Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (18 page)

She frowned.

She already read all of Kennedy’s hate mail and saw nothing of relevance.

“What else?” she asked.

He thought about it.

“See if you can get the email address of Kennedy’s sister, Amanda,” he said. “Send her some pictures of Jena; humanize her, make Amanda see that she’s a human being who needs her help. Bond with her; the more we can play on her emotions, the more likely it is that she’ll give us information, assuming you’re correct and that she actually has some.”

Geneva frowned.

“I’ll try,” she said. “But if she wouldn’t help her own sister, I doubt that she’ll go out of her way for mine.”

“Probably, but you never know,” Teffinger said. “Maybe she regrets now what she did and will take an opportunity to make amends.” Then Geneva got a distant look in her eye. “What?”

“Well, so far we’ve only concentrated on hate mail,” she said. “But what if the guy sent something positive and flattering? Then he never got a response and felt jilted—”

Teffinger shrugged.

“It’s possible,” he agreed, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. “I’m backing off my theory that someone took Jena to punish me, mostly because I don’t know Kennedy Pinehurst or anyone else in Chicago. But I’m finding it more and more interesting that both you and Kennedy have so much overlap.”

“It’s scary,” Geneva said.

“Isn’t it?”

TEFFINGER CLOSED HIS EYES. Then he remembered he was flying, and not only opened them but also listened for abnormal sounds, the kind that meant the wings were about to fall off.

He heard none.

If he was correct that the killer didn’t take Jena to get to him, then that meant London was safe.

London.

She’d been a good sport so far.

Not complaining about being in the shadow of the hunt for Jena Vellone; content to be ignored; willing to be second priority.

As soon as they started the descent into Denver, the winds kicked up and the FASTEN SEATBELT signs came on. Teffinger did his best to not appear affected, but must not have done a very good job because Geneva pried his fingers off the armrest and held his hand.

After a long twitchy approach, they touched down without dying.

Teffinger wiped sweat off his face with the back of his sleeve.

Geneva said, “Had a little chop up there.”

“Really?” Teffinger said. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

When they got to the gate and the aircraft stopped moving, everyone stood up at the exact same second and started dragging stuff from the overhead bins. Teffinger stayed in his seat. He waited until everyone left, then got up and walked down the aisle at his normal pace.

Geneva was waiting for him when he got out.

“Come on,” he said.

“Where we going?”

“Cameron Leigh’s house.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Afternoon

______________

THE LAIR O’ THE BEAR turned out to be a well-worn Rocky Mountain trail system in a rugged mountain valley next to Bear Creek, given to incredible views, pine scent and a flawless Colorado sky. Tripp and Brittany were a half hour into the hike, working up a sweat, when Tripp’s cell phone rang. He looked at the incoming number.

Jake VanDeventer.

“This is business,” he told Brittany. “Do you mind?”

No she didn’t.

Of course not.

He sat down on a boulder and answered.

“We have a problem,” VanDeventer said.

“How so?”

“I had an encounter while scouting around in the vampire’s house,” VanDeventer said. He didn’t need to define the vampire. They both knew he was talking about Forrest Jones, the vampire who set a trap for Tripp on Rooney Road; the one who got his face shot by the other vampire, Rave Lafelle; the one who Tripp later dumped near the railroad tracks and pounded a stake into his heart.

“What kind of encounter?” Tripp asked.

“I was in the guy’s bedroom scouting around with a flashlight when someone opened the front door and the lights downstairs came on,” VanDeventer said. “I didn’t have time to get out of the house so I ducked into the master closet. The person coughed every now and then and I could tell it was a woman. She never talked to anyone so I figured she was alone.”

“A girlfriend?” Trent asked.

“No, worse,” VanDeventer said. “A detective. My guess is that Denver called the locals and asked if they would check the guy’s house for anything that might explain why he ended up dead out in Colorado. Anyway, I was hoping that she wouldn’t bother with the closet. Just in case, however, I pulled a shirt off a hanger and wrapped it around my face. Later, unfortunately, the door opened. I punched the woman in the face before she even knew what was happening. But something bad happened.”

“What?”

“She got a hand on the shirt as she went down and pulled it off my face,” VanDeventer said. “So she might have gotten a look at me.”

“You think?”

“It’s possible,” VanDeventer said. “If she did, it was only for a fraction of a second; and it was while she was in pain and dropping to the floor. So my gut feeling is that no clear images entered her brain. But I just don’t know.”

“Then what happened?”

“The punch knocked her out,” VanDeventer said. “I left and headed back to my hotel room. This morning I walked over to Greyhound and paid cash for a ticket to Cincinnati. That’s where I’m calling from right now.”

Okay.

“I don’t see it as a big deal,” Tripp said. “You didn’t kill her, after all.”

“Here’s the problem,” VanDeventer said. “This guy gets killed in Denver. The next day, someone’s snooping around in his house. The locals are going to tell Denver about it and Denver’s going to think that the snooper—me—is either the killer or is connected to the killer. That means that if this local detective got a good enough look at me to work with a sketch artist, the Denver cops will get it and will be looking for me.”

Tripp picked up a stone and threw it.

“I still don’t see it as a big deal,” he said.

VanDeventer wasn’t in Denver when the vampire got killed. He was in Johannesburg.

And could prove it if he ever had to.

“So now what?” Tripp asked.

“I’m getting on a plane to Denver in two hours,” VanDeventer said. “But I’m going to need to keep a really low profile once I get there, meaning no credit cards, rentals, or that kind of thing.”

“No problem,” Tripp said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. Give me the flight number and TOA.”

WHEN TRIPP HUNG UP, Brittany asked, “Do you have to go?”

He kissed her.

“Not right this second,” he said. “I still have the afternoon free.”

“Good.”

Yes.

Actually it was.

Very good in fact.

“I need to warn you about something,” he said.

“What?”

“This is nice,” he said.

“And how is that a warning?”

“Because you’re getting me addicted,” he said. “I’m going to need more.”

She put her arms around his neck and pressed her stomach to his. “More, huh?” she asked. “How much more?”

Tripp kissed her.

“Lots more,” he said.

“Good, because that’s exactly how much I have.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Morning

______________

WHEN RAVE first saw the body lying face down on the floor in the middle of her living room, she registered it as just that and nothing more—a dead body. On further examination, she recognized it as the dead body of Jason White, the lead guitarist. She walked over, dropped to her knees and looked for a knife in his chest or a bullet in his head.

She saw no wounds.

Then, without warning, the body moved.

Not much.

Hardly any.

But more than it would if it was dead.

The smell of Tequila came from it.

She stood up and surveyed the damage to her house. The piano was totally, a hundred percent trashed. The keyboard cover had been ripped off and thrown across the room. The ivories were cracked and smashed. The sharps had been knocked off and were now the color of cracked wood instead of black. Rave walked over and pressed a key down.

It sounded fine.

The strings hadn’t been broken.

That’s more than she could say for the CD player and receiver. They were irretrievably smashed to pieces on the floor—same with the speakers. The furniture hadn’t been worth much to start with, but now wasn’t even worth that. The sofa and chair had been sliced repeatedly with a knife. The legs were knocked off the coffee table and both end tables. In the kitchen, food that should be in the refrigerator was now splattered on the floor, walls and ceiling.

Mustard.

Ketchup.

Milk.

Bananas.

Leftover spaghetti.

The bedroom hadn’t escaped attack either. The sheets had been pulled off the bed and thrown into the corner. The pillow and mattress had been stabbed repeatedly.

Suddenly she heard a vehicle in the driveway.

She pulled the curtain to the side and looked out.

Parker and London stepped out of a cab.

PARKER RAN THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, saw that Rave was in no danger from slayers, and went straight to the body.

“That’s the lead guitarist from my band,” Rave said. “He’s alive. From what I can figure, he got pissed about being replaced, trashed the place and then passed out.” She looked at Parker. “He smells like Tequila, but is probably jacked up on a lot more than that. What do we do with him? I don’t want any cops here.”

Parker knew why.

This is where Rave shot the skinhead slayer in the face.

Self-defense, but still—

Parker nudged the man in the ribs.

The man recoiled and moaned.

“He’s not going to die, so we don’t need to take him to a hospital. I’ll dump him somewhere.” Parker covered the man with a blanket, carried him outside to the trunk of the Volvo, took off, and then returned forty-five minutes later.

“Where did you take him?” Rave asked.

“I went up Clear Creek Canyon until I found a turnoff with no one around,” Parker said. “I pulled him out and set him on the ground; without the blanket, of course.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No.”

“Did you beat him up or anything?”

Parker shook his head.

“If you want me to later, I’ll be more than happy to,” he said. “But I can’t hit an unconscious man.”

“No, I don’t want you to,” Rave said. “This whole thing is partly my fault.”

“That’s not true,” Parker said. “The guy’s a first-class jerk and that’s all there is to it. He probably would have beaten you to a pulp if he caught you home last night.”

Rave frowned.

She had already thought of that.

AS THEY CLEANED THE PLACE, Rave said, “The fact that my little friend didn’t end up dead might mean that the slayers have left Denver.” She looked at Parker. “Wouldn’t they have killed him if they came here looking for me and found him instead?”

Parker considered it.

“That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On whether they knew who he was or not,” he said. “If they didn’t know who he was, then they probably would have taken him for a vampire and acted accordingly, meaning he’d be dead right now. If they knew who he was, on the other hand, they probably wouldn’t bother with him.”

Rave was confused.

“How would they possibly know who he was?”

“They could have seen him in the club.”

Rave shivered.

She always knew that they could have been lurking somewhere in the crowd.

But never wanted to actually believe it.

“Maybe they just gave up and went back to wherever they came from,” Rave said.

Parker frowned.

“Not likely,” he said. “But that’s fine because I’ve been working on a new plan.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

Day Six—April 17

Sunday Evening

______________

THE EARTH FELT GOOD under Teffinger’s feet. The wind blew with a vengeance through the airport’s west parking garage; the same wind that almost swatted Teffinger out of the sky not more than twenty minutes ago. Now he could care less. He hunted around for the Tundra longer than he should have before realizing that the Cherry Hills police had it. Then he spotted the 4Runner, pointed and said, “There it is.”

Inside, before Teffinger could even crank over the engine, Geneva said, “I’m starved. Feed me.”

“Feed you?” he asked.

“Right.”

“Is that what you just said? Feed you?”

“Right.”

“Meaning you expect me to pay?”

“Right.”

“You know I’m the cheapest guy on the face of the earth, right?”

She nodded.

“Everyone knows that,” she said.

“And you still expect me to feed you?”

“Right.”

“Now you have my curiosity way up,” he said. “Why would I do that?”

She rolled her eyes.

“So I’ll never tell anyone that I had to hold your hand.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “You just did it.”

“You’re quibbling over semantics, Teffinger,” she said. “Do we have a deal or not?”

They did.

Fifteen minutes later Teffinger pulled off I-70, drove past a Texas Roadhouse and pulled into a Quiznos.

THEY ATE IN THE CAR, not wanting to waste time, heading to the house of the dead vampire—Cameron Leigh. Just as they got inside the city limits, Teffinger received a call from the FBI profiler, Dr. Leigh Sandt.

“How’d Chicago go?” she asked.

“It’s too early to tell.”

“I just found out something interesting,” she said. “There was another billboard case. You might actually not be crazy this time.”

He knew he should laugh but was too excited.

“Where?”

“San Francisco.”

San Francisco?

That meant flying.

Teffinger pushed the feeling down and said, “Details.”

She gave them.

As soon as he hung up, Teffinger told Geneva the news and asked, “Do you feel like going to San Francisco?”