Slow.
Clean.
Messy.
Whatever.
But he had absolutely no respect for little spineless twits who didn’t have the balls to carry through with what they started. That had happened twice before. Afterwards, Draven hunted them both down and taught them a little lesson, about how gutless little toads didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as him any more. They didn’t even know who he was until their last ten seconds of life when he told them. Without being fully vested they couldn’t continue to live, plain and simple. Because otherwise they might end up with buyer’s remorse and feel the need to go to the cops.
The assholes.
This case was different, however.
Nothing more than an innocent mistake.
No need to hunt the guy down.
He got the call he was waiting for mid-afternoon, from Swofford, and explained that the tattoo woman had been left alive, unintentionally, according to his best guess. Swofford paused and then said, “I see three options. You can kill her, or I can call the client and see if he wants to come back and finish up, or you can offer the woman to the next client as a freebie.”
Draven chewed on it.
“When’s the next client coming?” he asked.
“He flies in Monday night, then he’ll drive up to the cabin Tuesday morning, so you need to have the stripper in place by then at the latest. He wants to be sure she’s snatched before he gets to Denver. Is all that doable?”
“I’m pretty sure,” he said.
“Handle the tattoo woman any way you want. Just be sure you have the stripper at the cabin by Monday evening. This guy isn’t the kind of person I want to screw around with.”
“No problem.”
After he hung up, Draven went into the bedroom to check on his little catch, Mia Avila. Lying there, naked and hogtied, she looked incredibly vulnerable. He played with her hair.
She made wonderful little noises through her gag.
“So, what should I do with you? Kill you myself or save you for the next guy?”
Either way, he should definitely have a little fun first.
He turned her on her back and played with her nipples, then ran an index finger up and down her incredibly smooth stomach.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?”
37
DAY SEVEN-SEPTEMBER 11
SUNDAY
On Sunday morning, Teffinger wanted to take Davica for a ride in the?67, maybe up to Red Rocks or old town Morrison, somewhere in that geography, where the mountains were big and the traffic lights were few-stop for a cup of coffee somewhere. But he knew deep down that he wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy it.
Not with so much going on.
So instead he got up early, showered in the guest bathroom so he wouldn’t wake Davica, left her a note that he was reserving her for this evening, and headed to the office. He hadn’t been there more than ten minutes when Barb Winters, the dispatcher, a woman with new breast implants and a new wardrobe, called.
“Got a body for you,” she said. “And it’s not mine.”
Teffinger frowned.
“Where?”
“Way out east, past Monaco.”
Teffinger knew the area well and pulled up an image of meticulously restored tutor mansions sitting on tree- lined boulevards, the home of Denver’s rich, powerful and elite.
“Katie Baxter’s on call and she’s taking it,” Winters added. “She just wanted me to let you know about it in case you were in the mood to drive out there and bring her a cup of coffee.”
Fifteen minutes later Teffinger arrived at the scene with a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups.
The house turned out to be a brick castle, well guarded by a designer wrought-iron fence, with a long cobblestone driveway that ended at a six-car garage.
Money.
Money.
Money.
Some people had too much of it.
He slipped on gloves, checked in with the scribe, and walked into the house. In the lobby he found a huge oil painting, almost three feet square. He’d never seen it before but immediately recognized it as a Delano. The work, titled “Navajo Boy,” depicted an Indian boy of ten or eleven, wearing a red shirt and red bandanna, walking with a heavily packed and very tired mule in a desert setting. A panting dog followed.
Teffinger got up close and studied the brushwork.
Many of the strokes were thick and bold, with heavy paint, obviously applied when the painting was almost complete. They were the kind of strokes that took guts, because they had to be laid on perfectly the first time, otherwise they’d ruin the painting.
“Good for you,” Teffinger said.
He found Katie Baxter in the bedroom with the body of a man who had been shot in the face and didn’t have much of it left.
“Lovely,” he said. “Who is he?”
Baxter jumped and said, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She wore black pants, tennis shoes and a dark blue blouse that did nothing to show off the world-class chest beneath. “His name’s Brad Ripley,” she said. “Apparently some kind of high roller with a propensity for coke and women.”
She pointed to a plastic bag of white powder on the nightstand.
Teffinger bent down and examined it.
It looked like cocaine, all right.
A lot of cocaine, in fact.
“So someone shot him and didn’t take the coke?” he questioned. “What’s wrong with that picture?”
Katie nodded.
“That’s the same weird thought I had,” she said. “Nor did they take his Rolex or the wallet in his back pocket with over five grand in it.”
Teffinger felt his curiosity perk.
“So, we’re either dealing with a very bad thief, or something else altogether,” he said.
Katie cocked her head.
“I’d say it’s a hate thing,” she said. “Someone didn’t want to see his face anymore.”
Teffinger agreed.
“Make a list of his enemies,” he said. “Your killer’s somewhere on that piece of paper.” He took one more look at the hole where the man’s face used to be, and then headed for the door. “I’m around as a backup if you need me. Otherwise, run with it.”
