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?”
Good question.
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 smiled 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 looked stunned.
And stopped.
“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?”