Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (7 page)

“No.”

“Well, lucky you,” she said. “There was a time four or five years ago when him and me were pretty close. He figured out quickly that money made me happy and one of the things he wanted to do more than anything was make me happy. A lot of money flowed my way. I didn’t know it at the time but he thought he was buying my soul one installment at a time. The time came when he considered me paid in full.”

She sighed.

“So what happened?”

“His attitude changed,” she said. “The money kept coming but a dark side of him came out that I never knew about. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d seen it before but it had never been directed at me. Now it was coming my way.”

She rolled onto her back.

“Do my front,” she said.

Teffinger obliged.

“It took a while for things to fully end,” she said. “It was sort of like a slow painful dance. During that period, I met a man by the name of Seth Lightfield.”

Teffinger knew the name but couldn’t place it.

“He was a dancer,” Susan said. “He’s backed up lots of big names, including Madonna and Brittany Spears. He lives in Denver when he’s not on the road.”

It came to him.

“Was he a tall muscular guy with long hair?”

“Yes.”

“I remember him,” Teffinger said. “Someone put a bullet in the back of his head.”

“Right,” she said. “Now you know who.”

“Colder.”

“Right, Colder.”

“Did he ever admit it to you?”

“No, we stopped talking months before that.” She exhaled. “I don’t have any proof if that’s what you’re getting at. Now he’s after me.”

“Why? Why now?”

“Because deep wounds never heal,” she said. “Haven’t you ever loved anyone that deep?”

He had.

It never turned crazy afterwards but, way down, the makings were there.

“So why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I didn’t think he was serious,” she said. “I thought he was just messing with me. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.”

18

Day Four

July 11

Friday Morning

Friday morning
with a jolt of caffeine in hand, Teffinger pulled the Seth Lightfield file out of storage and searched it for anything that hinted at Jack Colder being the killer. Nothing of that sort was there. Moreover, there was no DNA or fingerprints or witnesses to match to the man. Teffinger had motive but not a scintilla more.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

He had a bullet to the back of the man’s head.

Maybe Colder hired Portia Montrachet to do the deed; and now, a year later, he hired her again to take out the more hateful part of the equation, Susan. A bullet to the head would be Portia’s style against a man like Lighfield. Maybe she even used the same weapon against him that she left behind in her purse. Ballistics could tell.

Sydney showed up at 7:30 wearing a white blouse that played well against her mocha skin. She filled a coffee cup, plopped down in the chair in front of Teffinger’s desk and studied him over the rim as she took a sip.

“I hate you,” she said.

He smiled.

“Why?”

“Because you had sex this morning.”

He went to deny it but knew she’d know he was lying.

“And?”

“And I didn’t,” she said.

“Well, don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s actually underrated.”

“Do you mean overrated?”

He raked his hair back.

“No, under.”

He brought her
up to speed on what Susan Smith told him last night about Seth Lighfield and Jack Colder, the lawyer; together with his theory that Colder either killed Lighfield or hired Portia, or someone like her, to do it. Now he was after Susan.

“I know Colder,” Sydney said.

The words were a rock to the face.

“You do?”

She nodded.

“He dated a friend of mine back in the day,” she said.

“A black woman?”

She smacked his arm. “Yes, a black woman, you should try it some time Teffinger. You might be surprised.”

“I already have.”

“And?”

“And I got no complaints.”

“
No complaints
?”

“Right.”

“Well, all I can say is you didn’t do it right,” she said. “If you’d done it right the answer wouldn’t be,
And I got no complaints
. The answer would be,
And I never went back to white
.”

He smiled.

“Next time I’ll try to do it right.” He sipped at the caffeine. “Maybe you’ll give me some pointers.”

She soured her face.

“In your dreams.”

He smiled.

“Work up a warrant to get Colder’s phone records for the three or four month period preceding Lightfield’s murder. I want to see if he was in contact with Portia Montrachet or that bleached haired investigator out in D.C. What was his name?”

“Oscar Benderfield.”

“Right. Another
field,
that’s weird.”

“Weird just follows you around Teffinger.”

He cocked his head.

“There’s actually some truth to that. What’d your friend who was dating Colder say about him?”

“She said he gave her money.”

“What else?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Call her up and get everything you can on the guy.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead.”

The words hit hard.

“How’d she die?”

“Do you mean was she murdered?”

“Right.”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “I didn’t hear much about it. It was a year or two afterwards when I found out.”

“What was her name?”

“Female,” Sydney said. “Female Natja.”

The word rhymed with Tamale but when Teffinger ran the letters it made his forehead wrinkle.

“Is that spelled F E M A L E?”

“Yes.”

“So the parents named their daughter Female?”

“It’s pronounced Fa-Maul-E.”

“Right, I understand.” He headed for the door and said over his shoulder, “Get the details of her death.”

Then he was gone.

19

Day Four

July 11

Friday Morning

Colder & Boggs, P.C.,
turned out to be a boutique firm of about thirty lawyers operating out of a high level in the epicenter of the financial district. Teffinger paid more than his monthly mortgage to park the Tundra and then worked his way into and through an opulent deco lobby and up an enclosed metal stairwell floor by floor until his quads burned and his chest heaved.

Five minutes later he was past the receptionist and easing into a leather chair at an expensive wooden table in the corner of Jack Colder’s office.

Outside the glass was a commanding view of the mountains.

In the corner was a pinball machine with a King Kong theme.

Colder had a swagger.

He had the face to charm, the body to command and the penetrating eyes of a predator. In a different time and place, he’d be the king.

Teffinger pulled up a picture of Portia Montrachet on his phone, held it for Colder to see and said, “Do you know this woman? Her name’s Portia Montrachet.”

The man showed no reaction or hesitation.

“No.”

“She got murdered last night,” he said.

“And that involves me, how?”

“I don’t know that it does,” Teffinger said. “In her purse was a piece of paper with a handwritten phone number on it. The number is the one for this law firm.”

As the words left his mouth, Teffinger had one thought and one thought only.
Don’t look like you’re lying.

Don’t look like you’re lying.

Don’t look like you’re lying.

“And?”

“And I thought the firm might be doing some work for her,” Teffinger said.

“If it was it wasn’t through me,” Colder said.

“I know that,” Teffinger said. “Because if that was the case my life would be too easy and that’s not how my life works. What I was hoping is that you could check around and see if she was a client. If she was, then the lawyer she was dealing with may be able to shed light on why she was killed.”

Colder frowned.

“Who our clients are or are not is a matter of privilege,” he said. “We can’t disclose information like that without authority from the client or a court order.”

“Well, given her state, I doubt she’s going to object.” Teffinger leaned forward. “Between you and me, I’m going to find the person who killed her and use my every breath to make sure he rots in hell. You can save me some time. If she was a client, I’ll get a search warrant at that point. I just don’t want to waste my time getting a warrant if there’s no basis for it.”

Colder shook his head.

“I understand you’re pressed for time but that doesn’t change my obligations as a lawyer,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Teffinger nodded.

“It never hurts to ask,” he said.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Back at homicide
Sydney said, “I don’t get it. I don’t see what you accomplished, not to mention that what you’ve been telling me every time I turn around is to always talk to the suspect last, after you have all the facts rounded up.”

“I wanted him to feel the heat of a detective sitting in his office,” Teffinger said, “I didn’t want to do it in a way that would implicate Susan Smith though, so I made up a little excuse. Hopefully he’ll be jarred enough to back off, at least temporarily.”

“Tricky.”

“If it works.” He took a sip of coffee. “The fact that I lied to him isn’t a license for you to do the same. Do as I say, not as I do.”

“As is I ever do either.”

He smiled.

“Good point.”

She got serious.

“So what did you think about him? Is he our man?”

20

Day Four

July 11

Friday Morning

Jack Colder’s
cell phone records showed no communications to or from Portia Montrachet or the D.C. investigator, Oscar Benderfield; not four years ago in the months leading up to Seth Lightfield’s murder; not recently; not ever. The records did show a long-lived relationship with Susan Smith, just like she said, abruptly ending three months before Lightfield was murdered.

The negative didn’t mean much, not to Teffinger.

Colder could have used landlines.

He could have used someone other than Portia to kill Lightfield.

Sydney’s face appeared in front of his.

She was excited.

She was stressed.

“Come look at this,” she said.

This
was the surveillance tape that showed the boxer, stopped on still frame.

“What do you see?”

Teffinger studied it, not seeing anything he hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t know; the boxer.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Look in the background.”

He did.

Several people were walking.

One was a woman.

She looked vaguely familiar.

Sydney tapped on the woman’s face and said, “Do you recognize her?”

No.

He didn’t.

“She’s Susan Smith, the Molly Maid.”

He looked closer.

“No she isn’t,” he said.

“Yes she is.”

They compared the photo of the woman from her file against the one on the screen.

“There’s a resemblance but it’s not her,” Teffinger said.

“Then you’re blind.”

He could argue but she’d win. Also, deep down, he had to admit she had a ten percent chance of being right. “Okay, run her down and find out.”

“What do I get, if I’m right?”

He could already feel the pain in his wallet.

“Lunch,” he said.

“Your treat.”

“That was implied.”

“I’ve been tricked by implied before,” she said. “Say it.”

He swallowed.

“Fine; lunch, my treat. Happy?”

She tweaked his nose.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

Lunch
was with Del Rey at Wong’s on Court Street. Her step had the spring of a teenager. Teffinger thought it was because the other Susan Smith was now confirmed as the target, but there was a different reason.