It gave him an opportunity to publicly state that they had found the woman and determined that she didn’t know anything. Hopefully, if any of the killers had perceived her as a threat, they didn’t now and would leave her alone.
When the interview ended, Paul Kwak blocked Teffinger’s path in the hall and brought him to a stop.
“This is your lucky day,” Kwak said, scratching his big old gut.
Teffinger looked skeptical.
“If you have good news, you’ll be the first.”
“I got a lead for you on a guy selling a ’67 Corvette,” Kwak said. “I’d jump on this one myself, but I’m already tapped out after getting that ’63. It’s a small-block, but it’s a numbers-matching, two-owner car.”
“Have you seen it?” Teffinger questioned.
Kwak shook his head.
“Not yet,” Kwak said. “But it’s supposed to be primo. Red over black; and the seller’s not looking for a lot of money. He’s more interested in being sure it gets a good home.”
“Wow.”
“I’d jump all over it if I was you,” Kwak said.
Teffinger looked at his watch.
He was already late picking up Marilyn Black.
“Right now I have to run an errand,” he said. “Can we see it this evening?”
“I’ll make a call and find out,” Kwak said. “I don’t see why not.”
“Let me know. If not tonight, then tomorrow. I want to be the first guy there.”
“I’ll call you.”
Before he could get out of the building, Sydney cornered him. “I’m keeping track of young females disappearing, like you wanted me to,” she said. “Apparently a young Hispanic woman disappeared in Pueblo on Thursday, someone named Mia Avila, a 24-year-old. She runs a tattoo shop.”
Teffinger nodded and headed for the stairwell.
“Pueblo?”
“Right.”
“That’s a ways off,” he noted.
“True.”
Hispanic too.
All the victims so far were white.
“Anyone else?” he questioned.
“No.”
“Well, just keep her on your radar screen for now,” he said. Then he stopped and turned. “Have you talked to the Pueblo PD?”
“No.”
He opened the door to the stairwell.
“Why don’t you give them a call just for grins and see what they have to say.”
“Where are you going?”
He stopped.
“To pick up Marilyn Black from the hospital,” he said.
She walked toward him.
“Let me go with you.”
“Why?”
“She’s going to need a place to stay,” Sydney said. “I was thinking she could stay with me.”
Teffinger cocked his head.
“I located her mom-in Idaho. With any luck I’m going to put Marilyn Black on a plane. If that fails, you can be Plan B.”
Aspen woke well rested Saturday morning. She yawned, stretched, showered, and counted her lucky stars that she had actually survived a whole week at the law firm.
She studied her face in the mirror as she brushed her teeth.
“Don’t screw up again,” she said.
“Yes, master.”
“I mean it.”
Knowing she still had a paycheck coming in, she let herself think about the pile of bills. It would be tough going until the end of the month, when she actually got paid, but after that she should be able to make ends meet and actually chip away at the student loans.
Maybe even get an oil change for the little Honda fellow.
She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d done that.
The poor little thing.
Dressed in khakis and a cotton short-sleeve shirt, she headed straight to work, wanting to bill at least six or seven hours today. Almost every associate on her floor had already beaten her in.
Shit.
What a horse race.
She filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee, grabbed a day-old donut out of a Krispy Kreme box in the kitchen, and headed to her office. Outside, the day was perfect, sunny and blue. Ordinarily, right about now, she’d be on her bike trying to not kill herself on some insane mountain trail that was never intended for two wheels.
Oh, well.
Maybe tomorrow.
She pounded out solid work for more than three hours before her mind wandered to Rachel. Deep down, she still believed that the legal file Rachel was working on for the psychologist-Beverly Twenhofel-was somehow connected. Or, if not connected, at least held some answers.
Should she tell Nick Teffinger about it?
Or more importantly, could she?
Probably not.
It was an attorney-client matter.
And one thing beyond all others was certain at this point-if she screwed up again, then Jacqueline Moore would bounce her ass so far out of Denver that she’d end up speaking with a New York accent.
“Well, you look serious,” someone said.
The words startled her so much that she dropped the coffee.
Papers immediately soaked up the liquid and curled.
“Shit!”
The woman in her doorway-Christina Tam-looked amused and said, “I’ve done that five million times. It’s all part of riding a desk.”
Christina held out her hand.
“Come on. I’m here to save you.”
They ended up on the 16th Street Mall, buying dollar hotdogs from a street vendor and finding a bench in the sun. Christina wanted to know why Aspen’s photo had been on the TV, so Aspen told her about how she found Rachel Ringer. But didn’t tell her that the head had been severed.
“It always struck me as strange,” Christina said, “that someone would take Rachel.”
“Why?”