actually kill anyone.”
Sydney kicked the dirt.
“I’d agree,” she said, “if there was nothing more. But we still have the repeated stabbing.”
Teffinger knew what she meant.
The stabbing was an act of passion.
The hallmark of someone close to the victim.
“It’s curious that this second woman was killed in a different manner,” he said. “It’ll be interesting to find out the cause of death. In any event, it sort of blows your decoy theory out of the water. If I was going to kill someone, and then a stranger too to make it look like someone else did it, I’d kill them both the same way.”
Sydney shrugged.
“Maybe,” she said. “But then again, maybe you do it different, so no one thinks it a decoy.”
Teffinger tilted his head.
“I’m never going to win an argument with you, am I?”
She put her arm around his shoulders.
“That doesn’t mean you should stop trying,” she said. Then she chuckled, as if she just heard a joke.
“What?” he asked, curious.
“You know you’re going to be getting calls by the end of the day.”
“About what?”
“From other police departments,” she said, “wanting you to come out with that divining rod of yours to help find where the bodies are buried.”
He laughed.
“Hopefully,” he said, “that was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.”
“You never know,” Sydney said. “You may have a gift. It would give you a chance to use that thing for good, instead of evil, for a change.”
He laughed.
“You’re too much.”
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.
