Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (20 page)

Twenty minutes later in the west-parking garage he eventually remembered what level he parked the Tundra on and found it intact and without door dings.

He slipped inside and turned the key.

The engine fired.

The radio kicked on.

I don’t care if Monday’s black,

Tuesday, Wednesday heart attack,

Thursday never looking back,

It’s Friday I’m in love.

He sang along, yet again in awe that anyone could write a song so perfect. It was right up there with Duran Duran’s
Rio
or The Beach Boys’
Don’t Worry Baby.
He knew the name of the group at one point but couldn’t get it to the front of his brain. It would come to him later when he didn’t want it any more.

Wait, The Cure.

That’s who sang it, The Cure.

Kelly Nine knew Rail. She stayed quiet because she knew how dangerous he was and that he’d kill Teffinger without so much as a blink if she woke him.

It made sense but wasn’t a perfect fit. That’s because Rail was a man at the top of his game. If he’d been hired to kill Kelly, why would he show his face beforehand? Why would he let her know him? If there was any order to the universe, that’s the last thing he would have done.

Maybe she didn’t know Rail.

Maybe she simply looked into his eyes and detected how dangerous he was.

Confusing, that’s what it was.

The Colorado sky was crystal clean and filled with a light that injected straight into Teffinger’s blood. He could never live in a place like D.C., not in a million years. He’d rather live in a box.

The Cure left the radio.

Junk came on in their place.

Teffinger punched the buttons a half-dozen times before closing it down altogether.

Then, heading up Pena Boulevard, a thought came to him.

It was a strange, strange thought.

There was no way it could actually be true.

So why did it beat like a city full of tom-toms inside his chest?

He knew the reason.

It was because Kelly Nine was an attractive woman.

It was because Rail was an attractive man.

It was because nature always took its course.

He called
Nadia Nine, Kelly’s sister, who answered on the third ring, and said, “It’s me, Teffinger.”

“Teff? Is that really you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have a quick question for you. Did Kelly ever mention a man named Rail to you?”

A beat then, “No.”

“How about Javier Arcos?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Was she dating anyone before she got killed?”

The woman exhaled. “Teff, no. You’ve already asked me that a hundred times. What’s going on? Who’s Rail?”

“Did she know a man with long hair? Someone who may have worn it in a ponytail?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“Nothing’s coming to mind.”

“Did she know anyone from Portugal or from Europe?”

Silence, then, “It’s strange that you ask that. She was talking about maybe going to Paris.”

“With who?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“With somebody?”

“She didn’t mention anyone.”

Teffinger exhaled.

Kelly wasn’t one to do anything by herself.

“Do you still have her personal effects?”

Yes, she did.

They were in the garage.

An hour
and a half later Teffinger was in Fort Collins going through box after box of Kelly’s personal effects, down to his last ounce of hope and doubting the sanity of his theory.

Then he found something interesting.

It was a shoebox full of photos.

One picture stood out.

It was taken in an apartment at night, possibly a San Francisco apartment. A man was holding a stiff-arm and open hand in front of his face to block the shot. His head was turned 90-degress, as if jerking away. His eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks and forehead and in fact his entire face was out of sight behind the hand.

What wasn’t covered was a ponytail.

It stuck out clear as sin.

Rail
, Teffinger said.

60

Day Seven

July 14

Monday Afternoon

Back at homicide
Teffinger scanned the photo and emailed it to Leigh Sandt with a short explanation where it came from and the fact that the face behind the hand belonged to Rail. Leigh called almost immediately and said, “What have you done so far to enhance the reflection?”

“What reflection?”

She told him.

He pulled the image up on his phone and took a closer look. Sure enough, the man’s face reflected ghost-like in the hollows of a black window, barely noticeable but noticeable nonetheless.

“That’s why I’m sending it to you,” he said. “To get that enhanced.”

“Then why’d you say,
What reflection?”

“Just to see if you really noticed.”

“Whatever. Just for the record, though, your nose is growing.”

“That’s not unusual.”

An hour later
she called and said, “Check your emails.”

He did.

One was from her.

Attached was a JPEG of a face, a chiseled manly face that was built to break hearts and take the world by storm; a face that was in Kelly Nine’s apartment at one point.

“I’m going to send a copy to INTERPOL and have them run it past their contacts,” Leigh said, “just to be sure it’s him.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Yes, no,” he said. “It’s him. You can already count on that.”

“So what’s the problem with getting verification?”

“The problem is Susan Smith,” he said. “INTERPOL is too big. They’re going to get all excited and start chasing the guy like an elephant after a mouse. If he’s the one who took Susan Smith—and I’m pretty sure he is—and if by some miracle she’s actually still alive, he’ll kill her the minute he hears the elephant coming and, trust me, he will.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, our secret, at least for a few days.”

The corner of his mouth turned up.

“I owe you one.”

“Add three zeros and you’re halfway there.”

He smiled.

The minute he hung up the smile fell from his face.

Every word
he said about Susan Smith was true. Deep down where the dark devils lived though, he had to wonder if it was equally about getting a legitimate opportunity to kill Rail for what he did to Kelly Nine.

Sydney suddenly appeared in front of his desk and slipped a cup of coffee to him as she eased into a chair.

“There, the order of the world is restored,” she said.

Teffinger took a sip.

It was hot.

It was good, not as good as the first four or five cups in the early morning, but what was?

He showed her the photo and said, “That’s Rail.”

She studied the face.

“Don’t ever stand next to him,” she said. “You’ll be ugly.”

Teffinger grunted.

“Good, because I feel ugly. He actually took her out at least once in San Francisco before he came to Denver and killed her,” he said.

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“A cat playing with a mouse? I don’t know—”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sydney said. “Getting involved with a victim-to-be, even if just for a night or two, makes the risk go through the roof. If he really is the professional he’s supposed to be, he wouldn’t do that, not in a hundred years, not even in cat-years.” A pause then, “
Unless—”

Teffinger cocked his head.

“Unless what?”

“Unless that was part of his orders,” she said. “You said someone hired him, right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe that person not only wanted her dead but wanted to break her heart in the process. Maybe Rail’s mission was to win her over, then show up one night with a serious face and tell her he was going to kill her, and why. Not only would she be facing death at that point but it would be coming from the very person she trusted and loved. The pain would be double.”

“Who’d want to break her heart? An old boyfriend?”

Sydney shrugged.

“Could be. Tit for tat or something like that,” she said. “Listen to me, I’m a poet and don’t know it.”

Teffinger downed what was left of the coffee, glanced out the window at the sky and said, “Your theory assumes she was the target. I’ve been wondering if maybe I was the target.”

Sydney smiled, amused, and then realized he was serious.

He made his case.

She wasn’t impressed.

“If you were the target you’d be the one dead, not her,” she said. “She was the target. Everything’s not about you, Teffinger.”

The sky was beginning to cloud up.

“I hate planes,” he said.

He called
Del Rey at the law office. The tone in her voice indicated everything was normal; no bird rippers were at the forefront. “Tonight’s going to be problematic,” he said.

“Teff, don’t you dare cancel on me.”

“Trust me, it’s the last thing I want to do. Unfortunately I have to make a run to San Francisco.”

“Why?”

He explained.

Rail had been there.

Hopefully he’d left tracks.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Wednesday for sure.”

“Repeat,
I’m coming with you.”

He went to argue but suddenly had an image of the bird ripper grabbing her by the throat in the middle of the night, knowing that Teffinger was a light-year away. He said, “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’re leaving right now though. I’ll swing by.”

61

Day Seven

July 14

Monday Morning

“Got a minute?”
The words were plain vanilla as they came out of Robertson’s mouth but they ricocheted like a hundred crazy yells inside Jori-Lee’s head. Something was up, something bad. They took a long, endless walk down the corridor and ended up in his chambers with the thick, seven-foot oak door shut, which was a rarity even when the most delicate of discussions were at issue.

He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned.

A fierce litigator in his early years, he quickly outgrew the commonality of private practice and found himself a rising star in the district attorney’s office in Denver, Colorado. There he sat first-chair for an uninterrupted string of first-degree homicide convictions and got known within the bar and bench as Junkyard, short for the Dog version. From there his white smile and firm handshake and favor-trading served as a springboard to the governor’s chair.

He made friends.

He made enemies.

He made more of the first than the second.

His footprint spread outside Colorado, far outside.

That got him the Supreme nomination.

Now, ten years later, his presence still filled any room he was in. He could turn on the charm with all the force of a waterfall when he wanted to and, in most moments of the day, he did. Those who knew him better, however, were familiar with his more abrasive side. Those who knew him even better had learned how to avoid that more abrasive side.

Right not, sitting at his desk, that abrasive side was just below the surface, so close to busting through that it was almost a third person in the room.

“This isn’t going to be easy for me,” he said. “Allow me to show you something.”

With that
he fired up something on his computer.

It was Jori-Lee dressed in all things black, sneaking her way through Robertson’s mansion during a dark night, obviously shot from security cameras she knew nothing about.

“I’ve been debating long and hard how to handle this,” he said. “There are two ways we can do it. One, I can turn this over to the FBI, you can get disbarred before you even get admitted to practice, and you can spend a few nice years learning what jail food tastes like.” He exhaled. “I’m assuming that’s not your life goal. Am I right?”

Her breath didn’t come.

Her body didn’t move.

She nodded.

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “The other way we can handle this is first and foremost for you to return the flash drive and any and all copies you made of it. Did you make any?”