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

  Finally, just like Angela Pfeiffer, this woman was naked.

  But whereas Angela Pfeiffer had been stabbed repeatedly, there wasn’t a single mark on this woman.

  “Whoever killed this one killed the other one,” Teffinger said. “They were obviously both buried the same night. That pretty much eliminates Davica as a suspect.”

  “Unless this is another one of her past lovers,” Sydney added.

  He smiled.

  “Right, except for that,” he said.

  “Or unless this is Angela’s new lover.”

  “Right, that too.”

  “Or unless this one was a witness.”

  “Okay, that too.”

  “Or unless this one is a decoy,” Sydney added.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know,” she said. “You kill the one you want, and then a stranger too, to make it look like someone else did it.”

  Teffinger wasn’t persuaded.

  “I’m sure there are situations where that’s happened,” he said. “But you’d have to be awfully cold-blooded. Davica doesn’t even come close to anything like that.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “If I really stretch my imagination, I can maybe see her killing Angela,” Teffinger said, interrupting her. “I have to admit, I never put too much stock in the fact that she threatened the woman’s life. Those were nothing more than heat-of-passion words said during a fight. I say stuff like that two or three times a day but hardly ever actually kill anyone.”

  Sydney kicked the dirt.

  “I’d agree,” she said, “if there was nothing more. But we still have the repeated stabbing.”

  Teffinger knew what she meant.

  The stabbing was an act of passion, the hallmark of someone close to the victim.

  “It’s curious that this second woman was killed in a different manner,” he said. “It’ll be interesting to find out the cause of death. In any event, it sort of blows your decoy theory out of the water. If I was going to kill someone, and then a stranger too to make it look like someone else did it, I’d kill them both the same way.”

  Sydney shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But then again, maybe you do it different, so no one thinks it a decoy.”

  Teffinger tilted his head.

  “I’m never going to win an argument with you, am I?”

  She put her arm around his shoulders.

  “That doesn’t mean you should stop trying,” she said. Then she chuckled, as if she just heard a joke.

  “What?” he asked, curious.

  “You know you’re going to be getting calls by the end of the day.”

  “About what?”

  “From other police departments,” she said, “wanting you to come out with that divining rod of yours to help find where the bodies are buried.”

  He laughed.

  “Hopefully,” he said, “that was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

  “You never know,” Sydney said. “You may have a gift. It would give you a chance to use that thing for good, instead of evil, for a change.”

  Ironically, he did have to use it again, plus he needed more coffee in the gut. So he told Sydney he’d be back in ten minutes and drove to the 7-Eleven on Broadway, almost getting run over by some idiot in a Hummer talking on a cell phone.

  He used the facilities first, then found the coffee.

  Of course he didn’t have a single one of his thermoses with him, because that would make his life too easy, so he bought yet another one, poured five French Vanilla creamers into it and then topped it off with piping hot caffeine. “Love Shack” played from hidden speakers.

  On the way back to the scene, Sydney’s comment—that the second woman may have been a witness—nagged him.

  That would explain the different causes of death.

  Davica might be capable of that, if she felt trapped enough.

  11

  Day Three—September 7

  Wednesday noon

  Aspen couldn’t shake the feeling that Rachel’s disappearance was somehow connected to the Beverly Twenhofel file. The thought tugged at her so much that, when her lunch hour rolled around, she trotted the six blocks to her car and sped over to the psychologist’s Cherry Creek office, hoping to get whatever information she could—maybe even the killer’s name.

  Dr. Twenhofel was just about to walk out the door when Aspen entered her office, out of breath after having to park more than three blocks away and then power-walk over.

  “I’m here about Rachel Ringer,” Aspen said.

  The woman—an elegant lady about fifty—studied her.

  “Rachel Ringer the attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at her watch.

  Aspen sensed that she was already late for an appointment, but they ended up in her office, anyway, a comfortable cozy space with lots of cherry wood, plants and texture. Aspen explained her theory that Dr. Twenhofel’s so-called patient was somehow connected to Rachel’s disappearance. The woman listened patiently and said, “So what is it exactly that you want from me?”

  Aspen bit her lower lip.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A name, I guess.”

  The woman retreated in thought and then said, “I don’t see how there could be a connection, personally. If the guy felt threatened, he would go after me. That hasn’t happened. Plus he wouldn’t even know that Rachel was involved in providing a legal opinion. Rachel wasn’t the kind of person who would do anything stupid like try to hunt him down on the side or anything. Not to mention that I’m not sure that I even told her the guy’s name.”

  The woman looked at her watch again, then back at Aspen.

  “Your desire to help Rachel is admirable,” she said. “But you’re pointed in the wrong direction.”

  “If that’s the case, what harm would it do for you to tell me the guy’s name? Maybe he called her or something. If we find his name written down in Rachel’s day-timer or phone messages or something, we’d have a connection.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Here’s the problem,” she said. “First of all, I’m not good with names and don’t even remember it at this point. Second of all, even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you because you’d end up doing something to get yourself on his radar screen. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  The woman stood up and looked at her watch.

  “Like I said,” she added, “your desire to help Rachel is admirable. But my advice to you is drop it.”

  12

  Day Three—September 7

  Wednesday Morning

  After spending the night at the cabin, Draven came out of the mountains Wednesday morning to see if the bikers had broken into his apartment.

  They had.

  The place was a disaster.

  It smelled like urine.

  They’d pissed all over the carpet and furniture and walls.

  Black magic marker on the living room wall said, “Dead man.” The TV was shattered. In the kitchen, the refrigerator door was open. Food had been thrown everywhere.

  He went into the bedroom, slid the bed over, and pulled up the carpeting to see if they’d stumbled across his secret money compartment.

  They hadn’t.

  “Dumb shits,” he said, smiling.

  He pulled a pillowcase off a pillow, stuffed the money inside, and tied a knot in the end. Then he grabbed the clothes that hadn’t been ruined, stuffed them in another pillowcase, walked down to his car, threw everything in the trunk, and drove off.

  He stopped at Starbucks and got a coffee to go, then headed over to I-25 and pointed the rusty front end of the Chevy toward Pueblo. When he got into town two and a half hours later, he went to his old hotel and knocked on the hooker’s door, the one who had given him such a good blowjob Monday night.

  Gretchen.

  Wearing pajamas and no makeup, she now looked even more average than before
, and the five extra pounds now showed as ten. He didn’t care.

  She answered, groggy, looking like she just got dragged out of hibernation.

  “Hi,” he said. “Gretchen? Right?”

  She studied him, confused, not quite placing him.

  “Monday night,” he said. “I had the room next to yours.”

  She nodded and opened the door.

  “I remember you,” she said. “You were nice. Come on in.”

  He sat on the bed while she disappeared into the bathroom. The shower turned on and he could hear her adjusting the temperature. Then the curtain pulled back and she stepped in. Ten minutes later she was out and toweled off, looking very nice, actually.

  She walked over, pushed him onto his back and straddled him. Then reached under his shirt and played with his nipples.

  “So what’s your pleasure?”

  “How much for the whole day?” he asked.

  She was stunned.

  “You want me for the whole day?”

  “Yep. Until midnight.”

  She thought about it and he could tell she was trying to figure out how much she’d make otherwise, it being a Wednesday.

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Three hundred?”

  He smiled.

  “How about a thousand?” he said.

  “A thousand dollars?”

  “Right. Up front.”

  “You got it.”

  She unzipped his pants but he grabbed her hand.

  “Part of it might be a little dangerous,” he said.

  She didn’t care.

  “And I call the shots, all day long,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  He zipped up his pants, then pulled ten hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them over.

  “Let’s start with getting some breakfast,” he said. “I’m starved.”

  She looked confused.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She ran an index finger down the scar on his face.

  “No one has ever taken me out to eat before,” she said. “Not on the clock, anyway.”

  13

  Day Three—September 7

  Wednesday Morning

  Teffinger parked his pickup on Davica’s cobblestone driveway, killed the engine, and walked past the water feature. It looked to be an authentic Italian fountain with nude women pouring water out of jugs, very tastefully done. The smell of fresh-cut grass perfumed the air. Flowers colored the grounds, clumped in groups like throw-pillows that had been tossed exactly where they should be.

  The place oozed money at every turn; how much, he couldn’t even imagine.

  He rang the bell and when Davica answered, she hugged him. Not sideways, like a friend, but straight on, pressing her breasts into his chest. Teffinger saw it coming and did nothing to stop it.

  She wore a white T-shirt that barely covered her ass. He couldn’t tell if she wore a bra or panties.

  “You’re in a good mood,” he said.

  “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

  Teffinger smiled.

  “Why, did you miss me?”

  She walked as he followed, then turned and said, “How could I miss you? I didn’t even throw anything at you.”

  He laughed.

  “A sense of humor,” he said. “I like that.”

  They ended up outside at the pool. She dangled her perfectly tanned legs in the water while he sat near the edge, staying high and dry, holding a piping-hot fresh cup of coffee. The Colorado sun brought the autumn air to the exact right temperature.

  Teffinger took his sport coat off and threw it on a chaise lounge.

  “So are you here to interrogate me or screw me?” she asked.

  “I only have a license for one of those,” he said.

  “The second, I hope.”

  He shook his head and then got serious. “Just out of curiosity, do you know anyone named Tonya Obenchain? She’s a real estate agent.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Instead she slipped off the edge of the pool and splashed into the water.

  The T-shirt floated up around her.

  It became immediately apparent that she wore no bra or panties—just the T.

  She kicked out, then swam back and folded her arms on the edge of the tile.

  “No, I don’t. Why?”

  He swallowed.

  “We came across her body yesterday,” he said. “About a hundred feet from where we found Angela Pfeiffer. She was buried about six inches under, the same as Angela.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  No, he wasn’t.

  Davica dunked under the water and kicked off the side of the pool, getting halfway across before she surfaced. There she went into a perfect overhand stroke. At the other end she stopped, took her T-shirt off, and threw it onto the concrete.

  Then she swam back, pulled herself out of the water, and sat on the edge of the pool next to Teffinger.

  She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.

  She didn’t have a hair on her body, not anywhere.

  Then she looked at him. “I didn’t kill Angela and I sure as hell didn’t kill any real estate agents, either.”

  “I’m not saying you did,” Teffinger said. He didn’t exactly know how to ease into the next question, so he just asked it. “Just to be clear, you and Tonya Obenchain were never, you know . . .”

  “What? Lovers?”

  “Right, that.”

  Davica laughed.

  “Women aren’t like men, Teffinger,” she said. “We remember the names of the people we sleep with. So I can definitely say no, we weren’t. Besides, real estate agents are boring. I like dangerous people. Bad boys and bad girls.” She ran a finger down Teffinger’s chest. “People like you.”

  “Me? I’m not dangerous.”

  She looked him in the eyes.

  “You’re a guy on the edge, Teffinger, and you know it. You won’t end up boring me. That’s why we’re going to be lovers.”

  Teffinger was about to say something, but she stood up, walked over to the chaise lounge, lay down on her stomach, and stretched out.

  “You got me all stressed out,” she said. “Now you owe me a backrub.”

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he walked over, put his hands on her shoulders, and kneaded her muscles.

  “I love it when I’m right,” she said.

  “Just don’t spread it around,” he said.

  “Give me a full-body massage and I won’t.”

  He worked his hands lower down her back, not knowing where he’d stop.

  14

  Day Three—September 7

  Wednesday Afternoon

  When a well-dressed woman walked into Aspen’s office mid-afternoon and closed the door behind her, Aspen knew that something was going on and it wasn’t going to be pretty. “I’m Jacqueline Moore,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I was in your seat twenty-one years ago. Welcome to our humble abode.”

  Aspen swallowed.

  Jacqueline Moore, Esq.

  Nickname Cruella de Ville.

  Aspen had heard the rumors.

  None of them were particularly good.

  “We’re both busy, so I’m going to get right to the point,” the woman said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Aspen’s desk. She looked to be about forty-five with perfectly manicured hair and nails, the kind of person who could walk into any boardroom or highbrow party and chat it up with the best of them.

  Her outfit was expensive and her jewelry large.

  She wore no wedding ring.

  “One of the bad things about my particular job,” she said, “is being responsible for setting course corrections when they’re needed. Some people will tell you I thrive on it. I don’t, and that’s the truth. But someone has to be the mouthpiece for the firm’s policies, and we decided long ago that if only a few people did it, they’d in effect serve as the lightning rods for any negative feelin
gs that might arise.” She paused. “But hopefully there won’t be any of those.”

  Aspen remembered the balance in her checkbook—$82.00.

  No matter what happened, she’d have to be polite.

  The woman patted Aspen’s hand. “This is just a small matter,” Jacqueline said. “Hardly anything, really. It’s come to our attention that you’ve contacted one of the firm’s clients, namely Dr. Beverly Twenhofel. Is that true?”

  Aspen nodded.

  So that’s what this was about.

  “Yes.”

  “Apparently in connection with some type of investigation you’re conducting into the disappearance of Rachel Ringer. Is that true also?”

  Aspen nodded.

  “I’m just trying to figure a few things out.”

  “I understand.” Jacqueline looked sympathetic. “Rachel’s a wonderful person,” she said. “We all miss her and we all want her back. But the police are working on it. And the firm has hired two top-notch investigators who are also working on it. What we can’t have is individual attorneys running around trying to solve the case. It makes the firm look amateurish. It makes us look like we’re not focused on legal matters. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Aspen nodded.

  She did indeed.

  Jacqueline stood up, smiled and walked to the door.

  “Your heart’s in the right place,” she said. “It’s good to have you with the firm.”

  Then she was gone.

  Aspen’s hands trembled and she gripped them together to make them stop.

  It didn’t work.

  15

  Day Three—September 7

  Wednesday

  Draven didn’t intend to develop feelings for the whore—Gretchen—but did, and that screwed everything up. His initial plan was to have her go to the bar this evening, come on to one of the bikers, and then lure him into the back alley for a blowjob. Then Draven would pop out of the shadows and give the asshole a lesson he’d never forget.

  The problem is that the scumbags would figure out what had happened, afterwards, and go after the woman.

  She wouldn’t be hard to find, not in a town this small.