Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (8 page)

“I won my motion hearing this morning,” she said.

“Didn’t know you had one.”

“Federal court,” she said. “Smell my neck.”

He obliged.

It was a designer perfume, not a Saturday-night sex trap. It was something more understated, more professional.

“That’s the smell of justice,” she said.

“Justice?”

“That’s right.”

“There’s no such thing.”

She leaned back and studied him. “You should spend the night tonight.”

An image
flashed up, an image of him, Del Rey and an exotic raven-haired woman with jungle vine tattoo wrapped around her right thigh, down in the dungeon one steamy drunken night. “Hey, do you remember that woman who joined us once, the one with the tattoo?”

She did.

She did indeed.

“What was her name again?”

“Trouble.”

Teffinger smiled.

“Do you still see her?”

“Why? Do you want another one?”

“No, I was just curious.”

“I haven’t seen her in a long time,” Del Rey said. “She moved.”

“Where to?”

She wrinkled her brow, focused on the distance and then came back. “I can’t remember. I’m thinking La La Land but I’m not sure; somewhere on the west coast. I have another one like here in town if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t mind.”

Teffinger raked his hair back.

It immediately flopped back down.

“No.”

She had a hesitant look on her face as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

“There’s something you don’t know about that night,” she said. “I recorded it.”

“You mean on videotape?”

“DVD actually.”

“Do you ever watch it?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes.” A beat then, “I can make a copy for you if you want.”

He considered it.

Then he said, “No. I’ll just stick with what I have in my mind. Paul Simon taught me that.”

21

Day Four

July 11

Friday Afternoon

Colder
had covered his tracks well but a man of his power and stature had enemies. Teffinger needed to find the one who had the dirt.

Sydney showed up mid-afternoon looking like she could use a drink. “I tracked down Susan Smith the Molly Maid and showed her the security tape,” she said. “She says that’s not her.”

Teffinger tilted his head.

“That gets me out of lunch.”

“Not totally.”

“You said it wasn’t her.”

“No, what I said is that
she said
it wasn’t her. I think she’s lying.”

“Why?”

“Just the way she acted. I’m thinking that whatever it is that’s going on, she can’t let us know about it. Either she did something illegal or she’s expecting a big payoff, or something like that. Whatever it is it’s worth the risk of getting killed over.”

Teffinger wasn’t impressed.

“If this is about lunch, I’m still going to take you. I probably owe it to you a hundred times over anyway. I want you to get on Jack Colder’s tail. Follow him around. See what he does.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am,” he said. “Also find out who his enemies are.”

“How?”

“I don’t know but do it quietly.”

She wrinkled her brow.

“No offense Teffinger but the more I think about Colder the more I don’t see him involved.”

“Why not?”

“You mean besides the lack of any evidence?”

“Right.”

“Well, basically, he’s a guy,” she said. “Guys don’t hold grudges for four years. Most guys I know can barely remember what they had for breakfast.”

The corner of Teffinger’s mouth turned up.

Then he got serious.

“He’s strong enough.”

“To do what?”

“To hold a grudge. Most guys wouldn’t have the strength. He does. Until someone better comes along, he’s our prime suspect. Remember, he owned her at one point. You don’t just let something like that go.” He stood up. “I got to run.”

“Where you going?”

“To find the boxer.”

It took some time
working the net, but Teffinger eventually traced the matchbook found at Portia’s crime scene, the one with the tribal dragon, to a tattoo place on Broadway called Ink Insanity, which sat between a gay bondage paraphernalia shop and a Chinese massage parlor.

The place was empty except for a tatted-up pretty in her early twenties, at war with the world judging by the piercings and the paint. She was in a vinyl chair with her legs propped up and an iPad in her lap.

On the counter were complimentary matchbooks.

The covers had tribal dragons on burnt orange backgrounds.

Teffinger picked one up and tapped it on the counter.

“It’s hot out,” he said.

A fan blew at the woman’s legs. They were pale but had a nice shape, riding up into a part of daisy dukes.

“Yeah.”

“Is that bike parked out front yours?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen you around,” he said.

“Yeah? Where?”

“The Grizzly Rose down in Golden.”

“I don’t go there.”

“Then maybe it was The Little Bear. Do you go there?”

“Sometimes.”

“That must be it.”

He took out his phone and pulled up a picture of the boxer. “My name’s Nick Teffinger. I’m a detective here in Denver and I’m trying to find this man,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”

He studied her eyes as she studied the photo.

She knew him, he could tell.

“No,” she said. “What do you want him for?”

He pulled up another photo, one of Portia, and said, “This woman was killed Wednesday night. The boxer was in the vicinity. I’d like to talk to him.”

The woman didn’t take her eyes off the photo.

Then she looked up.

“She’s pretty.”

Teffinger tapped the book of matches on the counter and said, “Matches like these were found at the scene. Help me out.”

She hesitated.

“What’s in it for me?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to be in it for you?”

She shrugged.

“Let’s just say that I have rent coming up.”

Teffinger pulled five twenties out of his wallet and laid them on the counter. The woman scooped them up and stuffed them in her bra.

“Danny Rainer.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“He lives somewhere off Colfax. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Christina.”

He headed for the door.

“You have yourself a nice day, Christina.”

“You too. Come back some time. I’ll give you a free one.”

“A tattoo?”

“No. Something better.”

Outside
the sun was busy beating every living thing into a dry lifeless pulp. Teffinger got the Tundra’s AC blasting and ran a background check on Danny Rainer.

The man was clean.

A quick web search led to something else he didn’t expect. The man owned a majority interest in Rainer, Ltd., a holding company operating under several trade names and engaged in the business of constructing custom high-rise condos and lofts with units in the $500,000 to $2,000,000 range. Rainer Place One was currently being framed in LoDo and already 60% pre-sold, according to the website. Rainer Place Two was slated to begin in two years in the adjacent lot.

The man had money.

If you threw a suitcase full of green into his sea, all you’d get would be a little splash. The surface wouldn’t rise. The world wouldn’t change.

Did he kill Portia?

Did he stop finding ways where money could make him happy?

Did he develop a dark side to get the kicks that worldly possessions could no longer give him?

Was he addicted to danger?

Had he turned himself into a hunter?

Teffinger
merged into the sticky Broadway traffic and pointed the front end of the Tundra towards LoDo. Maybe Rainer would be down at the site watching his newest masterpiece go up.

The size of man is related to the size of what he does. If nothing else, the project would give Teffinger a feel for the size of Rainer.

He wanted to experience the man’s power.

He wanted to appreciate what he was up against.

He found parking at Coors Field and hoofed it over two blocks to where the steel framework of a high-rise was under construction, currently twelve or thirteen or fourteen stories up, flanked by the black webbing of a crane that rose another hundred feet still.

A chain-link fence wrapped the site.

Inside, two men sat in the shade of a construction trailer, eating sandwiches and drinking from thermoses.

“Have you guys seen Danny Rainer around?”

One of them pointed up to where four or five men were working at the highest levels of the steel, not much more than tiny silhouettes against the sky, aligning a post being lowered by the crane.

“He’s up there.”

“I’m talking about Danny Rainer the owner,” Teffinger said.

“That’s him.”

“He does physical work?”

“Every day.”

Teffinger looked up.

“That’s a good place to not lose your balance.”

The man swallowed what was in his mouth and said, “You’d never catch me up there, not in a hundred years. I don’t care what they pay. They can keep the money.”

Teffinger swallowed.

He was a wimp when it came to gravity.

He used to climb
at Red Rocks back in the days before they clamped down. One day him and a friend had to jump over a chasm, which was easy since it was only eight feet across and the other edge was three feet lower. Then bad news came. There was no way out on the opposing ridge. They had to jump back, this time going up three feet instead of down.

That made a difference.

It made him look down.

It made him sweat.

It made him picture things that weren’t all that pretty.

He’d seen
people drop from the rocks before. Two girls dropped out of the hatchet lady’s cave once. They didn’t appreciate that the pigeon poop on the front ledge was slippery.

They landed not more than thirty feet away from where Teffinger and Heather White were feeling each other up in the shade of a boulder.

They splattered all the way over to him.

His shirt ended up with so much blood on it that he took it off and left it there.

Trisha Bolton and Mary-Ann Swanson.

He never met either of them but their names were indelibly etched in his brain even now.

The sky
beat down.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and said, “Where can I catch Rainer at the end of the day?”

The man pointed to a Harley, an older model, not tricked out, not chromed out, just an ordinary ride with tassels hanging from the handlebars and leather saddlebags draped over the rear fender.

“That’s his, right there.”

“Thanks.”

22

Day Four

July 11

Friday Afternoon

At the end
of the day Teffinger hung across the street where he watched the boxer descend a rickety side-elevator to earth, disappear into a construction trailer for a meeting, and finally head for his Harley, the last bike left. Teffinger tailgated the man through thick traffic, getting more and more glances from the Harley’s rearview mirror as the blocks clicked off.

On Colfax the bike jerked to the curb and fishtailed to a stop.

The boxer was off, staring Teffinger down, daring him to do something stupid.

Teffinger pulled up alongside, powered his window down and said, “Let me buy you a beer.”

The man’s face contorted.

“I don’t know who you are but you’re fucking with the wrong man.”

Teffinger raked his hair back.

“My name’s Teffinger,” he said. “I’m a homicide detective. All I want is a few minutes of your time. It’ll be off the record.”

A car behind honked.

Teffinger’s rearview mirror showed three male figures in a low rider, not amused at being blocked. He waved them around and turned his attention to the boxer.