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?”
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.
