Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (10 page)

“Like what?”

“It turns out that you’re a descendent of two separate and distinct vampires,” Parker said. “Their bloodlines intersected, or crossed, or merged, or whatever you want to call it. So far, you’re the only person in the world that we know about with that kind of pedigree.”

Rave chuckled.

Nervously.

“You’re messing with me, right?”

He shook his head.

“I’m actually jealous,” he said. “This makes you a queen or something.”

“I don’t want to be a queen or something.”

Parker laughed.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to start being nice to you,” he said. “Just because you’re royalty.”

She punched him in the arm.

Then got serious.

“Do me a favor, will you?” she asked.

He nodded.

Sure.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said. “I need to get this whole part of my life gone, not get further in.”

Okay.

No problem.

But he added, “Not many people in this world get to be queen of something, you know.”

“Well, if it actually was in this world—that would be a different story.”

He chuckled.

“Understood.”

FORREST WAS STANDING OUTSIDE at passenger pickup, two steps in from the curb where maniac drivers couldn’t run him over, when Parker pulled up, killed the engine and told Rave, “That’s him in the blue shirt.” Rave liked the man immediately. He was older than Parker—about forty—and had an Indiana Jones aura to him. She half expected him to pull out a bullwhip and snatch a handbag out of someone’s grip just for the hell of it.

“Be careful of this guy,” Forrest told her, nodding towards Parker. “He doesn’t drink beer. He only drinks those mixed drinks. I even saw him get something once that had one of those little umbrellas in it. It was embarrassing to be in the same state.”

“So what do you drink?”

“Me?”

She nodded.

“Milk,” he said.

She laughed

“In a dirty glass, like a man.” Then he got serious and looked at Parker. “She’s too pretty to let anything happen to her. Good thing you called me.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Day Four—April 15

Friday Morning

______________

THE SURVEILLANCE TAPES from the Old Orleans didn’t help. Teffinger had been with Jena most of the evening. The few times he left her alone, no one came over and put a move on her. Nor did the tapes show anyone stalking or studying her. When the monitor turned blue, Teffinger broke a pencil in half.

And frowned.

“Now what?” Sydney asked.

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly the chief—F. F. Tanker aka Double-F—walked into the room with every wrinkle in his 60-year-old face creased. Teffinger sensed trouble. Tanker politely scooted Sydney out, closed the door and said, “This Jena Vellone thing is getting huge press. And I’m not just talking about her own TV station, I’m talking about all of them.”

Teffinger hadn’t been following the news.

But it didn’t surprise him.

“Questions are being raised as to why you’re on the case,” the chief said.

“Screw ’em.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tanker said. “But here’s the problem. A Denver detective spends the evening with the victim. He takes her home, drunk. She then disappears. Instead of being the prime suspect, he’s the prime investigator on the case. That’s a conflict of interest, at the least, and maybe something worse.”

Teffinger nodded.

Understanding the talk.

But he said, “There’s nobody in this world as motivated to find her as I am.”

Tanker nodded and said, “Or as capable.”

Teffinger grunted.

“Let me get right to the bottom line,” Tanker said. “The mayor doesn’t want an appearance of impropriety and has asked me to take you off the case.”

TEFFINGER SMACKED HIS HAND ON THE TABLE.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Hold on,” Tanker said. “I’m in a delicate situation here. I need to do what the mayor says. But I’m not going to put Jena Vellone at further risk by doing something stupid, either. So here’s the deal. Officially and publicly, you’re off the case. Between you and me, you’re still on it. You just can’t let anyone know.”

Teffinger stood and paced.

“That’s going to slow me down,” he said. “I can’t spend my time worrying about staying out of sight just because some dumb reporters are asking stupid questions.”

Tanker nodded and said, “It sucks. But that’s the best we can do.”

Teffinger headed for the door.

Tanker said, “I’m putting myself out on a limb for you.”

Teffinger turned and said, “I appreciate that. I’m just pissed. This is the last thing I need right now.”

“Understood.”

Teffinger turned the doorknob and almost opened the door, but paused and said, “Between you and me, if you had taken me off the case completely, I would have quit and kept going on my own.”

Tanker cocked his head.

“There you go again,” he said.

“What?”

“Telling me stuff I already know.”

Teffinger knew that was a compliment.

And that he should acknowledge it as such.

But all he could say was, “It’s my fault she’s gone.” Then he raked his fingers through his hair and said, “I’m going to need Sydney.”

“Can she keep her mouth shut?”

“Yes.”

“Your call, then. Just be sure that all this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.”

“It won’t.”

“I have enough bite marks back there already.”

Teffinger chuckled.

Then headed out of the room.

TEFFINGER NEEDED TO STRETCH HIS LEGS and blow off steam, so he took Sydney for a walk to the 16th Street Mall, explained the situation and bought her a hotdog and diet Pepsi from a street vendor.

They were on a bench in the sun, chewing, when Teffinger’s phone rang. It turned out to be Jean-Paul Quisanatte, the Paris detective in charge of the case of the model who got a wooden stake pounded into her heart. Teffinger brought him up to speed on the Cameron Leigh case.

“I looked at the picture of the guy you emailed,” Jean-Paul said. “How tall would you say he is?”

Teffinger reflected back to the warehouse tapes.

“Five-ten.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jean-Paul said. “I don’t think he’s our guy. Diamanda’s bodyguard was six-three and built. Someone beat him to death with their bare hands. I don’t think your man could have done that.”

“I didn’t know the guy was so big,” Teffinger said.

“Well he is. A black belt, too.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Day Four—April 15

Friday Afternoon

______________

TRIPP DECIDED TO CAPTURE Rave Lafelle alive and do it tonight, after her gig, if possible. In preparation, he pushed a cart through the Lakewood King Soopers and filled it with non-perishable items that didn’t need to be refrigerated or cooked.

Fruit.

Granola bars.

Canned soup.

Bread.

Tuna fish.

Cookies.

Bottled water.

Juice.

The food went into the trunk of the Dodge. For a brief moment he thought about moving it into the old brick warehouse now, but decided it would be safer to wait until after dark. Then he stopped at Ace Hardware and bought some more necessities.

Rope.

Flashlights.

Chain.

Locks.

HE SWUNG BY RAVE LAFELLE’S HOUSE mid-afternoon and saw something he didn’t expect, namely a dark-blue Camry backing out of the driveway, with a raven haired beauty behind the wheel.

A black woman who looked like an island girl.

Very sexy.

She led him to the base of Green Mountain and then wove up twisty streets until the asphalt didn’t go much higher. She disappeared up a street called South DeFrame Way that snaked up a draw and looked like a dead-end. Tripp hung back and waited. When the vehicle didn’t come back after ten minutes, he turned the radio off and drove up.

The Camry was parked in the driveway of a green split-level ranch, third house from the end, on the left, backing to the side of the mountain.

Tripp drove past, used the turnaround at the end, and then headed back down.

He shielded his face with his hand.

And kept his nose pointed straight.

At the stop sign, he turned right and then right again at the next one, and found himself heading up another draw, but one with no houses built yet. He parked the Dodge on the shoulder and walked up the side of the mountain about a hundred yards to a ridge that looked down on the split-level.

He smiled.

If it was dark, he could walk straight down to the house.

No one inside would have a clue he was coming.

Suddenly his cell phone rang.

He checked the incoming number.

And decided he better answer.

“WHAT’S GOING ON AT YOUR END?” Jake VanDeventer asked.

“No opportunities have come up yet,” Tripp said. “She had a singing gig last night and then a boyfriend stayed over.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe tonight.”

“Play it safe,” VanDeventer said. “I don’t want another Abbott on my hands.”

Tripp chuckled.

As if there was any comparison.

“How are things going at the mine?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Day Four—April 15

Friday Afternoon

______________

FORREST HAD A LAST NAME—JONES—WHICH was ironic, given his resemblance to Indiana. He took the backseat of the Volvo and was already spitting out ideas before DIA got in their rearview mirror.

He wore jeans, tennis shoes and a blue T-shirt.

Strong arms stuck out.

“We need to set a trap,” Forrest said. “No offense, Parker, but hiding in the house while Rave walks around pretending to be alone isn’t going to cut it. The problem is, that’s a normal routine. We need to assume that they’ve already spotted you and they know that you’ll be guarding all her normal routines. What we need to do is stage an upset condition, preferably something that takes you out of the loop. They’ll figure that Rave’s alone and that this is their chance. What they don’t know, however, is that I’ll be hiding in the wings.”

Parker looked at Rave and said, “I think you already figured out that I’m the pretty one and he’s the brains.”

She laughed.

Then Parker asked, “Do you have something specific in mind?”

Forrest patted him on the back.

“In fact I do,” he said. Then to Rave, “It’s going to be a little risky, on your part.”

She exhaled.

“How risky?”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, they dropped her off at the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver. She walked on the sunny side of the street under a blue Colorado sky and occasionally stopped and pointed her nose into a store window to see if anyone behind her came to a similar halt. No one did, at least that she noticed, not that that meant much.

The city buzzed.

Full of energy.

Loaded with people poised on the edge of the weekend.

Business people.

Young people.

Street vendors.

Cops on horseback.

Of course, the mall was closed to street traffic, except for the free shuttle buses that ran up and down the ten block stretch. The sidewalk tables at the Paramount Café were completely filled, mostly with business-types munching on snacks and kicking off the FAC. Rave scouted the faces, didn’t see the ones she was looking for, and headed inside. Suddenly someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Tim Pepper.

Manager extraordinaire.

“Good thing I’m not a rattlesnake,” he said. “You’d be dead right now.”

He led her outside.

Where she had just looked and not seen them.

The woman from Storm—Amanda Pierce—waved as they walked over. A half-filled cocktail sat in front of her, clearly not her first. She stood and hugged Rave.

“There’s our star.”

“Shooting star,” Pepper said.

As soon as Rave sat down, a waitress appeared and set a screwdriver on the table. She took a sip and suddenly felt incredibly good.

Warm sun.

Alcohol.

On the verge of Vegas.

“Amanda and I have been working out the details,” Pepper said in that incredibly gay voice of his. “The contract’s going to go to you alone, not the band. The band guys are good enough to come with you, if they want, but they’ll have to do it in the capacity of hired musicians, not as a band. They’ll get paid well—a lot more than they’re making now—but they won’t have contract rights like you will.”

“They don’t really bring anything special to the party,” Amanda said. “They’re interchangeable with fifty others just like them. You’re the star, so you get the contract.”

Pepper nodded.

“If they don’t want to come,” he said, “we’ve got replacements waiting in the wings.”

“But they can come if they want, right?” Rave asked.

Pepper nodded.

“It’ll be their choice.”

Okay.

Fair enough.

“NEXT TOPIC,” PEPPER SAID. “Amanda wants us to get your CD out ASAP. She has ties to a label called Bang Bang. Have you ever heard of them?”

No.

She hadn’t.

Amanda patted Rave’s hand and said, “They’re out of Chicago. They’re smaller, but totally up-and-coming, with deep money and even deeper connections. I already sent them your demo tape and they wet their pants.”

Really?

Yes, really.

“They want you to come to Chicago and lay down a few tracks to get a better feel for you,” Amanda said. “But that’s just a formality. You’re already in.”

“You’re kidding?”

No.

She wasn’t.

Pepper jumped in and said, “Which brings us to our next issue, namely material. We have six good tracks right now, including the three you wrote. That brings us halfway there. Bang Bang has been sitting on a number of hits, just waiting for the right voice.”

“Meaning you,” Amanda said.