Lawyer Trap (12 page)

Paint peeled off the sides.

No doubt an old lead-based paint.

A wooden fence lay flat and neglected.

Weeds choked the driveway.

When he stepped out of the car, the air smelled like nature and the Colorado sky was clear and blue. He couldn't hear any traffic at all. The foothills jutted up not more than a couple of miles to the west.

He liked the place immediately.

Gretchen bounded out the door and jumped on him, wrapping her legs around his hips.

“Isn't it great!” she said. “I only paid for a month, but we can have it longer if we want.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the front door.

“It's got a huge bed,” she said. “And I put fresh sheets on it like you wanted. I've been waiting all day to try it out.”

“You mean with me?”

She kissed him.

“Yes, silly, with you. Only with you.”

That evening he headed to Cheeks while Gretchen went out to shop for a TV. He told her he was a private investigator and would have to work weird hours. She had no problem with that.

He didn't like lying to her.

It wasn't as if he had a choice, though.

Cheeks turned out to be a bustling, high-energy place with lots of grade-B strippers and beer-goggled guys. Draven ordered a Bud Light and hung out at the bar until Chase got called to one of the stages—Stage Number Four, apparently—near the back. Men flocked over so fast that Draven was lucky to get a seat.

And no wonder.

Chase was no ordinary stripper.

She had one of the most incredible bodies he had ever seen but, up top, had a very ordinary face. Because of that the guys, apparently, didn't find her intimidating.

She had a sleazy, in-your-face routine.

Not afraid of body contact.

Draven laid a five on the stage and waited for his turn. She responded by straddling his shoulders with her legs and rubbing her crotch in his face.

Not close to his face.

Actually touching.

He tipped her another five, then bought her a drink when she came off stage. When she hit him up for a private dance he said, “Sure.”

She took him to the back of the club, sat him in a dark booth facing the wall, and let him feel her up.

“Do you ever give any really private dances, off-site?” he asked.

She ran a finger down his scar.

“Maybe.”

Draven pulled two hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to her. “There's eight more where that came from,” he said. “Are you interested?”

“Very.”

She gave him her cell phone number and he told her he'd call her within the next couple of days.

“You won't be sorry,” she said. “I don't watch the clock or anything.”

31

DAY FIVE–SEPTEMBER 9

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

T
he coroner—a small serious man named Robert Nelson who had a perpetual hint of whiskey on his breath—called Teffinger shortly after two in the afternoon. He confirmed a lot of the puzzle pieces that Teffinger already suspected.

The head of body number three did in fact belong to Rachel Ringer, according to her dental records.

The other Jane Doe, body number four—who Teffinger suspected to be a 19-year-old by the name of Catherine Carmichael based on the date of her disappearance—was in fact who he suspected. Again, according to dental records. Her eyes had been gouged out postmortem, after her throat got slashed.

Body number two—Tonya Obenchain—who showed no exterior signs of trauma, died by suffocation.

Then the coroner dropped a bomb.

“Going back to Rachel Ringer,” Nelson said, “whoever took her head off used some kind of a saw with a jagged blade.”

Teffinger spun an empty coffee cup around on his desk.

He already knew that.

“A hacksaw?” he asked.

“I don't think so,” the coroner said. “The jags appear to be too big. I'm thinking something more in the nature of a wood saw.”

“Ouch,” Teffinger said.

“That word, unfortunately, is probably pretty appropriate,” Nelson said.

The man's voice trembled.

Teffinger had never heard him like this before and stopped spinning the cup. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is,” Nelson said, “the guy cut her head off while she was still alive.”

Teffinger stood up.

“Tell me you're screwing with me,” he said.

No response.

“Are you serious?”

Nelson confirmed that he was.

Very serious.

“Well, what kind of sick ass does that?”

“I don't know,” Nelson said. “But there's more. From what I can tell, the cutting started, stopped, and then started again. A number of times.”

Teffinger paced.

Sweat dampened his forehead.

“He took his time,” the coroner said. “He started on one side of the neck and worked his way in. Then he shifted over to the other side and did the same thing. It seems that each cut only went in a quarter of an inch or so at a time.”

Teffinger kicked his trash can and sent it rolling across the room.

“Goddamn it!”

“I'm thinking he purposely avoided the front throat area so she wouldn't drown in her own blood,” Nelson said. “He also avoided the back spinal area. Maybe because he wanted to watch her kick and didn't want to paralyze her.”

Teffinger pictured it.

Then noticed that his hands were trembling.

“How long did it take?” he asked. “All told?”

“A while,” Nelson said. “Even after he hit the aorta and she started bleeding to death.”

“Is that how she died then? Bleeding to death?”

“No. She died when he cut through her spinal cord,” Nelson said. “If she'd bled to death, she wouldn't have had as much blood left as we found.”

It was at that moment that Sydney stepped into the room and motioned at him.

“CNN's here,” she said. “They're getting set up.”

Teffinger told Nelson he'd call him back later and hung up. He hadn't taken two steps toward the door when his phone rang. He almost didn't answer it but did.

It turned out to be a nurse from the hospital, Denver Health.

“Marilyn Black is ready to be released,” she said. “Short-term, she's okay. But if she doesn't get into a rehab program ASAP, we're going to be seeing lots more of her—us or the coroner. She got really lucky this time.”

Teffinger already knew that.

“I'll be down in about a hour to pick her up. Is that okay?”

It was.

The CNN interview turned out to be a lot more brutal than Teffinger initially envisioned. The questioning focused on why the other three bodies hadn't been discovered when the first one was. They also wanted to know if there were any suspects yet—which of course there weren't. Finally, they wanted to know if Teffinger had located the person in the photograph that was being broadcast on the local TV stations and in the newspapers. What was her connection to everything?

He was actually glad they asked about that.

It gave him an opportunity to publicly state that they had found the woman and determined that she didn't know anything. Hopefully, if any of the killers had perceived her as a threat, they didn't now and would leave her alone.

When the interview ended, Paul Kwak blocked Teffinger's path in the hall and brought him to a stop.

“This is your lucky day,” Kwak said, scratching his big old gut.

Teffinger looked skeptical.

“If you have good news, you'll be the first.”

“I got a lead for you on a guy selling a '67 Corvette,” Kwak said. “I'd jump on this one myself, but I'm already tapped out after getting that '63. It's a small-block, but it's a numbers-matching, two-owner car.”

“Have you seen it?” Teffinger questioned.

Kwak shook his head.

“Not yet,” Kwak said. “But it's supposed to be primo. Red over black; and the seller's not looking for a lot of money. He's more interested in being sure it gets a good home.”

“Wow.”

“I'd jump all over it if I was you,” Kwak said.

Teffinger looked at his watch.

He was already late picking up Marilyn Black.

“Right now I have to run an errand,” he said. “Can we see it this evening?”

“I'll make a call and find out,” Kwak said. “I don't see why not.”

“Let me know. If not tonight, then tomorrow. I want to be the first guy there.”

“I'll call you.”

Before he could get out of the building, Sydney cornered him. “I'm keeping track of young females disappearing, like you wanted me to,” she said. “Apparently a young Hispanic woman disappeared in Pueblo on Thursday, someone named Mia Avila, a 24-year-old. She runs a tattoo shop.”

Teffinger nodded and headed for the stairwell.

“Pueblo?”

“Right.”

“That's a ways off,” he noted.

“True.”

Hispanic too.

All the victims so far were white.

“Anyone else?” he questioned.

“No.”

“Well, just keep her on your radar screen for now,” he said. Then he stopped and turned. “Have you talked to the Pueblo PD?”

“No.”

He opened the door to the stairwell.

“Why don't you give them a call just for grins and see what they have to say.”

“Where are you going?”

He stopped.

“To pick up Marilyn Black from the hospital,” he said.

She walked toward him.

“Let me go with you.”

“Why?”

“She's going to need a place to stay,” Sydney said. “I was thinking she could stay with me.”

Teffinger cocked his head.

“I located her mom—in Idaho. With any luck I'm going to put Marilyn Black on a plane. If that fails, you can be Plan B.”

32

DAY SIX–SEPTEMBER 10

SATURDAY

A
spen woke well rested Saturday morning. She yawned, stretched, showered, and counted her lucky stars that she had actually survived a whole week at the law firm.

She studied her face in the mirror as she brushed her teeth.

“Don't screw up again,” she said.

“Yes, master.”

“I mean it.”

Knowing she still had a paycheck coming in, she let herself think about the pile of bills. It would be tough going until the end of the month, when she actually got paid, but after that she should be able to make ends meet and actually chip away at the student loans.

Maybe even get an oil change for the little Honda fellow.

She couldn't even remember the last time she'd done that.

The poor little thing.

Dressed in khakis and a cotton short-sleeve shirt, she headed straight to work, wanting to bill at least six or seven hours today. Almost every associate on her floor had already beaten her in.

Shit.

What a horse race.

She filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee, grabbed a day-old donut out of a Krispy Kreme box in the kitchen, and headed to her office. Outside, the day was perfect, sunny and blue. Ordinarily, right about now, she'd be on her bike trying to not kill herself on some insane mountain trail that was never intended for two wheels.

Oh, well.

Maybe tomorrow.

She pounded out solid work for more than three hours before her mind wandered to Rachel. Deep down, she still believed that the legal file Rachel was working on for the psychologist—Beverly Twenhofel—was somehow connected. Or, if not connected, at least held some answers.

Should she tell Nick Teffinger about it?

Or more importantly, could she?

Probably not.

It was an attorney-client matter.

And one thing beyond all others was certain at this point—if she screwed up again, then Jacqueline Moore would bounce her ass so far out of Denver that she'd end up speaking with a New York accent.

“Well, you look serious,” someone said.

The words startled her so much that she dropped the coffee.

Papers immediately soaked up the liquid and curled.

“Shit!”

The woman in her doorway—Christina Tam—looked amused and said, “I've done that five million times. It's all part of riding a desk.”

Christina held out her hand.

“Come on. I'm here to save you.”

They ended up on the 16th Street Mall, buying dollar hotdogs from a street vendor and finding a bench in the sun. Christina wanted to know why Aspen's photo had been on the TV, so Aspen told her about how she found Rachel Ringer. But didn't tell her that the head had been severed.

“It always struck me as strange,” Christina said, “that someone would take Rachel.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. She just wasn't enough of any one thing to make a stranger pay attention to her,” she said. “She wasn't attractive enough, she wasn't weird enough, she wasn't young enough, she just wasn't anything enough. I mean she was a great lawyer and a wonderful person, but to someone who didn't know her, she'd look pretty plain vanilla.”

Aspen agreed.

“So why her?” Christina asked.

Aspen considered it.

“Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.” A couple of cops on horseback passed by and waved at them. They smiled and waved back. “Was Rachel seeing anyone?” Aspen asked. “You know, romantically?”

Christina chuckled, as if the concept seemed strange.

“Maybe, but not that I know of. The woman was a workaholic. Much unlike me. Why?”

“When a woman goes missing, nine out of ten times a lover did it,” Aspen said.

“Right. But in this case, with four bodies, there's obviously something a lot more sinister going on.”

When Aspen got home later that afternoon, two news crews were waiting for her in the parking lot. They probably thought she had some great big juicy tip for them.