier this spring, they actually disappeared in early April.

Even more interesting, Rachel disappeared at that same time.

The conclusion was inescapable.

Whoever abducted and killed the two women in the news also abducted Rachel.

And no doubt killed her too.

Rachel's body must be buried somewhere near the other two.

Aspen grabbed a light jacket and headed to the door.

“Screw you, Jacqueline Moore,” she said, racing down the stairs.

When she arrived at the old railroad spur, no one was there. Two areas were staked off with yellow crime-scene tape. No doubt the locations of the graves. She stopped the Accord and killed the engine.

A heavy rain fell out of the sky and pounded on the roof of her car.

She searched around in the back seat to see if her umbrella was there by chance. It wasn't, so she put the jacket over her head and stepped outside.

The weather accosted her immediately.

Heavy but warm.

She could already tell that she'd be totally soaked in just a few minutes. So she decided to just give in to it now and threw the jacket on the hood of the car.

Her hair immediately matted down and water ran into her eyes.

She took a Kleenex out of her pants pocket and wiped mascara off.

Now what?

She walked over to one of the gravesites. It was only about eighteen inches deep and filling with water. She checked the other one.

Same thing.

If Rachel was buried here somewhere, Aspen doubted that it would be too close to the existing graves, otherwise the police would have stumbled on it. It would be better to search farther out. She walked down the tracks for more than two hundred yards, looking in both directions for anything that suggested digging—fewer weeds, a raised area, whatever.

She saw nothing of interest.

She came back to where the graves were and then walked down the tracks in the other direction.

Again nothing.

This would be harder than she thought.

But Rachel was here somewhere.

She knew it.

She set up an imaginary grid and walked it, step by step. The rain never let up, not a bit. If anything, it got stronger. Her tennis shoes were caked with mud.

Slippery mud at that.