Client On The Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller) Read online

  Rock, in effect, had committed a felony, born of stupidity but a felony nonetheless.

  At Benderfield’s suggestion, Rock took all the information, as well as all the drugs purchased over the months, and handed everything over to the police. He also pleaded for understanding.

  Luckily the cops elected to not prosecute.

  Benderfield then set out to get Radcliffe & Snow, for going behind her back and for letting the company’s president do something so incredibly stupid. Benderfield began to funnel work to other law firms. The law firm, in turn, set out to get Rock to discharge Benderfield; and eventually succeeded. The firm also set out to get Yardley, for her cooperation with Benderfield.

  They eventually came up with an excuse to discharge her.

  Salter said a number of clients had complained about the quality of her work and her inter-personal skills. He said she’d be better off someplace else more befitting her skills and attitude; and gave her three months to find a new job.

  It was all fabricated, every bit of it, but at that point Yardley didn’t care.

  She didn’t want anything to do with the place any longer.

  She left and opened her own law firm.

  Sometimes, when she wrote, she got writer’s block. That happened when she didn’t know where the story was going—when she didn’t know what would happen next, or when none of her characters knew what to do. That’s how she felt right now, in connection with the Aspen Asher case.

  She had investigator’s block.

  She didn’t know what to do next.

  She had already done everything she could think of. What she needed to do was just park her posterior on the back of the sailboat and throw bread to the ducks until she figured it out.

  She ran harder and thought about a dream from last night.

  She and Samantha Dent were together—sitting in the back of the sailboat, in the dark, under a half moon, drinking wine. No one was around and the temperature was perfect.

  Then Samantha kissed her.

  Yardley thought she would mind but she didn’t.

  Then she woke up.

  Weird.

  What was weirder, though, was that she tried to fall back asleep right away and get it back.

  She slowed from a run to a walk a hundred yards from the marina to give her muscles a chance to cool down. By the time she got to the sailboat, she knew what to do next on the Aspen Asher case.

  Okay.

  Good.

  Maybe the day wouldn’t be a train wreck after all.

  15

  T he cops didn’t turn out to be a problem. Dalton remembered the hundred dollars he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies; and the cops escorted him to McDonald’s and let him pay.

  Back at Refuge-7, he didn’t find the wallet in the parking lot or anywhere else inside the building. He put on the ski mask, opened the playroomdoor and walked in.

  Lindsay was sitting on the cement in the far corner of the room.

  Dalton spotted the wallet on the floor under the rack.

  He must have kicked it under there while he worked. Lindsay couldn’t see it from her angle. The big question is whether she found it while Dalton was out. He didn’t go to it. Instead, he sat down next to her and said, “How do you like the tattoo?”

  “It’s nice,” she said. “Thanks.”

  An obvious lie, but he didn’t care.

  “I guess it’s only fair that you know my name,” he said. “My first name, I mean, not my whole name. I’m Sean.” As he spoke the words he studied her face, to see if she registered the name as a lie.

  He detected no evidence of it.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  He shook her hand.

  “Likewise,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. We’re going to play a guessing game. Tell me a location somewhere. If it turns out that I live within two miles of it, I’ll let you go.”

  She said nothing.

  “What? You don’t want to play?”

  “You’re just messing with me,” she said.

  “No, I’m not. Go ahead and take a guess. Give me a location.”

  She retreated in thought.

  He waited for her to say LoDo or downtown or California Street, which would mean she had been through his wallet.

  “Golden,” she said.

  Ah.

  Good answer.

  Maybe she hadn’t spotted it, after all.

  “You can’t use a whole city,” he said. “It has to be a specific location.”

  “The Colorado Mills Mall,” she said.

  He frowned.

  “No, sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “Why are you messing with me? What do you want?”

  “I think I misplaced my wallet,” he said. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”

  Her eyes didn’t turn to the rack.

  “I just want to go home,” she said. “I’ll do sex, if that’s what you want. Just let me go. Please—”

  “We’ll see.”

  He stood up, looked towards the rack and said, “There is it. I must have dropped it by mistake.”

  “What?”

  “My wallet.”

  He walked over, picked it up and said, “You didn’t look through this, did you?”

  No.

  No.

  No.

  That was last night.

  Now it was morning.

  Dawn Hooker lived off highway 93, on a 5-acre horse property, at the base of the foothills in unincorporated Jefferson County. Dalton parked at a trailhead a half mile south of her place and headed up a hiking path under a blue Colorado sky.

  The path started out through prairie grass but soon gained elevation and transitioned into trees and boulders. The sweet scent of pine hung in the air. A hawk rode a wind current high above, on strong silent wings. An occasional black squirrel scampered across the trail. A half hour later, Dalton came to a rock outcropping.

  He sat down on a boulder and trained a pair of binoculars on Dawn Hooker’s property.

  He saw a small ranch house, two stories, accessed from Highway 93 by a gravel driveway 150 yards long. A red Jeep Liberty and three Harleys sat next to the house.

  Behind the house was a small barn.

  Two horses stood near each other, in a dirt area enclosed with barbwire. The gray one had a hoof in a watering trough, splashing.

  Suddenly the woman came out the back door.

  She wore jeans, boots and a white T-shirt.

  Very attractive.

  About thirty.

  With long chestnut hair.

  The cowgirl next door.

  A black lab walked at her side.

  The horses trotted over and met her at the gate. She gave each one an apple and then disappeared back inside.

  The lab too.

  Five minutes later, three large men with long hair came out of the house, fired up the Harleys and rumbled off.

  16

  T he bullet shattered the Vette’s windshield and passed directly between Teffinger and Jessie-Rae. Luckily, even in 1967, cars were equipped with safety glass; otherwise their faces would have been sliced to ribbons. The shooter disappeared too fast to give chase. Teffinger’s best guess was the murder attempt was directed at him, not Jessie-Rae, and probably related to one of his cases, maybe an old one.

  Nothing specific jumped to mind.

  He called the Lakewood P.D. A fairly competent detective by the name of Jack Woods responded. He dug a .357 bullet out of a garage stud, took their statements and wrapped up by eleven. As Woods’ taillights disappeared down the street, Teffinger told Jessie-Rae, “You shouldn’t stay here tonight. The guy could come back.”

  “Screw him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How positive?”

  “Positive enough,” she said. “Besides, someone needs to be here to protect you.”

  Teffinger picked her up, carried her into the bedroom
and laid her down on the bedspread. Then he peeled her clothes back, slowly, revealing one incredible part of her body at a time.

  Outside, the storm pummeled down.

  So perfect.

  That was last night.

  They got up at five this morning. Jessie-Rae was scheduled to be on the air at six and turned herself into a whirlwind. Somehow she managed to shower, wash her hair, shave her legs, dress and grab her purse by 5:35. As she ran out the front door with wet hair she turned and asked, “Are you going to listen to me this morning?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I’m going to talk about you then.”

  “Don’t say anything good,” he said. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “I don’t know anything good.”

  Then she was gone.

  Suddenly the door opened and she was back.

  She ran over, gave him a kiss and said, “I get to see you later today—right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I was thinking that maybe I should move in,” she added.

  Teffinger’s mouth opened.

  “You want to move in?”

  “Okay,” she said. “As long as you’re asking.”

  Teffinger chuckled and said, “You don’t even know me.”

  “That’s why I need to move in.” She rubbed her stomach on his. “So, do you have a problem with it, or what?”

  Teffinger thought about it, and the answer surprised him.

  No.

  He didn’t.

  Teffinger left the house five minutes later and ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to work. He kept the radio off, pushed Jessie-Rae out of his mind as much as he could, and pulled up Lindsay Vail. She was out there in the world somewhere.

  Maybe dead but maybe not; missing more than two days at this point.

  He inhaled coffee and paced back and forth by the windows as the world woke up. When Sydney walked into the room shortly after seven, Teffinger said, “This guy’s face has been on the news for more than a day and no one’s called yet with a name. That means he’s from out of town. And none of her friends have seen him either. That means he’s not part of her social structure.”

  “Here’s the problem,” Sydney said. “You have coffee in your gut. I don’t.”

  Teffinger chuckled as Sydney poured.

  “A stranger from out of town,” Teffinger said. “That’s who we’re looking for.”

  Sydney didn’t disagree but didn’t seem overly impressed.

  “There’s more to it than that,” she said. “He might be a stranger in the sense that he wasn’t part of her social circle, but he can’t be a total stranger. A total stranger doesn’t target someone at their house—they bump into someone in a parking lot or a dark street.”

  “He could have picked her out of a crowd and followed her home,” Teffinger said.

  “That’s a lot of work,” Sydney said. “Somehow, they have a connection.”

  Teffinger chewed on it.

  She was probably right.

  Then something occurred to him.

  “Assume you’re right,” he said. “Also assume the guy’s not part of her social circle. That tells me one of two things. Either the connection occurred very recently, or it occurred back in the past, in an older social circle.”

  Sydney nodded.

  “Or it could be some kind of connection that doesn’t become part of her social circle,” she added. “A fender-bender; or she wouldn’t let him buy her a drink at a club; we could think of scenarios all day long.”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For making everything muddy again.”

  She tipped her cup.

  “So all we really know is that he’s probably not from Denver,” Teffinger said. “I guess I better tell you something, otherwise you’re going to hear it through the grapevine and smack me for not telling you myself.”

  Then he informed her about the gunshot last night.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said.

  Sydney looked dumbfounded and said, “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have a gut feeling.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “Maybe Jessie-Rae was the target,” she said.

  “No, I’m the target,” Teffinger said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just have a gut feeling.”

  “I thought you just said you didn’t have a gut feeling.”

  “I don’t as to who it was,” Teffinger said. “But I do as to the target being me and not Jessie-Rae. She’s going to move in with me, by the way. Did I mention that?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Nothing’s ever normal with you, Teffinger. Do you know that?”

  17

  A t the deposition, Adam Osborne, Esq. turned out to be even more obnoxious than Yardley remembered. Worse, Dakota Van Vleck sat at his side, taking notes, keeping his coffee cup full, smiling when he looked her way, listening to his every question with an unnaturally-focused interest. She joined the firm one year before Yardley, meaning she was a sixth-year associate now. Two years from now, the firm would either move her up to partner or let her know it would never happen. So she was in the home stretch. Osborne—and another half dozen just like him—could make or break her.

  She hardly looked at Yardley, and when she did, there was no warmth in her eyes.

  Oh, well.

  Osborne asked a lot of objectionable questions that weren’t relevant to the issues in the case or likely to lead to discoverable information. Each time, Yardley objected and instructed her client—38-year-old Marilyn Gruenwald—to not answer.

  The tension increased.

  Shortly after eleven, when Yardley objected to yet another improper question, Osborne slammed his hand on the table. Everyone in the room, including the court reporter, jumped.

  He stood up, put his palms on the wood, leaned across and scowled at Yardley. “You are going to start acting like a real lawyer and stop making these damned stupid objections.” Then he looked at Yardley’s client and said, “And you’re going to answer them. Do you both understand?”

  Yardley almost stood up.

  Instead, she stayed in her seat.

  “Let the record reflect that Mr. Osborne just slapped his hand on the table so hard that everyone in the room jumped,” she said. “He then got out of his seat and sneered at me and the deponent, Ms. Gruenwald, in a threatening manner.” She looked at Osborne and said, “Would you like to take a break until you can get your emotions under control?”

  “Screw you and your little games,” he said. “Your client is going to answer my questions and we’re not going to have any more interruptions from you.”

  Yardley’s heart raced.

  “Screw me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, actually I don’t.”

  Osborne scowled.

  “What do you mean, screw me?”

  He sat down and poured a cup of water.

  Then Yardley did something she didn’t expect. She stood up, packed her briefcase and told her client, “Come on. This deposition’s over.”

  “This deposition isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Osborne said.

  Yardley ignored him.

  Instead, she looked at the court reporter and said, “Please be sure I get a copy of the transcript.”

  Then they walked out.

  “This is why we fired you,” Osborne shouted. “You’re not a real lawyer and never will be.”

  In the elevator, Marilyn Gruenwald said, “What a flaming idiot. So what happens now?”

  “He was way over the line,” Yardley said. “The only way he could get the deposition back on the table at this point is to file a motion to get an order from the court forcing us to come back. He wouldn’t do that in a million years, because he’d have to tell the court that we walked out, and then we’d tell the court why. He’d p
robably end up slapped with sanctions.”

  “You think?”

  Yardley nodded.

  “Even if my objections were improper—which they weren’t—the remedy is for him to certify the questions to the court and get a ruling as to whether you have to answer. He’s not allowed to slam his hand on the table; he’s not allowed to order you to answer; and he’s certainly not allowed to say screw you to me, you or anyone else. That’s totally inappropriate and unprofessional.”

  “The guy scares me,” Marilyn said.

  “Don’t let him,” Yardley said. “That’s part of his plan, so don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  Five minutes later, while walking back to her car, Yardley’s phone rang and the voice of Dakota Van Vleck came through. “You’re my hero,” Dakota said. “We need to have lunch and catch up, off the record.”

  “Fine.”

  “I read Deadly Web by the way. It was fantastic.”

  “Yeah? Did you really like it?”

  “Let me put it this way, I’ve only read two books in the last year and both of them were Deadly Web.”

  “You read it twice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’m major jealous.” A pause, then, “I don’t know if you heard, but Ryan Ripley got murdered Saturday night.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  No.

  She wasn’t.

  18

  D alton was about to push through the revolving door of Martin Production’s building when an exotic black woman passed him on the sidewalk. He stopped, turned, and followed her with his eyes. The woman’s skin was dark; her hair was long; her clothes were expensive and so was her walk. She looked to be about twenty-five and important; a diplomat’s daughter or something.

  He knew her from somewhere.