Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (7 page)

He didn’t pay much attention to her back in the older days, but they turned into flirting-buddies four or five years ago.

“Where’s Jena?” Geneva asked.

Teffinger didn’t know.

“You were with her last night, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“She was scheduled to do an interview a half hour ago and didn’t show up,” Geneva said. “The station’s in a panic—and mad. Jena isn’t answering any of her phones. The girl needs to get herself in gear, and I’m talking about right now, this second.”

“Did you go over to her house?” Teffinger asked.

“Not yet.”

“Try that,” he said. “She got pretty trashed last night.”

“She did?”

“She’s probably still sleeping it off.”

The line went dead.

TEFFINGER CALLED HIS FRENCH COUNTERPART and got informed by an assistant that the man was up to his eyeballs in a murder investigation. Teffinger explained that he had a similar case in Denver, meaning a woman stabbed through the heart with a wooden stake, and thought that the cases might be connected.

“We’ll let him know.”

“Be sure he calls me,” Teffinger said.

“Sure.”

“We think that the suspect is a skinhead with lots of tattoos,” Teffinger added.

A pause.

“Do you have a picture of him?”

Teffinger did.

And emailed it.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Geneva Vellone called. “Jena’s not here,” she said. “Her bedroom’s trashed and there’s blood on the sheets.”

Teffinger stood up and headed for the door.

“Stay there and don’t touch anything,” he said. “I’m coming over.”

As he bounded down the stairs, he had a sinking feeling in his gut. He tucked Jena into bed last night, drunk; and kissed her on the cheek before he left. But he definitely didn’t activate her security system when he left. Now, thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember if he locked the front door on his way out.

Man—

If something happened to her, and it was his fault, he’d never forgive himself.

Chapter Twenty-One

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Afternoon

______________

LAUREN LONG HAD MORE MONEY than she could spend in ten lifetimes, but liked to dress like she had none. Right now, Lauren—the 22-year-old daughter of oilman Peter Long—walked down the 16th Street Mall in the heart of downtown Denver, wearing torn jeans and a faded Aerosmith T-shirt ripped off at the bottom so people could see her abs.

Those incredible, tight abs.

Finely honed from a ridiculously strict diet and insane workouts directed by Lauren’s personal trainer five days a week at the Denver Athletic Club. Abs that were nicely bronzed from sitting out by the pool while she listened to hip-hop and talked to the girls about what club to do next.

She was richer than the peons around her.

And cuter.

And in better shape.

And more popular.

Right now, with a summa cum laude degree from Brown under her belt, she owned the world.

She crossed California Street and continued down the mall under a warm Colorado sky. A hotdog vendor sat next to a cart on a nylon director’s chair, bored, stuck in that transition period between lunch and supper. Lauren Long looked at him for a half-second, maybe less, just long enough to register that he wasn’t part of her world.

The hip world.

The in world.

She kept walking.

Tripp followed.

Ten steps behind.

Watching her body swing.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Afternoon

______________

AFTER THE MEETING WITH PARKER on Lookout Mountain, Rave sat silently in the passenger seat of the Camry while London drove back to Denver.

Choices were upon her.

Ugly choices.

She could either run, change her name, give up her identity and existence, and then spend the rest of her life hoping that she had gone deep enough to get off the slayers’ radar.

Or she could keep the status quo.

The former meant abandoning her life as a singer.

The latter meant that sooner or later she’d be grabbed from behind, taken to some godforsaken place and killed with a wooden stake through her heart.

Not good.

“How many slayers are there?” she questioned.

London looked over.

And shrugged.

“One less, with the skinhead gone,” she said.

“I’m serious,” Rave said. “How many more?”

“We don’t know exactly.”

“I don’t want any of this,” Rave said. “I just want to be free to live my life.”

London looked over.

With a serious expression.

“Look,” she said. “Parker and I have already talked about this. We already decided that they’ve given us no choice but to grow teeth and bite back, if we ever get the chance. The problem is that we’ve never gotten the chance so far because we never knew where they were going to strike next. Things are different now. We know they’re after you.”

True.

“So we sort of have a fork in the road,” London said. “At least as far as you’re concerned. You can either disappear and run and hope they never find you, or you can just stay here in Denver and see what happens.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, see if me and Parker can get them before they get you.”

Rave thought about it.

“Meaning I’m bait.”

London focused on the road.

And said nothing.

“If I were you, I’d just run,” London said. “It’s the safer bet.”

“The problem is that I can’t ever make it as a singer without being on stage,” Rave said. “Even if I change my name and appearance and stay hidden for the next two years, once I surface again they’ll spot me.”

True.

Then Rave said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll be the bait.”

London nodded and said, “You don’t have to do anything when it comes time. Me and Parker will do all the work.”

Rave exhaled.

“I’m going to defend myself if it comes to it,” she said. “That’s my right.”

London nodded.

Yes it was.

“And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you either,” Rave added. “I at least owe you that much for saving my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” London said.

Rave nodded, but added, “Just because I’m doing this doesn’t mean I’m not scared.”

“You and me both.”

THEY POWERED UP A MADONNA CD and then cranked up the volume as they rolled east on the 6th Avenue freeway towards downtown.

“Material Girl.”

“Like A Virgin.”

“La Isla Bonita.”

Suddenly they were hungry and decided to splurge because—who knows?—it might be their last meal. Then, at the last minute, they pulled into Wendy’s instead.

And felt good about saving the money.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Afternoon

______________

AS TEFFINGER HEADED SOUTH ON I-25, he noticed something ironic just after he passed Colorado Boulevard—a billboard displaying Jena Vellone’s smiling face, next to “Another TV8 Winner” and the station’s logo. He pulled up the memory of Jena calling him a month ago, bubbling with excitement because she was going to get some type of award for excellence in TV journalism.

At an elegant dinner reception.

Everyone who was someone was going to be there.

She wanted Teffinger to be her escort.

“Sure,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m proud of you.”

“You don’t even know what it’s for.”

“I don’t need to.”

Then he had to cancel at the last minute.

And now wished he hadn’t.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER he pulled into Jena Vellone’s cobblestone driveway and parked behind a red Viper. Geneva bounded out the front door wearing black shorts, a red tank and a spa tan.

She looked serious and walked fast.

She hugged him tight as soon as he stepped out.

“It’s worse than I thought,” she said. “Someone took her, I know it.”

“Let’s not jump—”

“All her stuff is here, Nick—her car, her keys, her purse,” Geneva said. “That’s the killer; there’s no way she would go anywhere without her purse—not in a million years.”

True, Teffinger thought.

Except for a jog or something.

The entry consisted of an oversized oak door, very fancy, with glass on each side and above, encased in a modern architectural enclave. “Was the door open when you got here?” Teffinger asked as they approached.

“No,” Geneva said. “It was closed but it wasn’t locked.”

Not good.

That’s what Teffinger was afraid of.

“So you could just turn the knob and go in?” he asked.

“Right,” she said.

Teffinger thought about telling her that he was to blame, but decided to see if there was another explanation first. He put on a pair of latex gloves and handed a second pair to Geneva. Then he opened the front door, touching the knob only on the very tip, and headed in.

Alley pranced over and Teffinger picked him up.

Everything looked normal.

To the left, the house opened into a large vaulted space that led all the way to a designer kitchen. Teffinger walked straight towards the back, to the master bedroom.

AS SOON AS TEFFINGER SAW THE BED, he flashed back to last night, when he brought Jena home from Old Orleans. She was sloppy drunk. He got her out of the Tundra and let her lean on him until they got to the front door. She slumped down while he fumbled around in her purse and found the keys. He opened the door, slung Jena’s purse over his shoulder and then picked the woman up in his arms and carried her into the house.

He headed straight for the master bedroom and laid her on the bed.

She spread her legs and pulled her sundress up.

Exposing a black thong.

Incredibly sexy.

“Come here,” she said.

He actually considered it for a heartbeat.

But couldn’t, not with her trashed like that.

“Tomorrow,” he said. By the time he took her shoes off and tucked her in, she had already passed out. He kissed her on the cheek, headed out the front door, swung it shut as he stepped through, and went home.

That was last night.

Now she was missing.

JENA’S PURSE SAT ON TOP of an expensive cherry dresser, exactly where Teffinger tossed it last night. And now, unlike last night, there was blood on the sheets.

Teffinger checked the bathroom.

No blood there.

Not a drop.

If Jena had gone there, fallen, and smashed her face on the counter or the tile floor, the evidence would be there—but it wasn’t. Nor was there blood on the doorframe, or nightstand, or anywhere else.

It was only on the sheets.

And not centralized by the pillow, as if she got a nosebleed.

It was scattered.

As if someone had punched her.

And she had struggled.

He checked the route from Jena’s bedroom to the front door and found blood drippings that he hadn’t noticed before, as if someone had carried her out of the house while she was bleeding. He inspected all the doors and windows and found them locked and without any evidence of tampering or break-in. The white sundress that Jena wore last night—the one she still had on when Teffinger tucked her in—was nowhere to be found.

Teffinger looked at Geneva.

And exhaled.

“This is my fault,” he said. “I left her here last night and didn’t lock the front door on my way out. I tucked her in and left and just swung the door shut on my way out. I guess I was tired but, man, that was just so stupid—”

Geneva stared at him.

Then she said, “If someone was set on taking her, it wouldn’t matter if the door was locked or not.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Stop it,” she said. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” he insisted.

“Here’s the thing,” she said. “Jena’s gone and we need to find her, right now, this second. So get your act together. This isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Day Three—April 14

Thursday Afternoon

______________

TRIPP WAS ON A BENCH on the sunny side of the 16th Street Mall in the middle of downtown Denver, watching the skirts stroll by and waiting for Lauren Long to come out of the Hard Rock Café, when his phone rang.

He looked at the incoming number.

Jake VanDeventer.

Boss man.

“Got a complication,” VanDeventer said. “I’m heading to the airport as we speak.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“One of my mines had a cave-in.”

“Ouch.”

“Seven people are trapped,” VanDeventer added. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“That’ll depend on how the rescue goes,” VanDeventer said. “If things go fast and go good, I’ll hardly be gone at all. If things turn ugly, there’s no telling.”

“So what do you want me to do in the meantime?”

“Keep Rave Lafelle in your sights,” VanDeventer said. “If she bolts out of town, follow her and then rope her in for a little heart-to-heart. If she doesn’t bolt, then proceed as if the vampires are in town and are using her as bait.”

“Screw ’em.”

“Don’t be a hero,” the man emphasized. “In fact, if she’s rubbing elbows with them, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. That means she’s learning stuff. That’ll just make her all the more valuable, when the time comes.”

True.

Very true.

LAUREN LONG BROUGHT HER PRETTY LITTLE FACE out of the Hard Rock Café twenty minutes later and came within five feet of Tripp as she crossed to the sunny side of the street. He wasn’t sure, because the woman wore sunglasses, but thought that she may have thrown him a glance as she passed.

No problem.

He’d be extra careful.

She headed north.

Probably en route to Larimer Square or LoDo.

Tripp followed.

Feeling good.

The woman’s swing looked just as appetizing as before, but now she had trouble walking in a straight line; maybe because she had a little powder up the nose.