License to Die (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Read online

  “Just looking,” he said.

  “Besides the stuff on the walls,” she said, “there’s books on the desk, too. We can make anything any size you want. We can change the colors, customize them however you want.”

  “Great,” he said.

  Pattern pictures covered the walls, hundreds of them.

  He walked around, keeping one eye on the women, trying to not be obvious.

  Then something weird happened.

  He spotted a pattern he actually liked.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing.

  Mia stopped working and turned her cute little face toward him. “That’s an Indian war symbol,” she said.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “I want it.”

  She nodded. “That’ll look good on you. I’ll be about another half hour here, then you’re up.”

  Perfect.

  “Say, would you mind if I watched, and see how you do it? I’ve never had one of these things before.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  Neither cared, so he pulled up a chair and watched.

  As they chatted he found out all kinds of useful little facts. The woman giving the tattoo—Mia Avila—owned and operated the shop. She opened it two years ago at age twenty-two after coming out of the wrong end of a marriage. The woman in the chair—Isella Ramirez—was married with two kids. The ink on her tit was a birthday present from hubby-face.

  Mia Avila would be the one he’d take, assuming the opportunity presented itself.

  4

  Day One—September 5

  Monday Afternoon

  Back at headquarters, Teffinger sat through a series of afternoon meetings drinking decaf while his thoughts wandered to Davica. He liked her eyes, her voice, and the way she tossed her hair.

  He needed to see her again, soon; if not again today, then tomorrow for sure.

  There was something between them, unspoken but yet tangible. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman’s pull had so strong a grip on him, especially right from the start.

  After the last meeting, he swung by Sydney Heatherwood’s desk. At age twenty-seven, she was the newest detective in the Unit, personally stolen by Teffinger from vice a year ago. But she had already cut her teeth on two of the scariest guys to ever hit Denver.

  “Want to take a ride?” he asked.

  She looked relieved at the opportunity.

  They were headed to the stairwell, almost past the elevators, when Sydney jumped in front of him waving a bill.

  “Ten dollars if you take the elevator,” she said.

  He stopped.

  “Why?”

  “Just to see if you’re capable.”

  “I am,” he said, trying to walk around her.

  She blocked him again.

  “Ten bucks says you’re not,” she said.

  He studied her.

  “Remember, I’m the cheapest guy on the face of the earth,” he said.

  “I already know that.”

  He grabbed the bill and pressed the down button. When the elevator doors opened, he hesitated, then stepped inside and pressed the button for the parking garage. Sydney—visibly startled—stepped inside with him.

  Before the doors shut he jumped out.

  He returned the bill down in the parking garage.

  “Try me again tomorrow with a twenty,” he said.

  They headed north on Broadway in his Tundra, with the windows cracked just enough to let in air but not noise. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect, eighty and sunny. He flicked the radio stations, finally stopping at “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.”

  “Does this car even get black music?” Sydney asked.

  He raised an eyebrow and realized that sometimes he actually forgot that she was African American, born and raised in Five-Points.

  “What? You don’t like Meat Loaf?”

  “No, I like steak,” she said.

  He smiled and added, “He was in Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “Who?”

  “Meat Loaf. He was in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What do you mean—what’s that? You never saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “Have you ever danced the Time Warp?”

  She looked at him weird. “No more coffee for you,” she said. “Tell me about your meeting with Davica Holland this morning.”

  He did, leaving out the bedroom scene.

  “She did everything she could to incriminate herself,” he said. “Either because she’s innocent and doesn’t care what we find, or because she’s guilty and wants to appear so innocent that she doesn’t care what we find.”

  “So which is it?”

  “I don’t know. I need more time with her.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they ended up driving through weeds and dirt down an old abandoned BNSF railroad spur north of downtown. Teffinger parked the vehicle and they hoofed it down the tracks for about fifty steps. Then they walked north for thirty yards until they came to the shallow grave where Angela Pfeiffer’s body had been found.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” Sydney asked.

  Teffinger shrugged and raked his hair back with his fingers. It immediately flopped back down over his forehead.

  “Whatever we missed the first time,” he said.

  Three geese flew overhead.

  The grave had been shallow; in fact, not more than six inches deep. Either the digger tired easily—say, a woman—or didn’t really care how deep the grave was, just so long as the body was hidden from sight.

  Ten yards farther past the gravesite was a concrete retaining wall, about four feet high. Teffinger got on top and scouted around. The ground on the other side came up to about two feet from the top of the wall.

  Teffinger jumped back down on the trackside of the wall and called Sydney over.

  “How much do you weigh?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Just indulge me,” he said. “How much?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “One twenty-five, maybe.”

  Good.

  That was about the same weight as the dead woman.

  “Do me a favor and lay down on the ground,” he said. “I’m going to see how hard it is to lift you up and get you over this wall.”

  She looked at him as if he was crazy.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s for the case. If I was going to dump a body here, I would have put it on the other side of this wall if I could.” Still, she hesitated. “Come on, lay down and be dead.”

  She did.

  “Okay, here we go,” he said. “Stay limp.” Then he reached down, picked her up and muscled her to the top of the retaining wall, finding it more difficult than he at first thought, but not an all-out effort.

  She hopped down and brushed herself off.

  “Satisfied?”

  He was.

  “Most women wouldn’t be able to do that,” he said. “Most men would.”

  Sydney continued to brush the dust off her ass and said, “That doesn’t mean it was necessarily a woman. It could still be a guy. Maybe he just didn’t see the wall because it was night, or saw it but could care less.”

  That was true, but he found himself saying, “The best place to bury the body is on the other side of the wall. A man would have gone to the bother. A woman might not have.”

  “So the position of the grave points to Davica as the killer?” she asked.

  “It’s a strike against her.”

  From the railroad spur they headed to Femme, which turned out to be an upscale lesbian bar in Glendale, not far from Shotgun Willies.

  The bar was closed but they rapped on the door until someone answered.

  The woman they were looking for, in fact.

  Natalie.

  Teffinger explained the situation, including the fact that Dav
ica herself had suggested that they talk to her.

  “I don’t know why she’d do that,” Natalie said. “I’m not going to lie about what happened.”

  They ended up sitting in a booth, drinking diet Cokes.

  Teffinger asked if the place had a men’s room, was told, “Of course, that’s city code,” and then used it. When he came back, Sydney and Natalie were chatting like old friends. Natalie was soft and curvy and reminded Teffinger of Sophia Loren, back in her early days, say the Man of La Mancha era.

  “Okay,” Natalie said, “Angela Pfeiffer was your basic hardcore slut, except in a classy, upscale package. She’d come in here alone about twice a month, pick out whoever she wanted, take her home and screw her brains out. Then dump her and start all over again. She openly bragged about having some rich lover wrapped around her little finger, someone she milked for money.”

  “So she had lots of enemies,” Teffinger said. “Meaning the women she dumped.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Natalie said. “Getting dumped was sort of understood when it came to Angela. Most of the women accepted it going in.”

  Teffinger nodded.

  Okay.

  “So what happened with Davica?”

  “Well,” Natalie said, “one night Angela’s in here, drunk out of her mind, and has about three or four women hovering around, trying to get in her pants. In walks another woman, a striking, exotic woman.”

  “Davica,” Teffinger said.

  Natalie nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, “although I didn’t know her name at the time. They immediately got into an argument. It escalated and they ended up in a catfight, and I’m not talking about some dainty little slap and cry, I’m talking about a serious confrontation. They wound up wrestling on the ground with everyone in the place crowded around, hooting and hollering and egging them on.”

  “Does that happen often here?” Sydney asked.

  Natalie looked shocked.

  “No, never—this is a class place. Anyway,” she said, “Angela got the upper hand. She got the other woman—Davica—on her back and then straddled her and pinned her arms up above her head. Now the crowd was going nuts and shouting for her to sit on her face. So she scooted up and ground her crotch on the woman’s face. That’s when the woman, Davica, started shouting that she was going to kill her. That went on for a long time, five minutes or maybe even longer. Finally the bouncers pulled them apart.”

  “So Davica definitely said she was going to kill her?” Teffinger asked.

  Natalie nodded.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “You heard it yourself?”

  “Yes, I did. And I saw her face. She meant it. There’s no question about it, not in my mind at least.”

  5

  Day One—September 5

  Monday Morning

  The law firm didn’t waste any time turning Aspen Wilde, Esq. into a billable-hour machine. The head of the Employment Department—Baxter Brown, Esq.—showed her to her office, drank coffee with her, smiled, and made her feel at home. Then he left her with a wrongful termination file to review, in preparation of answering interrogatories, admissions, and document requests which needed to be in the mail by this time next week.

  “If you run into any problems, shoot me an e-mail,” he said. “I’ll be in depositions until Thursday morning, but I’ll be checking my e-mails twice a day.”

  Then he left.

  She felt wonderfully full.

  By eleven o’clock, just about everyone on her hall had popped in at least once to say welcome. A couple of the guys stopped in twice. The associates gave her the thirty-second scoop. Sure, the firm’s stated goal for newbies is 1,750 billables a year, but plan on 2,000 minimum, and, if you’re actually crazy enough to want to make partner some day, plan on 2,200 to 2,500. “When you get up in the middle of the night to take a piss, think of a case and bill the client for your time.”

  Shortly before noon, a new face showed up in her door—an attractive man in his early forties with blondish hair and energetic blue eyes. He wore a gray suit with an expensive hang, and looked exactly like what a lawyer at the top of his game should look like—the kind of person who could walk into any room and dominate it, the epitome of success.

  She recognized him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place it. Then it struck her. He was none other than Blake Gray himself—the president of the firm and reputed rainmaker extraordinaire.

  “Got time for lunch?” he asked.

  They ended up walking past a crowd of waiting people at Marlowe’s and got escorted to a nice booth near the back with a white tablecloth. Within minutes, their food arrived, a steak and nonalcoholic beer for him and a shrimp salad for her.

  “With your arrival today,” he said, “we now have 123 lawyers. One of my primary responsibilities, as the head of the firm, is to be sure that we all remember we’re a family, and not just a bunch of individual cogs in some kind of overgrown machine. It’s our attitude toward one another, and toward our clients, that spells either survival or extinction. So I make it a point to personally know everyone in the firm, hence our lunch today. But more importantly, I make it a point to be sure that everyone in the firm, from the copy clerk to the department head, knows that my office door is always open.”

  Aspen nodded.

  “That’s good to know.”

  He smiled.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m a little jealous. I wish I could be back in time, reporting for my first day of work. You have the whole world ahead of you.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was smart to say what she wanted to say.

  She decided to anyway.

  “I’m a little scared. I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  He understood.

  “It’s an intimidating place at first,” he said. “But we were all green once, just like you. Then we grow. You will too, trust me. Just take it one day at a time.”

  She took a drink of water.

  Then she decided to see if his door really was open.

  “I heard this morning about what happened to Rachel Ringer,” she said. “She was one of the nicer people toward me, when I clerked here last summer.”

  He wrinkled his forehead.

  “She had a big heart,” he said, “on top of being a brilliant attorney.”

  Aspen agreed.

  “I can’t help but think about one of the projects she had me working on back then,” Aspen said.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “It was for a psychologist,” she said. “I can’t remember her name right now, but the gist of the matter was that she had some kind of an impromptu conversation with some man who wasn’t a formal client. She took him to be a killer. Apparently he had a certain MO that she recognized. Anyway, since the man asked her questions that could possibly be viewed as the type of thing a patient might ask a psychologist, she wanted a legal opinion on whether the conversation was covered by the physician-patient privilege. Rachel had me do the research and we concluded that the privilege in fact attached, meaning she couldn’t give the information to the police.”

  Blake nodded.

  “You’re talking about Dr. Beverly Twenhofel,” he said.

  “Exactly, that’s her,” she said. “I can’t help but wonder if Rachel’s disappearance is somehow tied to that case.”

  Blake took a swig of the nonalcoholic beer.

  “The same thought came to me at one point, namely Rachel’s working on a case potentially involving a killer, and then she ends up missing. But I don’t see a connection for two reasons. First, the guy—whoever he is—wouldn’t even know that our client had approached us for a legal opinion. So there’s no reason Rachel would have been on his radar screen. Second, if the guy did feel threatened, say because he sensed that someone believed he was a killer, he would have gone after Dr. Twenhofel, and not us. That never happened. She’s alive and well and hasn’t been threatened or harassed in any way.”

  Aspen h
adn’t been privy to that.

  Obviously Blake was way ahead of her.

  “Well,” she said, “that’s the only thing that I know of, sort of offbeat, that might somehow explain something.”

  He nodded.

  “It was a good thought,” he said. “But unlikely.”

  She ran her other theory by him, the theory that maybe Rachel hadn’t actually been abducted in the parking lot of The Fort at all, but had in fact been abducted somewhere else earlier. Then they dropped her car off in the parking lot to make it look like she’d been abducted there.

  Again, he didn’t seem overly impressed.

  “We had, and still do have, the best private investigators in the state working on the case,” he said. “I’m sure they considered that theory. In fact, I’m almost positive they have. I remember talking to them at one point about the fact that Rachel gassed up near her house about twenty minutes before she was supposed to arrive at The Fort. It was about a twenty-minute drive there, which meant she was on her way. So if she wasn’t taken in the parking lot, she somehow had to be pulled over before she got there. I don’t see how that could happen. As I recall, her spare tire was in good condition, meaning she hadn’t pulled over with a flat.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m only saying that it doesn’t seem to fit the facts.”

  “I didn’t know all those facts,” she said.

  “No way you would have,” he added. “But your theories are impressive, especially for someone who just started thinking about it. I can tell we made the right decision hiring you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I already know it,” he said. “You’re going to be a partner some day. I can tell.”

  6

  Day One—September 5

  Monday Evening

  When Draven woke from his nap, the room was dark and it took him a few moments to remember he was in a sleazy Pueblo hotel. He wandered into the bathroom, took a long piss, then recalled getting the tattoo this afternoon and flicked the lights on to have a look.

  It wrapped around his right arm, above the bicep.

  “Good job, Mia Avila,” he said.