Body of Shadows (26 page)

Not doing that had been stupid.

So had been not making a copy of the drive.

She cancelled her credit cards and got back into billable-hour mode. Mid-afternoon her phone rang and the voice of the California investigator, Aspen Gonzales, came through.

“Two things,” the woman said. “One, I got a hold of the autopsy report on Chiara. Check your emails, I sent it to you.”

Pantage swallowed.

She remembered slitting the woman’s throat following a brutal fight. The report would either confirm or refute that memory.

“How’d she die?”

“She had lots of contusions on the face and neck indicative of a fight,” Aspen said. “That wasn’t the cause of her death though. She died from having her throat slit.”

Pantage’s head felt light.

Her memory was accurate.

“Thanks.”

She went to hang up but stopped when a muffled voice continued talking.

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Pantage said.

“I thought I lost you for a second,” Aspen said. “The second thing is this. That detective I told you about, John Maxwell, has been following me all over town. I can’t throw a stone without hitting his face.”

“Why?”

“It’s his way of putting pressure on me,” she said. “We’re on extremely thin ice at this point. My advice is to shut this case down and shut it down fast. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to tap my phone.”

“You said he was a straight shooter.”

“He is,” she said. “He’d get a warrant. But that doesn’t mean that people won’t go out of their way to help him. Hell, he could connect us just by getting my phone records. Tell me to shut it down.”

Pantage hesitated.

“No, don’t.”

Silence.

“Look—”

“Keep pressing ahead,” Pantage said. “Please.”

A beat then, “If Maxwell connects us he may very well pay a surprise visit to you in Denver.”

“I understand.”

Pantage went
to the restroom and studied her eyes in the mirror. They were the eyes of a killer. Now that she was looking for it, it was easy to see.

Back at her desk she opened the autopsy report.

As Aspen said, Chiara had been in a violent fight.

There was also an important fact that Aspen hadn’t mentioned, namely that Chiara had suffered a severe blow to the side of her head.

Pantage pictured herself desperately searching for anything to use as a weapon and then suddenly finding the wine bottle in her hand.

She needed to know the cause of the fight.

All she could hope is that she wasn’t the one who initiated it.

Even that, though, was a point of interest at best.

Chiara was unconscious when Pantage went into the kitchen looking for a knife. Even if Pantage had been in a mode of self-defense up until that point, the act of slitting the woman’s throat as she laid there helplessly was anything but.

That was an act of murder.

A knock
came at the door. Pantage looked up expecting to see Renn-Jaa.

Instead it was Marabella Amberbrook, one of the uppity-ups from the forty-second floor and a member of the firm’s board.

The woman smiled and said, “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

83

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

Clay Pitcher,
district attorney, was a barrel-chested man with permanently stained cigar teeth and a closet full of tan blazers. On a good day he looked like a used car salesman. This wasn’t a good day. Four years away from retirement, he was putting in his eight, Monday to Friday, and talking more about opening a boat rental in the Bahamas than about his cases. Still, he had a damn fine pedigree and could be a top-notch lawyer if the right facts got him riled up enough.

These weren’t the right facts.

He told the chief and Drift they didn’t have enough evidence to support a search warrant for Jack Plank’s house or phone. “We can convince a judge that Plank’s the guy who was following Pantage around yesterday, based on the tattoo,” he said. “We can also convince him or her that it’s certainly suspicious and that the reason he was following her around is because she witnessed him killing Jackie Lake and now he wants to get her all dead and silent.”

Drift nodded.

“Right.”

Clay scrunched his face.

“The problem is that although it’s suspicious, that’s all it is,” he said. “He never talked to the woman, he never got closer than thirty steps, he didn’t threaten her in any way and as far as we know he didn’t break into her house and kill her cat.”

“She doesn’t have a cat,” Drift said.

“I’m speaking metaphorically,” Clay said. “Suspicion doesn’t get you a warrant. Probable cause does. And that’s what we don’t have here boys and girls, probable cause.”

Drift raked his hair back.

“Clay, quit screwing around and go get me a warrant,” he said.

They both looked at Chief Tanker.

He was behind the oversized wooden desk leaned back in a worn leather chair with his fingers laced behind his head. The flag was to his left. Behind him on the wall were photos, mostly of him with persons of relevance—businessmen, athletes, politicians—not just posing for a stupid snapshot but biking or fishing or kicking it up.

He slipped forward in his chair, creased every wrinkle in his 50-year-old face and looked at Drift.

“Clay’s here to give advice,” he said. “Now, I’ll admit that 95 percent of the advice he gives is wrong in hindsight. But all we have at this point is foresight.”

Drift shuffled in his chair.

He was beaten.

He could argue but it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

He looked at the ceiling.

“Nice lights up there,” he said. “Mine buzz to hell and back.”

Tanker smiled.

“That’s too bad.”

On the way back
to the Tundra, Drift got a call from Kelly to the effect she wanted to meet ASAP, for business reasons, not to screw—although screwing would be fine tonight.

“Business?”

Right.

“It relates to the gladiator,” she said.

84

Day Five

July 22

Friday Morning

Yardley couldn’t convince
Ghost Wolf to let her ride along with him today but did have enough persuasion in her sexy little body to at least keep him from chaining her up while he was gone.

“Be sure you keep your ass right here.”

She nodded.

“I will.”

He looked at her sideways.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

She patted his hand.

“Don’t worry.”

She waited a full fifteen minutes after he left to be sure he wasn’t doubling back for some reason, then put her shoes on and headed up the so-called road, following the ruts and broken weeds. The guy was too creepy to be around. More importantly, her captivity here might not actually be in the name of her own safety. She might be here because Marabella had determined things had gotten too messy. Right now someone might be sanitizing her store and loft. Once that was done and no complications twisted to the surface, Yardley would be officially expendable.

Admittedly the likelihood of that scenario was small.

Still, it wasn’t non-existent.

It was particularly disturbing that Ghost Wolf so easily mentioned he’d killed eleven people and buried them on the property. That wasn’t exactly the kind of information a professional would broadcast if there was any possibility of it being repeated. Maybe he told her because he thought they were kindred spirits, each in as deep as the other. On the other hand, maybe he pictured her dead in 24 hours.

She needed to get to the bookstore and see if it was being sanitized.

The sky was blue and cloudless.

The sun was in her eyes and on her chest.

She was only ten minutes into it and already sweating.

The air was still and quiet.

The daily breeze wouldn’t kick up until eleven or so.

She kept her eyes on the horizon. If a car approached she’d get down low, make her way into the brush and lay flat.

What she was doing was risky.

She knew that.

Marabella had a legitimate concern that Yardley not fall into the hands of Cave. With Yardley back in the world and defiant as to Ghost Wolf’s efforts to keep her safe, Marabella might decide she had no option but to eliminate the problem once and for all.

Who would she send to do the job?

Ghost Wolf?

Probably.

He was already in town and knew the situation.

Bringing in someone new would only make a complicated situation even more complicated.

Ghost Wolf would be the one.

He’d probably enjoy it too, after she’d tricked him.

Not a sound
pierced the air.

Her mind wandered.

An old Shakira song, “Hips Don’t Lie,” got stuck in her head and wouldn’t come out.

Then she had to relieve herself.

She stopped, wiggled out of her shorts and panties, held them in her left hand and squatted down.

It felt good.

When she stood up, a figure was charging up the road towards her at full speed.

It was Ghost Wolf.

85

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

When Marabella
shut the door for privacy, a cold chill ran up Pantage’s spine and straight into her brain. The woman took a seat in front of the desk, crossed her legs and said, “I’m going to get right to the point. There’s talk at the water cooler to the effect that the blow you took to the head might have been more severe than you’ve let on.”

Pantage forced a confused expression onto her face.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, you’ve been having blank looks when people talk to you about things in the past.”

Pantage shrugged.

“Maybe a little.”

“Do you remember anything yet about what happened at Jackie Lake’s house?”

No.

She didn’t.

Not a wisp.

“What about other things? Are you having memory issues with respect to other things as well?”

“Maybe a little.”

Marabella nodded.

“Let me ask you this,” she said. “Do you remember the circumstances under which you joined the firm?”

No.

She didn’t.

“Circumstances?”

“Right, circumstances,” she said. “Do you remember the discussions you and I had when you first came to the firm?”

“No.”

“Do you remember a woman named Yardley White?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Who is she?”

Marabella didn’t answer.

Instead she studied Pantage. She picked a pencil off the desk and twisted it in her fingers as if contemplating the next words. Then she said, “Do you remember what you did out in California?”

The words ricocheted in Pantage’s skull.

California?

How did Marabella know about California?

Play dumb.

Play dumb.

Play dumb.

“No,” she said. “What did I do out in California?”

“You honestly don’t remember?”

“No.”

The woman wrinkled her forehead.

“This is going to be painful but you better know it since you’re spending so much time hanging around that detective Drift,” she said. “You killed a woman. Her name was Chiara de Correggio. She was a friend of yours.”

Pantage swallowed.

“How’d I do it?”

“You slit her throat.”

“How do you know about it?”

“You told me. You killed her and dumped her body over a cliff. You had a different name back then. It was London Winger.”

Marabella exhaled.

“I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the honest to God truth,” she said. “Did you kill Jackie Lake? Did you do to her what you did to that woman out in California?”

Pantage’s instinct was to rise and run.

Instead she turned her chair until her face was hidden and squeezed her eyes shut.

Water came out and rolled down her cheeks.

Marabella said nothing.

The silence was thick.

Seconds passed, many seconds, slow seconds, one after another after another.

Then Pantage slowly swiveled the chair back. She tried to look into Marabella’s eyes but couldn’t. “Yes,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I killed Jackie.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Marabella reached over and held Pantage’s hand.

“I thought so. I’m not going to tell anybody.”

86

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

Kelly was at the curb
outside her office when Drift swung over. Traffic was thick and he was blocking it so he didn’t notice much about her other than she looked professional. When she slid in, the cab filled with perfume and the rustling of nylons worked at his senses.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To rattle a tree.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means we got the identity of the man who was following Pantage yesterday,” he said. “Clay says we don’t have enough evidence for a search warrant so I’m going to rattle the guy’s tree.”

“Clay’s too conservative.”

Drift worked his way around a blue hair in a faded Volvo going ten under.

“That’s true but he’s probably right on this one,” he said. “So tell me about the gladiator.”

Kelly adjusted her body in the seat.

Her skirt rode up.

“This is off the record,” she said. “The gladiator has a laptop in his loft. On that laptop are a lot of JPEG images of Pantage Phair. They’re clicks of her walking around downtown and up on the balcony of her loft. Here’s the important part, they go back at least two weeks prior to Friday, when he supposedly met her for the first time. He was stalking her for at least two weeks, exactly like what September Tadge told you about Van Gogh.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “That part’s confidential. It’s true though. What you need to do is figure out a way to get a legitimate search warrant based on something else, pretending you have no idea about the computer, then accidentally stumble on it.”

Drift wrinkled his brow.

“Did you break into his place?”

“No.”

“Did you hire someone to break into his place?”

“No.”

“Have you actually seen the JPEGs?”

“No, they were described to me.”

“By who?”

“That’s confidential.”

He got silent.

Two blocks later he looked over and said, “Pantage broke in, didn’t she?”

“I can’t tell you any more than I already have.”

He raked his hair back.

It immediately flopped down.

A squatty fat guy in a Hummer cut him off.

Then his phone rang.

Sydney was on
the other end from New York. She sounded like she just stepped off a roller coaster before it came to a complete stop.

“Big news,” she said.

“How big?”

“Bigger than what’s in you pants,” she said. “Two inches.”

Drift laughed.

“I met with the lawyer and showed her the pictures of D’endra,” she said. “That made an impact. It was there on her face. She wouldn’t admit one way or the other if Northway was a client of hers but that’s the impression I got. She listed patiently but in the end she said she couldn’t help me. She said her hands were tied.”

“Damn it—”

“Wait, I’m not finished,” Sydney said. “We met for a light lunch, that’s where I talked to her, in this little rinky-dinky place halfway down an alley. Anyway, throughout the whole meal, she had her cell phone sitting on the table. At the end, when she said she couldn’t help me, she got up to leave. I said,
Hey, you forgot your phone
. She looked at me and said,
No, it’s in my purse
. It wasn’t, of course, it was sitting right there on the table. It took me a second to figure it out, but then it hit me that she was losing her phone on purpose. It’s not a violation of an attorney-client communication to simply lose a physical object.”

“Clever.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Like I said, it was those photos that make the day. That was your idea, so good going.”

“You’re the one who presented them the right way,” he said. “I would have come on too strong. So what’s in the phone, anything?”

“There’s no Northway listed. I’ve gone through all the text messages and none seem to relate to him. So what we have are all the incoming and outgoing numbers. My suspicion is that one of them belongs to Northway.”

“Run with it.”

Drift hung up
and filled Kelly in on the parts she wouldn’t have picked up. She had a right to know given that Northway almost killed her last year, not to mention that she was the one who spotted him on the street.

“Back to Pantage,” he said. “Now I’m confused. We have this guy Jack Plank with the scorpion tattoo following her all over downtown yesterday. We also have the gladiator stalking her for at least two weeks. Which one am I supposed to concentrate on?”

She shrugged.

“Both. Maybe they’re working together.”

87

Day Five

July 22

Friday Morning

Yardley ran
but was no match for the warrior feet of Ghost Wolf. He was closing dangerously fast and would be on her in seconds. She was off the road in the prairie sprinting south, hoping beyond hope that the man would twist a foot or step on a cactus or slam down face first into a boulder.

That didn’t happen.

The gap closed.

A fist grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back with a force that snapped her feet out from under her and sent her slamming to the ground on her back.

The wind snapped out of her lungs.

She couldn’t breathe.

Ghost Wolf towered over her, a menacing silhouette blocking the sun. He shifted a large knife from his left hand to his right.

Yardley raised her arms to protect her face.

“Don’t!”

He kicked her.

“All you had to do was stay in the house. That’s all you had to do, one simple little thing.”

“You were going to kill me.”

“Shut up.”

“I have money,” she said. “I can pay you. We’ll go get it right now. It’s at my bookstore. It’s more than a hundred thousand.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“But—”

He kneeled down,
grabbed her hair and pulled her face to his.

“You don’t like me,” he said. “You didn’t like me from the first minute you saw me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You think I’m ugly.”

“No I don’t.”

He grabbed her blouse and ripped it open with a violent motion that sent buttons flying. Then he grabbed her bra and tore it off. Holding her down with one hand, he wedged his knee between her legs, then the other

“One last ride before you die,” he said. “That’s my gift to you.”

He was undoing his belt.

Yardley flailed her hands wildly, searching for a rock or stick or anything.

There was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The man grabbed her face and squeezed.

“You’re going to like this,” he said.

His eyes were crazy.

Slobber dripped from his mouth.

She reached
for the knife.

She was fast.

He was faster.

He held it at length, taunting her.

“Is this what you want?”

He tossed it to the side, far, twenty or thirty feet.

Then he pinned her arms above her head with one hand and reached between her legs with the other.

She struggled to get her wrists free.

They wouldn’t budge.

The man’s strength was absolute.

88

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

Marabella’s question
—Do you remember a woman named Yardley White?—pounded inside Pantage’s brain with the strength of a hundred maniac drums. Somehow that woman, whoever she was, had something to do with Pantage’s past.

Luckily the woman lived in Denver.

According to the Internet, she owned a bookstore on Wazee that specialized in collectible and valuable books. The scope of the business was international; the store’s website was offered in five different language selections.

The name of the store, Extraordinary Books, was vaguely familiar.

She’d heard it before.

Either that, or maybe she wandered in one day.

No.

Wait.

She’d seen the name in the paper, recently too, about a third of the way down the page.

She headed to the firm’s library on the middle floor and flipped through the stacks. It took twenty minutes but she eventually found what she was looking for. As soon as she saw it, she remembered. It was an article about a woman named Deven Devenshire who was murdered outside a club called Rikki. The victim worked at Extraordinary Books.

The article felt like a black nail being pounded into her soul.

She’d killed a woman in California in her past.

Yardley White was mysteriously a part of her past.

An associate of Yardley White’s just got murdered.

Pantage dialed the number at the store.

No one answered.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the elevator.

89

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

The scorpion tattoo
lived in a small brick bungalow on Marion, two blocks east of Colfax, awash in a sea of the same. None of the houses had driveways or garages meaning curb parking was at a premium. Drift swept by the house after putting Kelly in a cab back to the firm. The windows were open and the front curtain was twisting whimsically as if being pushed by a fan. The screen door was closed but the wooden one behind it was open.