He parked in front of the building, killed the engine, and walked in.
She looked just as good as he remembered, with those big eyes and that thick brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Ample breasts filled a flimsy white tank top, seriously sexy. When she smiled, he just about melted. She would definitely do.
“Hey there,” she said, recognizing him. “Nash? Right?”
“Very good,” he said, remembering he had given her a fake name.
“Back for the other arm?”
“Actually, something better than that,” he said, pulling out his wallet and laying twenty hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “How would you like to earn that today?”
She counted it.
“That’s two thousand dollars,” she said.
He nodded.
“That it is.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
“I have a friend up in Denver,” he said. “The guy’s got more money than God. I showed him my tattoo and he went nuts. He wants one just like it. He wants you to do it.”
“Me?”
“Yep.”
“Fine, tell him to come in.”
Draven shuffled. “Well, there’s this one small problem,” he said. “This guy doesn’t have time to be driving down here so he wants you to come to Denver. That’s what the money’s for.”
She pondered it.
And looked interested.
“When?” she asked.
“Now, if possible,” Draven said. “I’ll drive you up and bring you back. He’s got someone delivering some tattoo equipment so you don’t need to worry about that. Just bring the pattern and your hands.”
She picked up a pencil and twisted it in her fingers.
“You can bring your other body parts too,” he added.
She laughed, and said, “Men.”
Then set the pencil down.
“Okay,” she said. “Let me put this money in the safe first.”
She disappeared to the back, packed a bag with latex gloves and other small items, grabbed a bottle of water, flipped the window sign to Closed, turned off the lights, and locked the door.
“You’re going to make his day,” Draven said.
“I need to be back by seven,” she said.
Draven loved the arid landscape on the stretch of not-much-but-road heading north out of Pueblo. Civilization hadn’t cluttered it up yet and, because there were hardly any trees, you could see the sagebrush-covered hills roll all the way to the mountains. Mia talked her head off as they drove, telling Draven story after story in that bubbly optimistic voice of hers, taking small sips of water every few minutes.
He didn’t mind the chatter.
She was bubble-gum for the brain.
It was almost a shame about what was going to happen to her.
She didn’t deserve it.
But who did?
They stopped at a rest area after they passed Monument Hill. He spiked her water while she used the facilities. By the time they reached Denver, she was asleep.
When they pulled up to the cabin, the beautifully desolate cabin, she was still out cold.
He carried her inside, chained her to the bed, played with her hair for a few moments, and pictured her dead.
25
DAY FOUR-SEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY EVENING
Teffinger worked his ass off all day until eight o’clock. He felt like a three-legged, broke-dick dog that someone had entered into a horse race, but wasn’t too tired to walk down the stairs to the parking garage and point the Tundra toward Davica’s house.
Come over tonight. I have something to show you.
That’s what she’d said this morning and the words hadn’t left him all day.
He’d pretty much dismissed her as a viable suspect in the murder of Angela Pfeiffer as soon as they found the second body. Now, with four, he couldn’t picture her involved even in his wildest scenarios. And he certainly couldn’t get a mental image of her cutting someone’s head off with a hacksaw, or gouging someone’s eyes out.
Men use hacksaws.
Not women like Davica.
When he arrived, Davica answered the door wearing only a thin long-sleeve white blouse with rolled-up cuffs, barely long enough to cover the top of her thighs. She must have just showered because her hair hung wet. An expensive fragrance floated around her. When she hugged him, he hugged her back.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she said.
“How could I not?”
Two steps into the atrium, he found what she wanted to show him. The four pieces of modern art that had been on the walls were gone. In their stead hung four of Teffinger’s paintings.
“You like them?” she asked. “Apparently they’re done by some local guy.”
Teffinger smiled and walked over to the closest one, a twelve-by-sixteen landscape, looking up a hill into a clump of Ponderosa pines, backlit by an early morning sky. “I painted that one at Lair of the Bear,” he said. “I remember the wind kicking up halfway through it and almost driving me nuts.”
“So it’s plein air then?”
He nodded.
“Right. I’m not good enough for fancy air. Look right here,” he said, indicating.
She obliged.
He pointed out a small bug imbedded in the paint.
“There’s your proof,” he said.
“Very impressive, a painting with protein. You don’t charge extra for those, I hope,” she said.
He nodded. “Afraid so. Five bucks each.” He studied the background and found another one. “To support my coffee addiction. How’d you find out that I paint?”
“I know lots of stuff about you.” She linked her arm through his and led him off. “Come on.”
They ended up taking a walk through the neighborhood, carrying plastic glasses of wine, as a bright orange Colorado sunset hung over the mountains. Teffinger had a few questions to ask and knew if he didn’t get to them soon, he never would. “Just out of curiosity, where do you get your legal work done?”
“I stay away from lawyers for the most part.”
“Smart move,” Teffinger said. “Have you ever used Hogan, Slate amp; Dover for anything?”
She nodded.
“A minor matter, a couple of years back.” Teffinger tried to not appear surprised. He didn’t really expect to find a connection. “Why? Are you going to pump them for secrets about me?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Do you happen to know Rachel Ringer, of that firm?”
“Not that I recall-I basically only dealt with one of the senior partners, Jacqueline Moore. Why?”
He swallowed.
