Body of Shadows (2 page)

The sun was bright.

The air was already warm.

She wore a short '20s skirt, stockings with a seam up the back attached to a garter belt, and black high heels. Up top was a white blouse tucked at a slim waist and cinched with a wide black belt. Her thick blond hair was pulled up. Her lips were soft and red.

She slipped designer sunglasses on, pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her purse, tapped one out and dangled it in her lips. She dug around for a book of matches and felt two. She pulled one out. It was black with a red M. Inside was writing, not hers, a male scroll that said, "Aaron," followed by a (303) number.

She remembered him.

He wasn't bad.

Maybe she'd call him someday.

She lit the smoke and stuffed the matches back in her purse. The nicotine was magic in her lungs. She held it in then pointed her 25-year-old body west, towards the less trendy areas farther away from downtown and Coors Field.

Three blocks later she came to Wazee and turned right.

Real estate was cheaper there.

Old warehouses were home to small restaurants, not-so-good art galleries and small offices, mostly architects and lawyers who were more interested in the ambiance and texture and parking availability than they were about a fancy 17
^th
Street address.

A block down she came to a brick standalone building with a worn patina that included a dozen different shades of mortar patching. While the building was old, the door was new, pure oak and heavy. The trim around it had been painted burnt-red. Matching awnings hung over the two front windows, one on either side of the door. Stenciled on the left window were the words,
Extraordinary Books.

She pushed the front door open and walked in.

The air had an old
parchment aroma to it. Weaving through that air was a scratchy record coming from a turntable over in the corner. A female was singing. A band, a big band—too big in fact—was playing behind her, something from the '20s. Surprising, as poor as the quality of sound was, the melody was catchy, even within just a few bars.

The place was crammed with bookshelves.

On those shelves were old books.

Lots of them were leather bound and hand stitched.

They looked like they had been carefully hand collected one at a time over a number of years.

They looked expensive.

They looked rare.

They looked collectable.

Deven Devenshire
emerged from the back room looking yummy but slightly hung over.

"I heard you got a lead on a new Steinbeck manuscript," she said.

"I wouldn't call it a manuscript," Yardley said. "It's more of an outline."

"For which book?"

"Cannery Row."

"Has it been authenticated?"

"No, it’s underground."

"You're going to get burned."

"Haven't yet."

"Maybe not but the day's coming."

"Not today it isn't."

She headed
into the back room which had a small kitchen and an old roll top desk inundated with papers. On the north side she opened another door, which looked like it led to the outside. Immediately behind it was a second door, a thick steel one with a tumbler. Yardley worked the numbers to the right and left five times, pushed down on the handle and swung the door open.

Inside was a small room with steel walls, a steel floor and a steel ceiling. A thick, textured oriental rug covered the floor. In the middle of the room was a contemporary table with a green banker's lamp.

Three of the walls were inundated with bookshelves.

Yardley pulled a worn leather briefcase out from under the table and set it on top. She opened it just to be sure everything was inside and undisturbed even though there was no reason to think otherwise.

Everything was there.

She closed it, grabbed the handle and locked the vault behind her.

Deven was at the counter reading 5280.

Yardley approached her from behind, wrapped her arms around the woman's stomach and nibbled her neck.

"Did you get screwed this weekend?"

Deven turned and grinned.

"You can't even believe."

"Oh, really? By who?"

"Someone named Brittany."

"You going to see her again?"

"Don't know," Deven said. "She has a powerful little tongue though, I'll tell you that much. Are you jealous?"

"I'm always jealous," Yardley said.

"No you're not. Brittany was a kinky little thing. She had toys I didn’t even know existed.”

Yardley cocked her head and said, "Remind me again why I employ you—"

"Because you're secretly in love with me."

"Trust me, that's not it."

"Okay, lust then. Not love, lust."

Yardley shook her head.

"Keep an eye on things. I'll be back some time this afternoon."

A hour later
she was in a Grob Aerospace SP jet, the only passenger, heading west over the Rockies with the briefcase on the seat next to her. Three hours later she touched down at LAX where she rented a black 5-Series BMW.

She punched the home address of disbarred attorney Richard Blank into the GPS and studied the map.

Then she merged into traffic.

4

Day One

July 18

Monday Morning

Beacher, Condor & Lee, LLC
occupied floors 40, 41 and 42 of the cash register building on 17th Street in the heart of Denver's financial district. For years it was the city's second largest law firm. This year it muscled into the top dog position as a result of the continuing decline of Holland, Roberts & Northway, thanks to the Michael Northway fiasco last year.

Pantage scurried through the reception area intent on making up the lost part of the day to the extent possible. Before she got past the glass walled conference rooms and into the hallways, the receptionist waved her over.

"Did you hear?"

No.

She hadn't.

Hear what?

"Jackie Lake got murdered last night."

Pantage studied the woman's face, waiting for the punch line. Then her chest pounded.

"You're serious," she said.

"It's so freaky."

"What happened?"

The woman shrugged.

"No one knows yet other than it happened and it's being investigated as a murder, not an accident or suicide."

"Is it on the news?"

"It started to break an hour ago," she said. "I'll bet dollars to donuts that the cops will be around here today asking questions. Condor's already put out a global email telling everyone to be around as much as possible."

"I'll be here," Pantage said.

"We're having lunch catered," she said. "The big conference room at noon."

"Okay."

In her office,
Pantage closed the door and locked it. She left the lights off and slumped into her chair. She had one thought and one thought only, namely that she was the one who killed Jackie.

That's how she got the wound.

They must have had a fight.

It must have been traumatic.

That's why she couldn't remember.

Her brain was trying to protect her.

The cops could be here any second.

Sooner or later, probably sooner, they'd get their hands on Jackie's cell phone records. They'd have the text messages and know that Pantage went to Jackie's house last night. That plus the head wound would be all they'd need to hold her as a prime suspect. Then the forensics would start to get matched up. She unquestionably left prints, DNA, fibers and who knows what else.

Think.

Think.

Think.

As wrong as what she did was, she didn't want to get carted out of the firm in handcuffs. She couldn't take the stares and the whispers and the wide-eyed looks of surprise. She couldn't take watching the news tomorrow from a jail cell and hearing one of her co-workers tell a reporter, "It really doesn't surprise me. There were rumors that she had a secret side."

"What kind of secret side?"

"I don't know, it was just gossip."

"Gossip about what?"

"I've already said too much."

Taylor Sutton
was a good defense attorney and her office was close, just a couple of blocks down the 16th Street Mall. Maybe Pantage should go over there right now and tell her what happened. If nothing else, the woman could negotiate her surrender and get it done privately.

What to do?

What to do?

What to do?

Her head pounded.

The Aspirin was working but only halfway.

Suddenly a knock came at the door.

Pantage stared at the sound, frozen, and said nothing.

The knob jiggled but didn't turn.

"Pantage are you in there?"

She recognized the voice.

It belonged to Renn-Jaa Tan, the associate next door.

5

Day One

July 18

Monday Morning

Drift parked
the Tundra in the underground lot, bypassed the elevators, took the stairs to the third floor and pushed into the homicide department. His desk was over by the windows, a cubical, open and exposed. His predecessor had an enclosed office down the hall, quiet enough to sleep in. Drift could have it if he wanted but elected to stay right where he was when he got promoted to head of the department three years ago.

"Closer to the coffee," he said.

Actually that wasn't true.

Three people paced it off to prove it.

He dialed the cell phone of Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler from Quantico, Virginia, and pulled up an image of a classy, 50-year-old woman with Tina Turner legs.

She actually answered.

"Your caller ID must not be working," Drift said.

She laughed.

"Long time," she said.

"Too long. I have a situation."

"An angry husband?"

"Not funny," he said. "I have a victim of last night, an attorney, single, attractive, repeatedly choked while being raped. Her wrists were tied to the headboard. Here's the unique thing. The guy cut off her left ear."

"Did he take it with him or leave it there?"

"Took it."

He let the words hang.

He knew that she knew what he wanted, namely to check and see if any similar murders had taken place across the country over the years.

"Personally it doesn't ring a bell but I'll check," she said.

"How soon?"

She exhaled.

"You know what your problem is, Dent? You never stop being you."

He smiled.

"I'm writing something down," he said. "It says, Send Leigh flowers."

"Dent, you're the cheapest guy on the face of the earth. It's never going to happen. You know it and I know it."

"That's why I told you I was writing it down," he said. "That way you at least know I thought about it." A beat then, "Remember when you stayed at my house? The towel malfunction—"

"Stop. I'm still in therapy over that."

"Good."

He hung up
and found Sydney Heatherwood sitting in one of the two worn chairs in front of his desk. She was the newbie to the department, stolen out of vice personally by Drift last year. She wore a pink sleeveless blouse that showcased strong arms and contrasted nicely against her mocha African American skin.

"Do you want me to send Leigh flowers for you?"

He pictured it.

"Yes," he said. "That will totally flip her out."

She held her hand out.

"Give me thirty bucks."

He checked his wallet.

There was a five and three ones.

He picked up a pencil, wrote
Send Leigh Flowers
on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sydney. "Tell you what," he said. "Just fax her this."

Sydney gave him a look.

Then she pushed a stapled set of paper across the desk.

"That's the victim's cell phone records," she said. "Just came in."

"That was quick. I'm impressed."

He studied them starting with the most recent and going back three days.

Sydney pointed to the most recent pair, which was a text from the victim asking someone to cover a court hearing in the morning