Read Online Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain - Free Book Online
Authors: R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain
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said. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
London studied her forearm in the mirror and said, “You better believe it.”
Then she sat down at the computer and drafted a Complaint.
Venta Devenelle v. Vesper & Bennett, Denver District Court, Denver, Colorado.
Third blood.
18
Day Three—June 13
Wednesday Evening
AN HOUR AFTER ALL THE SANE PEOPLE in the office had gone home, Teffinger’s stomach growled and his concentration waned. He twisted a pencil and, for a second, considered shoring himself up with another cup of coffee, but when he held his hand out to see how bad the caffeine shook his fingers, he figured he’d probably had enough. So instead he called Venta and asked where she was.
The answer surprised him.
“In your kitchen.”
“My kitchen?”
“Cooking you dinner,” she said.
When he walked in the front door twenty minutes later, rap music came from the radio and a mouth-watering garlic aroma wove through the air. Venta was in the kitchen, singing, barefoot. She wore thin, flimsy white shorts that did little to hide an incredibly taut ass.
“Spaghetti,” she said.
He shook his head and looked at her strangely.
“What?” she asked.
“You know the words to this song?”
She did.
“I’ve never even heard it and you know the words to it,” he said. “How did you get such bad taste in music?”
She stuck her tongue out.
“This dinner comes with a price,” she warned.
“What kind of price?”
“After we eat, you have to take me somewhere to do something that I’ve never done before.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s for you to decide. Take me on a new adventure. Expand my universe. It doesn’t have to be anything big or mind-blowing, just something I’ve never done before. I’ll be putty in your hands.”
He came up behind her, reached around and put his hands on her stomach.
“You don’t feel like putty,” he said.
“Try some of the other places,” she said.
AFTER GETTING A GUT FULL of the best spaghetti and garlic bread in the universe, Teffinger made Venta sit on the couch and promise not to watch as he carried mysterious stuff from the lower level and threw it in the back of the Tundra, plus two bottles of wine.
Then they took C-470 east, exited at Wadsworth, and pulled into the parking lot of the Chatfield Marina shortly before dark. They carried sleeping bags and overnight items to a 30-foot Hunter sailboat moored at the end of E-Dock.
The boat rocked as Teffinger stepped on board and held his hand out to steady Venta. “This isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to a friend.”
Venta was impressed.
“I need a friend like that,” she said.
Teffinger fired up the inboard diesel but left the sails wrapped. They motored over to the no-wake zone at the south end of the lake and dropped the anchor in 15 feet of water and let out 150 feet of rope. A sunset began to form over the Rocky Mountains, no more than a mile or two to their west. Not a wisp of wind disturbed the air and the water didn’t show a ripple.
Venta had never anchored out in a boat overnight so Teffinger’s debt to her for dinner was officially satisfied.
The lake was pretty much theirs and theirs alone.
The fishermen were either over by the dam or heading to the loading ramps.
They nestled into the cushions and watched the sunset, sipping white wine from plastic glasses. Teffinger told her about the Tessa Blake case and his frustration of not being able to find someone with a motive.
“My guess is this,” Venta said. “She either snooped around while she was cleaning someone’s house and ended up seeing something she shouldn’t have, or else she just flat out took something.”
Teffinger had already thought of that.
“We got the names of the owners of all the houses that she had cleaned for the last three months,” he said. “None of them filed a police report or complained to Molly Maids regarding anything stolen or missing. As
London studied her forearm in the mirror and said, “You better believe it.”
Then she sat down at the computer and drafted a Complaint.
Venta Devenelle v. Vesper & Bennett, Denver District Court, Denver, Colorado.
Third blood.
18
Day Three—June 13
Wednesday Evening
AN HOUR AFTER ALL THE SANE PEOPLE in the office had gone home, Teffinger’s stomach growled and his concentration waned. He twisted a pencil and, for a second, considered shoring himself up with another cup of coffee, but when he held his hand out to see how bad the caffeine shook his fingers, he figured he’d probably had enough. So instead he called Venta and asked where she was.
The answer surprised him.
“In your kitchen.”
“My kitchen?”
“Cooking you dinner,” she said.
When he walked in the front door twenty minutes later, rap music came from the radio and a mouth-watering garlic aroma wove through the air. Venta was in the kitchen, singing, barefoot. She wore thin, flimsy white shorts that did little to hide an incredibly taut ass.
“Spaghetti,” she said.
He shook his head and looked at her strangely.
“What?” she asked.
“You know the words to this song?”
She did.
“I’ve never even heard it and you know the words to it,” he said. “How did you get such bad taste in music?”
She stuck her tongue out.
“This dinner comes with a price,” she warned.
“What kind of price?”
“After we eat, you have to take me somewhere to do something that I’ve never done before.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s for you to decide. Take me on a new adventure. Expand my universe. It doesn’t have to be anything big or mind-blowing, just something I’ve never done before. I’ll be putty in your hands.”
He came up behind her, reached around and put his hands on her stomach.
“You don’t feel like putty,” he said.
“Try some of the other places,” she said.
AFTER GETTING A GUT FULL of the best spaghetti and garlic bread in the universe, Teffinger made Venta sit on the couch and promise not to watch as he carried mysterious stuff from the lower level and threw it in the back of the Tundra, plus two bottles of wine.
Then they took C-470 east, exited at Wadsworth, and pulled into the parking lot of the Chatfield Marina shortly before dark. They carried sleeping bags and overnight items to a 30-foot Hunter sailboat moored at the end of E-Dock.
The boat rocked as Teffinger stepped on board and held his hand out to steady Venta. “This isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to a friend.”
Venta was impressed.
“I need a friend like that,” she said.
Teffinger fired up the inboard diesel but left the sails wrapped. They motored over to the no-wake zone at the south end of the lake and dropped the anchor in 15 feet of water and let out 150 feet of rope. A sunset began to form over the Rocky Mountains, no more than a mile or two to their west. Not a wisp of wind disturbed the air and the water didn’t show a ripple.
Venta had never anchored out in a boat overnight so Teffinger’s debt to her for dinner was officially satisfied.
The lake was pretty much theirs and theirs alone.
The fishermen were either over by the dam or heading to the loading ramps.
They nestled into the cushions and watched the sunset, sipping white wine from plastic glasses. Teffinger told her about the Tessa Blake case and his frustration of not being able to find someone with a motive.
“My guess is this,” Venta said. “She either snooped around while she was cleaning someone’s house and ended up seeing something she shouldn’t have, or else she just flat out took something.”
Teffinger had already thought of that.
“We got the names of the owners of all the houses that she had cleaned for the last three months,” he said. “None of them filed a police report or complained to Molly Maids regarding anything stolen or missing. As
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