“So two people are involved? Is that what you’re saying?”
Teffinger nodded.
Even though she couldn’t possibly see him in the dark.
“At least two,” he said. “We found out some other stuff too. He set the whole thing in motion on March 15th. On the 18th, he withdrew a hundred and fifty thousand from his bank.”
“So that’s connected to the killing?”
Teffinger didn’t know.
“It could have been for coke, or gambling debts, or who knows what. All we know is we can’t trace it. Then,” he added, “we found out that he flew to Vegas in July. He stayed for almost two weeks and lost a boatload of money. A Titanic full. He ended up cashing out a lot of stocks to pay casinos. I’m talking millions.”
“I hate that place,” she said. “They ought to just wipe it off the face of the earth. All it does is fill people full of false sunshine and then suck their money away.”
Teffinger took a long drink of beer.
He didn’t agree, at least not totally, but didn’t feel like getting into it.
“Anyway,” he said, “the gambling problem might be connected to the hole in his face. Maybe he did something stupid like go to some after-hours place to win money to pay back the casinos. Then he lost there too and couldn’t pay up.”
“Do people actually still do that?” she asked. “I mean, rough people up over gambling debts? I thought those days were all in the past.”
Teffinger sighed.
“Money’s a motivator,” he said. “Always was, always will be. Anyway, I was hoping Ripley would be nothing more than a two-hour puzzle, but he’s turning more and more into a two-story question mark.”
She played with his hair.
“Maybe you need some stress relief,” she said.
Then his cell phone rang.
The Mountainside trailer park, no doubt once a quiet place nestled in the foothills of unincorporated Jefferson County between Golden and Lakewood, now sat in close proximity to no less than three interstate systems. Aspen eased her Honda through the narrow lanes until she found the trailer she was looking for-Number 65. A vehicle occupied the one and only parking space for the unit, so she parked near the main office and headed back on foot, solidly overdressed in her attorney attire. She had no idea how anyone could actually sleep around here with all the freeway noise. Several large cottonwoods shaded the park, still green but with hints of autumn yellow.
She knocked on the door.
Vibrations came from inside and the curtains moved.
A woman opened the door.
She looked to be about twenty-eight and, without makeup, could hardly be described as stunning. Still, she was pretty, and had high cheekbones and classic lines. She probably scrubbed up pretty good.
“Are you Sarah Maine?” Aspen asked.
The woman nodded, then looked past Aspen to see if anyone else was with her.
“Yeah. Are you a cop?”
Aspen laughed.
“Me?”
The woman was clearly serious.
“Not hardly,” Aspen said. Then she held up a picture of Derek Bennett, a printout from the firm’s website. “Do you know this man?”
She said nothing.
But the expression on her face said it all.
“Why?”
“I need to ask you a few questions about him,” Aspen said. “You’re not in any kind of trouble or anything. I’m just trying to help a friend.”
The woman almost opened the door, but then said, “My place is a mess.”
Aspen shrugged.
“I don’t care about that.”
“Wait here. Let me put my shoes on.”
They ended up walking down a trail that started at the far end of the trailer park and headed into the foothills. Aspen did her best to keep dust from kicking onto her shoes and nylons. On the way, she explained that she suspected Derek Bennett of being involved in a murder.
“Me and a friend followed him last night,” she said, “to Tops amp; Bottoms. We stayed in the parking lot until he came out, then I went inside to see what the place was about while my friend waited outside in the car. She spotted you coming out about five minutes after Bennett left. She said you looked stressed. We figured that you were the one he had the session with.”
“We can’t talk about our customers,” Sarah said.
Aspen nodded.
“Of course not,” she said, “as a general rule. But this is entirely between you and me.”
Something caught her eye.
A coyote.
About fifty yards off, loping through the field.
Two more followed.
“Coyotes,” she said.
“They’re all over,” Sarah said. “They won’t hurt you.”
“So what kind of sessions do you do with Bennett?”
The woman looked hesitant, deciding whether to talk or not, then said, “I get a thousand an hour. You see the way I live. I can’t afford to lose that money.”
“Honest,” Aspen said, “this doesn’t go anywhere beyond me. Believe me, I’m no stranger to money problems.”
Suddenly the coyotes barked and yelped.
Now they were scrambling, chasing something in the rabbit-brush.
“Found some lunch,” Sarah said. She looked at Aspen. “Derek Bennett’s a mean son-of-a-bitch. I don’t like serving him, even at a thousand an hour, but I have a sister with some medical problems. That’s where all the money goes.”
Then she described Bennett’s routine.