half hour before heading to bed, flicking the channels until they eventually landed on A Perfect Murder. Michael Douglas was in the process of pressuring his wife’s boyfriend to kill her.
“See, never get married,” Christina said.
“Gee, I better remember that,” Aspen said. “I get asked so often.”
A half hour later, while Christina was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, a mental picture of Derek Bennett sticking pins into women jumped into Aspen’s brain. It was so vivid and unsettling that she called Nick Teffinger, who had earlier said he’d do a background check on Bennett. When he answered he didn’t seem eager to talk, almost as if she was interrupting him. She heard rain in the background, as if he was in a car.
“It’s me, Aspen Wilde,” she said. “Is this a bad time?”
No.
No problem.
She thought she heard a woman’s voice in the background but couldn’t be sure.
“I just wondered if you found out anything on Derek Bennett yet.”
A pause, then, “We haven’t had a chance yet. Why?”
“Nothing, really. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“He’s on the to-do list,” Teffinger said.
“Okay. Thanks.”
They said goodbye, and she almost hung up, when his voice came back again. “Are you still there?” She was. “Let me ask you something. Apparently your law firm owns several BMWs. Do you know who in the firm uses them? Who they’re assigned to?”
She didn’t.
“Can you do me a favor and find out?”
“Sure.”
“Do it quietly, though. Don’t let anyone know,” he added.
He sounded serious.
“Are they connected to the four murders?”
“We’ll see.”
“Wait a minute. I just remembered. I’m pretty sure Derek Bennett drives a BMW. Silver, I think.”
68
DAY TEN-SEPTEMBER 14
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
Davica Holland, it turned out, lived in a filthy-rich house on a filthy-rich street in a filthy-rich neighborhood southwest of Denver. Draven drove past her place after dark and studied it through windshield wipers that were doing their best to beat back an incredibly heavy rain. A white Toyota Tundra pickup sat in the bend of a long, circular cobblestone driveway in front of the house, half hidden behind a water feature. It almost appeared as if two people were inside it, although he couldn’t be sure.
The shadows moved.
Someone was definitely inside.
He made only one pass and then got the hell out of there.
He knew the type of place.
Security cameras galore.
And not just on this house, but all of ’em.
One thing for sure-he’d have to snatch the woman from some place other than her house, unless there was a way to get in from the back, through a field or something. That was a question he could better answer tomorrow by the light of day. Either way, she’d be tricky to get.
Maybe he should hit Swofford up for an additional twenty-five on account of the complications.
Yeah.
That’d be worth a try.
He unscrewed the flask, took a hit of Jack, and then headed back home to Gretchen.
She was asleep on the couch when he got there, and the sight made him warm inside. He sat down gently, without waking her, and ran his fingers through her hair. After a while, he moved her up until she was nestled under his arm, and then sat there in the dark and listened to the rain pound on the house.
If everything was going according to plan, the tattoo woman-Mia Avila-was in the process of dying right about now. Tomorrow Draven would do the cleanup and bring that phase of events to an end.
Then he’d be able to concentrate all of his attention on the new victim.
Davica Holland.
After that, he’d take Gretchen to Malibu.
69
DAY ELEVEN-SEPTEMBER 15
THURSDAY MORNING
Not screwing Davica last night, after they sat in the Tundra in the rain drinking wine for more than two hours, was definitely, without a doubt, the hardest thing Teffinger had ever done in his entire male adult life.
The morning didn’t turn out to be any easier.
There in the dark, before the dawn broke, Davica rolled him onto his back, straddled him and pinned his arms above his head before he even knew he was awake.
Then she ground on him.
He let her.
He wouldn’t let her put it in, but he let her grind.
He let her grind until she screamed and came in a long, rolling orgasm.
Then she fell off and collapsed on her back. “Damn I needed that,” she said.
“You’re bad,” he said.
She propped her head up with one hand and looked at him. “So when do I get the whole deal?”
“When the case is over.”
“Which is when? Never?”
“As soon as I can get it that way, believe me.”
She ran her fingers through his hair.
“You’re so old-fashioned sometimes,” she said.
“Not old-fashioned,” he said, “just experienced in how the courts work. I can’t end up catching this guy and then having some sleazy defense attorney muck everything up and get him off by being able to tell the jury that the detective-me-and a person of interest-you-were banging each other’s socks off.”
“Simple solution,” she said, “we just don’t tell anyone. It’s called a First Amendment right to privacy.”
Teffinger shook his head, got out of bed, and headed for the shower. “It’s not that simple,” he said over his shoulder.
“Why? Don’t you know how to lie?”
He stopped and turned.
“Oh, I can lie all right, but that’s not the question,” he said. “The question is, do you feel like going for a jog?”
She laughed.
“You just gave me a workout, in case you didn’t notice.”
