On Sunday morning, Teffinger wanted to take Davica for a ride in the?67, maybe up to Red Rocks or old town Morrison, somewhere in that geography, where the mountains were big and the traffic lights were few-stop for a cup of coffee somewhere. But he knew deep down that he wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy it.
Not with so much going on.
So instead he got up early, showered in the guest bathroom so he wouldn’t wake Davica, left her a note that he was reserving her for this evening, and headed to the office. He hadn’t been there more than ten minutes when Barb Winters, the dispatcher, a woman with new breast implants and a new wardrobe, called.
“Got a body for you,” she said. “And it’s not mine.”
Teffinger frowned.
“Where?”
“Way out east, past Monaco.”
Teffinger knew the area well and pulled up an image of meticulously restored tutor mansions sitting on tree-lined boulevards, the home of Denver’s rich, powerful and elite.
“Katie Baxter’s on call and she’s taking it,” Winters added. “She just wanted me to let you know about it in case you were in the mood to drive out there and bring her a cup of coffee.”
Fifteen minutes later Teffinger arrived at the scene with a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups.
The house turned out to be a brick castle, well guarded by a designer wrought-iron fence, with a long cobblestone driveway that ended at a six-car garage.
Money.
Money.
Money.
Some people had too much of it.
He slipped on gloves, checked in with the scribe, and walked into the house. In the lobby he found a huge oil painting, almost three feet square. He’d never seen it before but immediately recognized it as a Delano. The work, titled “Navajo Boy,” depicted an Indian boy of ten or eleven, wearing a red shirt and red bandanna, walking with a heavily packed and very tired mule in a desert setting. A panting dog followed.
Teffinger got up close and studied the brushwork.
Many of the strokes were thick and bold, with heavy paint, obviously applied when the painting was almost complete. They were the kind of strokes that took guts, because they had to be laid on perfectly the first time, otherwise they’d ruin the painting.
“Good for you,” Teffinger said.
He found Katie Baxter in the bedroom with the body of a man who had been shot in the face and didn’t have much of it left.
“Lovely,” he said. “Who is he?”
Baxter jumped and said, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She wore black pants, tennis shoes and a dark blue blouse that did nothing to show off the world-class chest beneath. “His name’s Brad Ripley,” she said. “Apparently some kind of high roller with a propensity for coke and women.”
She pointed to a plastic bag of white powder on the nightstand.
Teffinger bent down and examined it.
It looked like cocaine, all right.
A lot of cocaine, in fact.
“So someone shot him and didn’t take the coke?” he questioned. “What’s wrong with that picture?”
Katie nodded.
“That’s the same weird thought I had,” she said. “Nor did they take his Rolex or the wallet in his back pocket with over five grand in it.”
Teffinger felt his curiosity perk.
“So, we’re either dealing with a very bad thief, or something else altogether,” he said.
Katie cocked her head.
“I’d say it’s a hate thing,” she said. “Someone didn’t want to see his face anymore.”
Teffinger agreed.
“Make a list of his enemies,” he said. “Your killer’s somewhere on that piece of paper.” He took one more look at the hole where the man’s face used to be, and then headed for the door. “I’m around as a backup if you need me. Otherwise, run with it.”
Aspen rolled over in bed and almost continued sleeping when she realized that everything was a little off-the feel of the pillow, the smell of the air, the texture of the sounds. She opened her eyes, found herself in a strange dark room, and bolted upright as her heart pounded.
Where was she?
She held her breath, listening for danger, but detected none. Then she remembered Blake Gray insisting that she be somewhere safe last night and checking her into the Adam’s Mark Hotel in downtown Denver.
Another room connected to hers.
In that room was a man named Larry Speaker, a professional bodyguard and part-time black-belt instructor, packing a SIG. 45 and a Concealed Weapon Permit.
She got out of bed, checked the connecting door and found it just as she had left it before going to bed last night-closed but unlocked.
She opened it as quietly as she could and peeked into the other room. She found her protector, Speaker, curled up on his side under a white blanket, breathing deep and heavy.
Okay.
She had survived the night.
But what about two months from now, when the bodyguards and hiding places were long gone?
The clock said 5:30 A.M.
She dressed without making a noise and went down to the hotel’s fitness center. One other person was there, a middle-aged bald man walking on a treadmill and watching an early morning news program on the monitor. He smiled and said hello when she walked in, but she could tell he wouldn’t be hitting on her.