She walked as he followed, then turned and said, “How could I miss you? I didn’t even throw anything at you.”
He laughed.
“A sense of humor,” he said. “I like that.”
They ended up outside at the pool. She dangled her perfectly tanned legs in the water while he sat near the edge, staying high and dry, holding a piping-hot fresh cup of coffee. The Colorado sun brought the autumn air to the exact right temperature.
Teffinger took his sport coat off and threw it on a chaise lounge.
“So are you here to interrogate me or screw me?” she asked.
“I only have a license for one of those,” he said.
“The second, I hope.”
He shook his head and then got serious. “Just out of curiosity, do you know anyone named Tonya Obenchain? She’s a real estate agent.”
She didn’t answer.
Instead she slipped off the edge of the pool and splashed into the water.
The T-shirt floated up around her.
It became immediately apparent that she wore no bra or panties.
Just the T.
She kicked out, then swam back and folded her arms on the edge of the tile.
“No, I don’t. Why?”
He swallowed.
“We came across her body yesterday,” he said. “About a hundred feet from where we found Angela Pfeiffer. She was buried about six inches under, the same as Angela.”
“You’re kidding.”
No, he wasn’t.
Davica dunked under the water and kicked off the side of the pool, getting halfway across before she surfaced. There she went into a perfect overhand stroke. At the other end she stopped, took her T-shirt off, and threw it onto the concrete.
Then she swam back, pulled herself out of the water, and sat on the edge of the pool next to Teffinger.
She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
She didn’t have a hair on her body.
Not anywhere.
Then she looked at him. “I didn’t kill Angela and I sure as hell didn’t kill any real estate agents, either.”
“I’m not saying you did,” Teffinger said. He didn’t exactly know how to ease into the next question, so he just asked it. “Just to be clear, you and Tonya Obenchain were never, you know…”
“What? Lovers?”
“Right, that.”
Davica laughed.
“Women aren’t like men, Teffinger,” she said. “We remember the names of the people we sleep with. So I can definitely say no, we weren’t. Besides, real estate agents are boring. I like dangerous people. Bad boys and bad girls.” She ran a finger down Teffinger’s chest. “People like you.”
“Me? I’m not dangerous.”
She looked him in the eyes.
“You’re a guy on the edge, Teffinger, and you know it. You won’t end up boring me. That’s why we’re going to be lovers.”
Teffinger was about to say something, but she stood up, walked over to the chaise lounge, lay down on her stomach, and stretched out.
“You got me all stressed out,” she said. “Now you owe me a backrub.”
He knew he shouldn’t, but he walked over, put his hands on her shoulders, and kneaded her muscles.
“I love it when I’m right,” she said.
“Just don’t spread it around,” he said.
“Give me a full-body massage and I won’t.”
He worked his hands lower down her back, not knowing where he’d stop.
14
DAY THREE-SEPTEMBER 7
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
When a well-dressed woman walked into Aspen’s office mid-afternoon and closed the door behind her, Aspen knew that something was going on and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“I’m Jacqueline Moore,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I was in your seat twenty-one years ago. Welcome to our humble abode.”
Aspen swallowed.
Jacqueline Moore, Esq.
Nickname Cruella de Ville.
Aspen had heard the rumors.
None of them were particularly good.
“We’re both busy, so I’m going to get right to the point,” the woman said, sitting in one of the two chairs in front of Aspen’s desk. She looked to be about forty-five with perfectly manicured hair and nails, the kind of person who could walk into any boardroom or highbrow party and chat it up with the best of them.
Her outfit was expensive and her jewelry large.
No wedding ring.
“One of the bad things about my particular job,” she said, “is being responsible for setting course corrections when they’re needed. Some people will tell you I thrive on it. I don’t, and that’s the truth. But someone has to be the mouthpiece for the firm’s policies, and we decided long ago that if only a few people did it, they’d in effect serve as the lightning rods for any negative feelings that might arise.” She paused. “But hopefully there won’t be any of those.”
Aspen remembered the balance in her checkbook.
$82.00.
No matter what happened, she’d have to be polite.
The woman patted Aspen’s hand. “This is just a small matter,” Jacqueline said. “Hardly anything, really. It’s come to our attention that you’ve contacted one of the firm’s clients, namely Dr. Beverly Twenhofel. Is that true?”
Aspen nodded.
So that’s what this was about.
“Yes.”
“Apparently in connection with some type of investigation you’re conducting into the disappearance of Rachel Ringer. Is that true also?”
Aspen nodded.
“I’m just trying to figure a few things out.”
“I understand.” Jacqueline looked sympathetic. “Rachel’s a wonderful person,” she said. “We all miss her and we all want her back. But the police are working on it. And the firm has hired two top-notch investigators who are also working on it. What we can’t have is individual attorneys running around trying to solve the case. It makes the firm look amateurish. It makes us look like we’re not focused on legal matters. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Aspen nodded.
She did indeed.
Jacqueline stood up, smiled and walked to the door.
“Your heart’s in the right place,” she said. “It’s good to have you with the firm.”
Then she was gone.
Aspen’s hands trembled and she gripped them together to make them stop.
It didn’t work.
15
DAY THREE-SEPTEMBER 7
WEDNESDAY
Draven didn’t intend to develop feelings for the whore-Gretchen-but did, and that screwed everything up. His initial plan was to have her go to the bar this evening, come on to one of the bikers, and then lure him into the back alley for a blowjob. Then Draven would pop out of the shadows and give the asshole a lesson he’d never forget.
The problem is that the scumbags would figure out what had happened, afterwards, and go after the woman.
She wouldn’t be hard to find, not in a town this small.
This morning, when he first hired her, he didn’t give a shit what happened to her.
Now, unfortunately, he did.
He had to regroup and figure out how to get one of the bikers separated from the pack.
After lunch at Wendy’s, Gretchen asked, “What now?”
Draven thought about it.
The sky above was clear.
The temperature was absolutely perfect.
“Let’s take a hike somewhere,” he said.
She beamed.
“I know the perfect place.”
They ended up at the Pueblo Reservoir, which looked like a mini Lake Powell. Gretchen knew a trail that descended into the back of a canyon. They hiked down-well over a mile from the car-found the place deserted and went skinny-dipping.
The rocks baked the water and kept it surprisingly warm, especially in the shallow spots.
Draven felt the need to show off and swam across the canyon, about a hundred yards, as fast as his overhand stroke would take him.
When he got back Gretchen was impressed.
“You look like Tarzan,” she said.
He beat his chest and did his best Tarzan yell.
A lizard darted by and Draven chased it. It took a full three or four minutes, but he finally caught it. Holding it by the tail, he walked toward Gretchen swinging it back and forth.