Witness Chase (Nick Teffinger Thriller) (19 page)

THE BASS POUNDED LIKE A HUNDRED TRIBAL DRUMS
and the music bounced around inside the club like a wild animal. Kelly spun her way through the middle of the dance floor, engulfed by a Friday night crowd of at least a thousand people who were partying like it was the last Friday they’d ever see. Couples, guys, girls on girls, you name it.

Raw, uninhibited, sexual energy.

Intoxicating and intoxicated.

Strippers gyrated and spread on more stages than she could count, working the crowds of catcalling men and women, in fact lots of women, drinking their beer and laying their money down.

And if men were more your style, then have no fear. Over in one corner they had a stage set up with male dancers. There must have been at least fifty women over there screaming and getting up-close-and-personal.

On the dance floor some of the women were starting to drop their tops as well, which seemed to be perfectly fine with everyone.

It was one big happy grind.

Kelly made it all the way across the club to the lady’s room. There were about ten other women in there already, putting their packages back into some semblance of shape. She found an empty stall, sat down, pulled her cell phone out and called Teffinger.

This was undoubtedly the stupidest idea she ever had.

But screw it.

Something was either going to happen or it wasn’t.

She was in the mood to find out which.

He answered on the second ring.

She tried to compose herself so she didn’t sound too drunk. “Nick,” she said, “Kelly Ravenfield here. I saw you on the news today. You looked stressed, so I went out and had a drink for you, and then another one, and then another one. And now I’m drunk and it’s all your fault.”

“Oh, really? My fault, huh?” He sounded playful, like he wasn’t just glad she called but really glad she called.

“Yes, your fault,” she confirmed. “And now you owe me a drink to make up for it.”

She felt the pause on the other end.

“Where are you at?”

“A place called B.T.’s.”

“The strip-club?”

“Uh huh,” she said. “You know it?”

She heard Teffinger laugh. “The one on Evans?”

“Yes.”

“Nope, never heard of it.”

She laughed.

“So are you going to come down here and buy me a drink or what?”

BACK AT HOMICIDE TEFFINGER HUNG UP
, looked at the clock and realized that it was 8:30 on Friday night and he was the only one there. Technically, he was reviewing, for the third time, the phone tips that came in during the day on the Megan Bennett case. So far, they hadn’t received anything that really grabbed him. Someone reported seeing a large man driving a black or dark blue Camry way down south, on Santa Fe Drive, earlier in the evening, but there wasn’t a woman or anyone else with him. The word was out to make contact with the car if it was ever seen again, but other than that there wasn’t much more they could do about it.

Kelly was feeling no pain and wanting to see him.

That was fine because at this point his brain was dead anyway. Nothing of substance would be coming out of it until tomorrow morning.

He went down to the workout room, showered, pulled a pair of fresh khakis and an aqua-green cotton shirt out of his locker, slipped into them and towel-dried his hair. He didn’t have a hairdryer so he just fluffed it up with his fingers the best he could.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER HE WAS AT B.T.’S,
paying the cover and walking inside. The music, movement, smoke and energy washed over him, and took him back to that time in his life when he used to live for Friday nights. Not more than three steps inside, a beautiful woman in classy eveningwear asked him if he wanted a beer. She stood behind some kind of cart filled with ice, like something you’d see at a company picnic except on an industrial scale.

“Why not?” he said. “Bud Light, please.”

She reached down and pulled one out.

“I’m Amanda,” she said as she handed it to him.

“Nick,” he said.

“Nick,” she repeated. “I like that.”

He tipped her a dollar and took a swig.

Damn, that was good.

Almost frozen.

After milling around through the crowd, he finally spotted Kelly seated at the bar near the far end, talking to one of the dancers.

He walked up and leaned into the conversation.

“Evening, ladies,” he said.

Kelly stood up, put her arm around his waist, and said to her friend, “This is the guy who wants to see my butterfly flapping, Nick Teffinger.” Then to him, “And this is my friend, Jeannie Dannenberg . . . oops . . . I’m sorry . . . Oasis . . .”

Teffinger felt like responding to the tattoo remark but didn’t have a chance. The dancer, Oasis, had already backed into him and was grinding an extraordinary muscled ass into his crotch.

He feigned innocence and looked at Kelly.

“She’s very friendly.”

Kelly nodded.

“Very.”

He expected the woman to stop any second but instead she turned around, put her arms around his neck, and rubbed her breasts on him. Then she put her mouth by his ear and gave him a catlike growl.

He didn’t exactly know what to do.

“Very friendly,” he repeated.

Kelly laughed and looked like she suddenly had an idea.

“Private dance!” she said.

Oasis looked at her and got excited.

Teffinger wasn’t quite sure if that was a good idea. He took two bills out of his front shirt pocket, tucked them in the woman’s G-string, and said, “Let me get a few beers down first, then we’ll see.”

Oasis kissed him on the cheek followed by a slow, wet lick. “I’ll be back for you later, cowboy.”

When he turned to Kelly she was looking at him.

“She’s a great gal,” she said.

Teffinger watched her walk away and couldn’t agree more. More than a few women had turned their charms on him over the years and she most definitely ranked right up there.

Jeannie Dannenberg.

Where had he heard that name before?

“Where do you know her from?” he questioned.

Kelly looked as if she didn’t want to talk about anything right now. “Around,” she said. Then she grabbed his belt, pulled him in close and put her arms around his neck. Her legs were spread and he was standing between them. She brought her mouth within inches of his and he felt the warmth of her breath on his face.

“I’m tired of being scared,” she said. “I want you to protect me tonight.”

Teffinger raised an eyebrow.

“How much protection are you looking for, exactly?”

“It’s not how much, it’s how many,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-One

Day Five - April 20

Friday Evening

__________

MICHAEL NORTHWAY, IT TURNED OUT,
lived in a Cherry Hills enclave where the houses just happened to be slightly more than mere protection from the elements. A gated community; no riffraff allowed, thank you very much. Northway’s place was located on one of the primo lots, a cul-de-sac with three well-separated houses, backing to open space.

A blanket of clouds kept the night darker than dark.

Absolutely perfect.

Ganjon, dressed in all things black, picked his way through the terrain towards Northway’s place.

Leaving Megan Bennett alone for a few hours shouldn’t be a problem. He’d doped her up real good, handcuffed her hands behind her back, laid her face down on the bed, hogtied her with more wraps than you could believe, ran a chain from the bed through her handcuffs, locked the chain, and then put the breathable gag on her.

She’d be as uncomfortable as hell.

But screw her.

That’s what she gets for trying to escape.

She’s lucky he didn’t put the helmet on her stupid little head right then and there.

The open space behind Northway’s house consisted primarily of native grasses, still laying flat from the winter. It was easier to walk through than he predicted.

Ganjon’s heart pounded as he moved closer.

Northway’s house was the middle one in the cul-de-sac. In a perfect world, there wouldn’t have been gates, and he would have had a chance to drive by during the day to check things out.

No biggie.

He could adapt.

HE COULDN’T HELP BUT SMILE
at his good fortune as he picked his way through the darkness. He had that tremendous sense of relief and gratefulness that comes from having a near-miss and ending up totally unscathed. Megan Bennett’s screams for help into the cell phone had been for nothing. In all the fury she’d punched the off button. A connection had never been made. It turns out that the call had been from Jay Yorty with a follow-up thought on the ’57 Chevy. Ganjon called him back, just to be on the safe side, and confirmed that Yorty didn’t have a clue. All he knew is that the connection didn’t go through so he’d left a message.

That had been a near-miss of considerable proportions.

Someone or something was definitely on Ganjon’s side.

Not that Ganjon believed that there was a God or higher being or any crap like that—quite the opposite. The concept of God was for those losers and weaklings who couldn’t face the thought that humans, like every other animal on the planet, were mortal. You live, you die. Period, exclamation point. When you die, the lights go out, just like when you sleep, except longer.

God? What a joke.

If cows could think and talk they’d invent gods in the form of cows, and cows would be the only living creatures to have an afterlife to go to, because they were so special.

What a crock of shit.

One thing for sure regarding Megan Bennett, there’d be no more risk-taking. Looking back on the afternoon walk, Ganjon couldn’t help but admit just how incredibly dumb-ass stupid that had been. In hindsight, things could have gone wrong a hundred different ways.

He needed to get back to his roots.

It his early days he wouldn’t even think about taking the risks he’d taken in the last couple of years. Back then he planned everything to the last pathetic detail. All the risk was engineered out of the equation. He spent all his spare time reading textbooks on criminal investigation and forensic evidence. He knew what to do and what not to do. Now, shit, he probably hadn’t read a single book like that in over two years. True, he gained an awful lot of real-life experience in the meantime, but that was no excuse to let the base knowledge get dull.

Success can get you cocky.

And cocky will get you caught, sooner or later.

In fact, one of the things he promised himself, years ago, was that he’d never get complacent. He’d always practice maximum risk reduction. But here he was, down the road, flaunting the fundamentals like he was bulletproof.

That stupid shit had to stop right now and it would.

THE OUTLINE OF A HUGE YUCCA CACTUS
loomed directly in his path, a shape that was just ever so slightly darker than the blackness around it, and he avoided it. He’d fallen on one of those prickly bastards before. They were no fun. Their sole function on earth is to poke your eyes out.

Northway’s house was getting closer, probably not more than two hundred yards off, although it was hard to tell exactly in these conditions. It was time to start listening for dogs. They’d be able to pick up his scent and movement anytime now.

Even this was stupid.

There were better, safer ways to deal with Michael Northway.

But they wouldn’t necessarily have the same impact or make the same statement, now, would they? There’s nothing quite like having someone suddenly jump out of the shadows of your own home to get your attention in no uncertain terms. He’d seen that look before and it was always the same. It comes straight from the gut, down in those childhood recesses where the Boogieman lives, and shoots right out your eyes.

He pictured the upcoming expression on Northway’s face and felt a wave of euphoria wash over him.

God, this was going to be so sweet.

So, so long in coming.

Most people, stupidly, don’t keep their backyards lit up at night and Northway turned out to be no exception. Ganjon paused at the edge of the yard and studied Northway’s house, as well as the adjoining ones, looking for movement, lights going on or off, or any other signs of life or activity.

It was ten o’clock on Friday night and Northway didn’t appear to be home. That much Ganjon could surmise from experience—the unchanging interior lights, the lack of any perceptible movement inside, the absence of any sounds or vibrations.

Perfect.

Plus he knew something about Northway’s personality. Northway was forever the politician, forever the schmoozer, forever ingratiating himself with the powers that be. And Friday night, just about everywhere on the planet, is prime time to see and be seen. If Northway was running true to form, he was probably at some fancy-schmancy highbrow party right now eating finger-foods, sipping imported white wine and looking down thousand-dollar dresses to see if those fleshy little mounds underneath were original equipment or aftermarket.