Twenty minutes later, when Teffinger was only a few minutes away from Christina’s house, he got a call from Sydney.
“We just had a drive-by,” she said. “A light-colored BMW. It could have been silver.”
“That little shit,” Teffinger said.
“The driver might have looked my way when he passed,” Sydney added.
“Then go ahead and get out of there,” he said. “I’ll take the watch.”
“Done.”
He heard an engine start before the phone went dead.
He drove by the house and saw no suspicious cars and definitely no BMWs. He circled the block twice, took a spot all the way at the end of the street under a burned-out streetlight, and killed the engine.
The sound of the storm immediately intensified.
The coffee was suddenly going right through him, so he stepped outside and pissed by the side of the truck. By the time he got back inside he was soaked.
“Goddamn hurricane out there,” he told Davica.
“So I see.”
He stared down the street.
“Come on, asshole. Take the bait.”
Nothing happened for the next hour except that Teffinger had to step back out into the storm two more times. Davica did too, but only once.
Then a second hour went by.
Still nothing.
“Do you ever get the feeling like you’re being watched or followed?” Davica asked at one point.
“No, not really.”
“I’ve had that feeling for the last couple of days,” she said.
“That happens sometimes when you’re around all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. It plays with your mind.”
They were half asleep, listening to a country-western station, when Barb Winters called from dispatch. Teffinger pulled up an image of her new implants, double Ds. “We got a dead body,” she said.
Right now, he could care less.
“Call Richardson,” he said. “He’s got duty tonight.”
“Yeah, I already did,” she said. “He wanted me to let you know that they have a preliminary identification. It’s someone called Jacqueline Moore. He said she’s a lawyer.”
Teffinger slammed his hand on the dashboard so hard that Davica jumped.
88
DAY TWELVE-SEPTEMBER 16
FRIDAY NIGHT
Teffinger cornered a cab downtown, stuck Davica in it, and then headed straight to the Jacqueline Moore crime scene. The woman’s body was still lying undisturbed in a dark Wynkoop alley not far from Union Station, about four blocks away from her LoDo loft.
The sky continued to spit rain.
Teffinger was drenched, again.
And shivering.
The woman’s neck had a deep knife wound.
Her purse was on the ground, looking as if someone had ransacked it before throwing it down.
“Looks like a robbery,” Detective Richardson said as Teffinger ducked under his umbrella. “All the money’s gone from her purse and she doesn’t have a shred of jewelry left.”
“Actually it’s a murder made to look like a robbery,” Teffinger said. “Get the tapes of every surveillance camera up and down this street and for the surrounding two blocks. I know who did it and I want to tie him to the location.”
“You know who did it?”
“Yeah. A guy named Derek Bennett.”
“How do you know that?”
Teffinger was already walking away, but said over his shoulder, “It’s a long story. I’ll brief you tomorrow.”
Sydney showed up, under an umbrella, just before he got out of the alley.
“Where you going?”
He ducked under with her.
“Bennett’s,” he said.
“You want company?”
“Come on.”
On the way to the truck he called Aspen, just to be sure she was okay.
She was.
He warned her to be careful because Jacqueline Moore had just been murdered.
They determined that Bennett wasn’t home and then parked down the street from his house to wait. The plan was to cut him off before he could get in his driveway and then scare him into committing a traffic violation.
Then they’d pull him over and search his car.
And hope he still had some of the things he took from Jacqueline Moore.
When Bennett showed up an hour later, Teffinger immediately fired up the Tundra and got on Bennett’s ass, tailgating not more than ten feet away, blowing the horn and flashing the lights.
Bennett sped up.
Panicked.
Teffinger hung with him, staying as close as he could without actually making contact.
Then Bennett did a beautiful thing.
He ran through the stop sign at the end of the street.
“Got you, asshole!” Teffinger said.
He swung into the oncoming lane and pulled alongside. Sydney powered down her window, flashed her badge and motioned for Bennett to pull over.
Instead of doing it, though, he slammed on the brakes, did a one-eighty and raced back the other way.
Teffinger put all the muscles in his leg down on the brake pedal. The truck’s ABS grinded and brought the vehicle to a straight-line stop.
He swung around as fast as he could.
But Bennett was way ahead.
“He’s going to lose us,” Sydney said.
Teffinger put the gas pedal to the floor.
“We’ll see about that.”
When Bennett got caught in traffic up ahead, Teffinger rammed him from behind. The Tundra’s hood crinkled up and shot towards the windshield. Then the airbags went off.
A pain exploded in the middle of his face.
Coming from his nose.
Probably broken.
He had no time for it and charged out the door.
Bennett was out of his car now.
Running.
But not fast enough.
And when Teffinger caught him, the little asshole made the mistake of throwing a punch that landed on
