Lawyer Trap

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.”

“Come on,” he said. “Two miles.”

She got out of bed.

“I guess I owe you that.”

“I’ll go slow,” he added.

She laughed.

“As if you have any other speed.”

They actually ended up doing three miles, and showered together afterwards. Then Teffinger ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to headquarters.

Mid-morning he got a very unexpected and strange phone call. When he hung up, he swung by Sydney’s desk and said, “You got time to take a ride?”

“No, not really.”

“Good, come on.”

“Why, what’s going on?”

“Fresh blood.”

They took the 6th Avenue freeway west into Golden, then headed north on Highway 93, riding parallel to the Rocky Mountain foothills under a cloudless Colorado sky. Five miles later, in unincorporated Jefferson County, they turned west on a gravel road that rolled toward the mountains through a treeless terrain.

A mile or so later, they came to where they were headed.

Six or seven police cars punctuated the spot.

Teffinger pulled in at the end of the line and killed the engine.

They checked in with a scribe and then got escorted by a small but serious-looking sheriff by the name of Ben Baxter out to the gravesite, which was about fifty yards off the road.

“The dumb shit buried her in an arroyo,” Baxter said. “The rain last night uncovered her.”

Teffinger nodded.

The gravesite, so far, hadn’t been disturbed.

The woman still laid in the ravine, her face sticking out, plus one hand and part of an arm. The rest of her still lay under the dirt, which would have been mud last night, but had mostly dried at this point.

A nail had been pounded into her forehead.

“Looks like he buried her about eight or twelve inches down, is all,” Teffinger said.

“Right. Not too deep,” Baxter said, “which is one of the reasons we called you.”

“This is our guy,” Teffinger said. “No question in my mind.”

Baxter nodded.

“It’s your case if you want to take the lead,” Baxter said. “You guys are better equipped for this stuff anyway. We don’t get much of this out here.”

“Lucky you,” Teffinger said. “Sure, we’ll take it. You want us to process the scene?”

Baxter shrugged.

“You may as well. We’ll support you, of course—whatever you want, just holler.”

“Fine,” Teffinger said. “The first thing I want is everyone back on the road and then move a half mile down, people and vehicles. We’ll need casts of everyone’s boots, so don’t let anyone go anywhere.” He looked at a hawk, circling high, riding a wind current. “The interesting thing will be whether there’s another body stacked underneath.”

“Or nearby,” Sydney added.

Paul Kwak came out with a crime unit and processed the scene in that slow, methodical way of his. As near as they could tell, the body had been buried last night before the rain started, meaning that none of the countless boot marks now in the area were likely to be relevant.

No stacked body was found underneath.

No other gravesites were found nearby.

No pop cans, cigarettes, or other such items were discovered in the vicinity.

The grave had been dug with a shovel.

The shovel was no longer there.

With any luck, it got put into the trunk of a car or the back of an SUV after the event, dropping residue. Kwak took several soil samples to use for comparison later if the opportunity ever arose.

Watching, off to the side, Teffinger told Sydney, “The victim’s got a good body. I wouldn’t doubt it a bit if she’s that stripper you were telling me about.”

“Agreed.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t remember it off the top of my head, but I have it written down.”

“Where?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “In a notepad, on my desk.”

“Call headquarters and see if someone can find it,” Teffinger said. “Then have them run a background check on her.”

She wandered off and talked into a cell phone.

Five minutes later she came back. “The stripper’s name is Samantha Stamp—stage name Chase,” she said. “I called the club to see if she’d shown up for work yet. When I told the guy I was a detective he muttered ‘bitch’ under his breath and hung up.”

Teffinger frowned.

“That wasn’t very nice.”