Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

Attorney’s

Run

R.J. JAGGER

1

Day One—June 11

Monday Morning

ALAN ENGLISH SAT IN THE COCKPIT of the Grob Aerospace SP jet, cruising on autopilot at 30,000 feet through a pre-dawn sky, checking the instruments only when necessary. He could still smell Bangkok in his clothes and taste it in his mouth. In another ten minutes he’d begin the descent into Denver International Airport.

Such a pity.

He’d turn around in a heartbeat if he could.

His cargo sat in the back—four guys from International Gems—drunk and slapping each other on the back for their magnificent ability to buy three suitcases full of precious gems for hardly any money. In another few minutes, when the aircraft started to lose altitude, they would swear each other to secrecy one more time, to be sure their innocent little wifey-poos didn’t find out about their three or four trips to the Soi Cowboy blowjob bars.

BJ bars.

Amateur stuff.

It was almost a sacrilege to waste good Bangkok time on soft-core stuff that was available right here in the States. But if they wanted to be too stupid or too scared to taste the real gratifications of the city, then that was their problem. English wasn’t going to tell them what they were missing, not to mention that they wouldn’t have the guts in any event to go where the deep pleasures were.

THE LANDING AT DIA couldn’t have come any sooner. In another ten minutes he would have fallen asleep at the controls. His watch said 6:42 a.m.

The hangar was empty except for the guards.

The parking lot was quiet.

The four passengers tipped him $500 for getting them home alive, and then disappeared. English threw his suitcases in the back of the 4Runner and headed south on Pena Boulevard, then west on I-70, with the cruise control set at three over the limit. He let his mind replay the sins of the last three days while he drove. The bed would feel good. He couldn’t wait to get under the covers and close his eyes.

Then he’d sleep for twelve hours straight.

HE LIVED IN A FRENCH TUDOR east of Colorado Boulevard in an upscale neighborhood with tree-lined boulevards, befitting a skilled jet pilot. He parked in the garage and decided he wasn’t in the mood to mess with the suitcases right now, so he left them in the vehicle and shuffled his tired feet into the house.

He stopped in the kitchen long enough to take a long swallow of cold Gatorade. Damn good stuff. Then he headed to the master bathroom and took a piss while he brushed his teeth.

He stripped naked and briefly contemplated taking a shower before he decided he was too tired. His 32-year-old body reflected in a full-length mirror, toned and taut.

He turned off the lights and headed for the bed.

IT WAS THEN THAT HE HEARD SOMETHING. He turned his head just in time to see the blurred shape of a person.

Then pain came.

White hot.

Excruciating.

His spine stopped working and the feeling in his legs disappeared.

As soon as he hit the carpet the person stabbed him again.

And again.

And again.

He counted the stabs for as long as his brain let him and realized that in two more seconds he would be dead.

One second later everything went black.

2

Day One—June 11

Monday Afternoon

LONDON VAUGHN TRIPPED over her own 25-year-old feet and dropped an armload of dishes piled three high. They hit the tile floor and made that unmistakable earth-shattering sound that meant stupidity-in-action.

Every face in Cactus Dan’s immediately turned.

One or two had compassion.

Most just wanted to see the train wreck before it was too late.

She immediately stooped down and began to pick up the pieces, as if she could undo the whole thing if she just moved fast enough. As soon as she bent down everyone lost interest and went back to their precious little conversations.

No one came over to help.

Her face had minimal makeup.

Makeup cost money.

She wore frayed jeans, a T-shirt and two-year-old tennis shoes. Her hair was thick and straight and looked like a model’s when she let it. Right now it was braided into an uneventful ponytail. She wanted to reach into her back pocket and finger the piece of paper. It was a tattered copy of her admission to the bar of the State of Colorado, dated three months ago. She needed to run her fingers over it for a few seconds to remind herself that she was a duly licensed attorney, and that this job wouldn’t last forever, but she couldn’t, because both her hands were busy frantically picking up glass.

She shouldn’t even be here.

She should be in a fancy office somewhere practicing law.

BUT SHE HAD LEARNED A FEW THINGS about the Denver legal market over the last three months. She learned that there aren’t many jobs available for entry-level attorneys to start with, no matter who you were, and that there weren’t any jobs for a student who only ranked at the 50 percent mark of their class.

She could have ranked higher; say, for example, if she hadn’t been forced to maintain a fulltime job to keep food in her mouth and a bus pass in her pocket. But law firms didn’t care about excuses. All they wanted to know is if she was in the top 10 percent, on Law Review or Moot Court, and had any publications under her belt.

So here she was, technically licensed as a lawyer but with no office.

Or clients.

Or co-workers.

Or library.

Or secretary.

Or fax machine.

Or malpractice insurance.

Or clothes.

Or experience.

What she did have was a floor full of broken plates and an idiot manager who didn’t even have the decency to come over to help.

She found a spoon in her hand and bent it in half.

SUDDENLY SOMEONE WAS DOWN IN THE MESS with her. She glanced over, expecting to see Amy. Instead she found a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, incredibly beautiful—in fact, so striking that London couldn’t take her eyes away.

“Be careful,” the woman said. “Some of these pieces are sharp.”

Before London could respond, something pricked her finger and blood came, not a lot, in fact, hardly any, but enough that she shook her head at the irony. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” she said.

“Why? Where are you supposed to be?”

“Practicing law somewhere.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“That’s what my license says,” London said.

The woman looked hesitant, as if deciding something. Then she pushed her long blond hair out of her face and said, “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions later? Maybe after you get off work or something?”

“You mean legal questions?”

“Right.”

London smiled.

“Sure, I don’t care. Just don’t ask me anything tricky.”

The woman grinned and then grew serious. “Have you ever been to Bangkok?”

“No, why?”

“Just curious,” the woman said.

“Have you?” London asked.

“Yes.”

3

Day One—June 11

Monday Night

NICK TEFFINGER, the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit, kept one eye in the rearview mirror of his Tundra as he turned onto Colfax Avenue. The headlights behind him made the same turn, just as they had the prior two times.

“Please Please Me”—one of the Fab Four’s best—came from the radio.

As much as he hated to do it he muted the song, then called detective Sydney Heatherwood at home and said, “I need you to make a few calls and get something done for me.”

“Who is this?”

“Not funny,” he said.

“It’s nine o’clock at night,” she said.

He didn’t know that but said, “I know.”

“Don’t you ever just knock off?”

“I’m getting ready to,” he said. “But I have a situation. Someone’s following me and I want to know who it is.”

Two minutes later an unmarked patrol car tailgated the vehicle behind Teffinger, followed for thirty seconds, and then dropped off. Three minutes later his cell phone rang and Sydney’s voice came through.

“The car has California plates. It’s registered to someone named Venta Devenelle,” she said. “According to her license, she’s twenty-seven. She looks like a model.”

“A model, huh?”

“Maybe she wants to tell you about little Teff,” Sydney said.

He smiled.

“Hopefully the kid looks like his mother,” she added.

HE WOVE OVER TO THE EDGIER section of Denver, south of downtown, near the bondage paraphernalia shops and the massage parlors, and parked the Tundra in front of a dim-lit tavern called the Lighthouse. A couple of grade-C hookers sat at the bar and checked him out as he walked in.

One of them looked at the other and said, “Cop.”

They turned away.

He leaned in next to them and said, “Evening, ladies,” then handed his business card to each one of them. “You call me if you ever need me, day or night.”

They laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said. Then he ordered a Bud Light and a glass of cold white wine. He carried them to a red-vinyl booth near the back, where the lights hardly reached, and slipped in. He was nearly done with his beer when the woman finally walked in.

Teffinger waited until she spotted him, then waved her over.

The look on her face said it all.

Busted.

Teffinger held up the glass of wine, indicating it was for her. She stopped, as if deciding whether to bolt out the door, but then walked towards him.

Teffinger liked her before she even got to the booth.

She had long blond hair, perfectly straight, slightly wind-tossed. Even though she wore a loose long-sleeve shirt tucked into khaki pants, her movement denoted a strong body. She wore no makeup and looked all the sexier for it. There was something about her eyes that wouldn’t let him look away.

He swallowed.

Damn.

He already wanted her.

And not just for sex.

For everything.

This had happened before.

He recognized the feeling, which was sort of like being strapped into a roller coaster and starting to climb that first endless hill.

“You’re Venta Devenelle,” he said.

She accepted the glass of wine, took a sip and sat down next to him, on the same side of the booth, dangerously close—almost touching.

“I assume that you saw me following you,” she said.

“I did.”

“I thought that was an unmarked car behind me back on Colfax,” she said.

“It was.”

She took another sip of wine. “I need to be more careful,” she said. “I didn’t realize I was getting so sloppy.”

Teffinger raised an eyebrow.

“Be more careful doing what?”

She said nothing and instead studied his eyes. “One’s blue and one’s green,” she said.

Teffinger nodded. “One of my many flaws.”

SUDDENLY HIS CELL PHONE RANG. Barb Winters, the proud owner of new breast implants and a few new male callers, said, “We got another one. Some guy named Alan English. Word is he got stabbed a bunch of times in the back. In his own bedroom, no less.”

“Who found him?”

“The girlfriend.”

“She did it,” Teffinger said. “Just have someone arrest her and then call me in the morning.”

Winters laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Stabbing is an act of passion. He cheated on her, she found out about it and stabbed the life out of him. Case closed.”

Winters grunted. “Whatever, Mr. Crystal Ball Man,” she said. “Anyway, Sydney’s on call and is headed over there. She wanted me to let you know about it in case you wanted to stop over and bring her some coffee.”

Venta took Teffinger’s hand and put it on her leg, just above her knee. He moved it around, not much, just a few inches or so, to get a feel for her muscles.

Nice.

Very nice.

He sensed that he could move it all the way up if he wanted.

Instead of doing that he swallowed and said to Winters, “Give me the address.”

SYDNEY HEATHERWOOD COULD HANDLE the crime scene just fine all by herself, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that he already wanted this new woman for more than just sex and was concerned that jumping into bed with her might spoil things.

“I have to run,” he said.

“Where to?”

“A homicide,” he said. “You know I’m a detective, right?”

She nodded.

He almost asked,
How?,
but didn’t feel like getting into it right this minute.

Then she looked as if she just came up with a great idea. “Let me go with you.”

“I can’t. It’s off limits.”

“I’ll wait in your truck.”

He pondered it.

“I might be an hour or two,” he warned.

She put her hand on his, which was still on her leg. “I don’t care. I’ll take a catnap or go for a walk or something. Then we can go to your place afterwards.”

He raked his thick brown hair back with his fingers. It immediately fell back down over his forehead.

“I don’t even know who you are,” he said.

She brought her mouth close to his, so close that the warmth of her breath filled his senses. “That’s why we need to go to your place,” she said. “So you can find out.”

4

Day One—June 11

Monday Evening

DYLAN JEKKER RACED HIS AUDI through the twisty mountain canyon west of Denver, amazed that no cars had popped up in front of him yet to kill the fun. Outside the vehicle to the left, Clear Creek tumbled in the opposite direction, spilling white water over boulders and rocks. Inside the car, to his right, sat a manila envelope that had been hand delivered this afternoon. Inside that envelope were several pictures of Tessa Blake, a petite raven-haired beauty—the target.

The instructions came by telephone an hour after the envelope arrived. “Just take her for now and keep her somewhere safe. We’re not sure yet if she’s going to die or not, so don’t let her see your face or give her a way to find you. Don’t kill her until and unless we give the orders.”

Fine.

Whatever.

He passed the second tunnel, pulled into a dirt turnoff and killed the engine. There were no other cars around. He swapped his tennis shoes for climbing shoes and hiked fifty yards north to the face of a rock cliff that looked as if it went straight up—a Class 5.11, at least. He stretched his six-feet-three-inch body until he was good and limber and then began to climb, without gear or protection.