Read Online Confidential Prey (Nick Teffinger Thriller) by R.J. Jagger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.J. Jagger
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don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.”
Then she was gone.
It took him a long time to get to sleep. He kept making up arguments to support the fact that it really would be for her, not him. He almost convinced himself before finally conceding it was all a pile of crap.
He let the pounding of the storm rock him to sleep.
When he woke the storm was no longer audible and faint rays of dawn were washing through the windows. He got up, stretched and headed for the master bedroom to get to the shower.
Atasha was in the bed.
A knife was stuck in the side of her head and the pillow was soaked in blood.
2
Day Thirteen
August 15
Monday Morning
There was a time when Raverly Phentappa thrived on the fame. She got a secret smile deep down inside every time a stranger recognized her on the street or shouted her name. Now she did her best to keep that fame in a bag. As she walked through the heart of Denver’s financial district Monday morning, that bag consisted of oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap with an uneventful ponytail pulled throu gh the back, a green Aero T, jean-shorts with no designer label stitched on the back and lips with no rouge.
She was just an ordinary Joe.
She pushed through the revolving doors of the cash register building, walked across an expansive vaulted lobby and entered the elevator that served floor 42, the home of Denver’s most renowned criminal defense firm, Tristen & Day, P.C.
She was pretty.
In fact, Harvard law degree aside, she’d be the first to admit that her big break came because of her face and her body. She was the island girl that sailors searched the world for and then lost all sense of judgment once they found her. Her skin was golden brown, her eyes were green and her raven hair was thick and long. Whatever her ancestry was, it worked.
At thirty, she’d accomplished a lot.
Most people knew her as CNN’s legal commentator, smack in the middle of whatever criminal or legal mess happened to have its fingers around America’s throat. Less people knew that she was the author of three true-crime novels that were acclaimed by readers and reviewers alike.
She got out of the elevator on floor 42 and pushed through fancy glass doors into a contemporary reception area. Denver’s bare-knuckles criminal defense trial attorney, Anderson North, showed up almost immediately, introduced h imself with a white smile and wh isked her to a corner conference room with blue leather chairs and floor - to - ceiling windows that framed Denver below and the mountains not-so-below .
“Thanks for coming,” North said. “Nice disguise.”
She sat down.
The chair was soft but supportive.
“Actually, this is the reality,” she said. “The disguise is what you see on TV.”
He poured coffee into two cups and handed her one.
“Let me get right to the point,” he said. “You have a fan but I’m not sure it’s going to be one you want. It’s a guy who, if he’s to be believed, has killed a lot of people and isn’t done yet. He’s taken a liking to you.”
“Is he a client of yours?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your source of information?”
North got somber.
“I have a good friend who’s a lawyer out in L.A.,” he said. “The killer is his client.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
North frowned.
“He’s asked me to keep that confidential,” he said. “Here’s what’s going on. His client—let’s just call him Mr. K for a moment—wants to start a dialogue with a homicide detective here in Denver by the name of Nick Teffinger. Do you know him?”
No, she didn’t personally.
“I know of him,” she said. “I’ve seen him on TV. I also know this, if this guy really is a killer and actually starts a dialogue with Teffinger, then he’s out of his mind. Sooner or later Teffinger will find a way to rip off his head and pee in the hole.”
North
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.”
Then she was gone.
It took him a long time to get to sleep. He kept making up arguments to support the fact that it really would be for her, not him. He almost convinced himself before finally conceding it was all a pile of crap.
He let the pounding of the storm rock him to sleep.
When he woke the storm was no longer audible and faint rays of dawn were washing through the windows. He got up, stretched and headed for the master bedroom to get to the shower.
Atasha was in the bed.
A knife was stuck in the side of her head and the pillow was soaked in blood.
2
Day Thirteen
August 15
Monday Morning
There was a time when Raverly Phentappa thrived on the fame. She got a secret smile deep down inside every time a stranger recognized her on the street or shouted her name. Now she did her best to keep that fame in a bag. As she walked through the heart of Denver’s financial district Monday morning, that bag consisted of oversized sunglasses, a baseball cap with an uneventful ponytail pulled throu gh the back, a green Aero T, jean-shorts with no designer label stitched on the back and lips with no rouge.
She was just an ordinary Joe.
She pushed through the revolving doors of the cash register building, walked across an expansive vaulted lobby and entered the elevator that served floor 42, the home of Denver’s most renowned criminal defense firm, Tristen & Day, P.C.
She was pretty.
In fact, Harvard law degree aside, she’d be the first to admit that her big break came because of her face and her body. She was the island girl that sailors searched the world for and then lost all sense of judgment once they found her. Her skin was golden brown, her eyes were green and her raven hair was thick and long. Whatever her ancestry was, it worked.
At thirty, she’d accomplished a lot.
Most people knew her as CNN’s legal commentator, smack in the middle of whatever criminal or legal mess happened to have its fingers around America’s throat. Less people knew that she was the author of three true-crime novels that were acclaimed by readers and reviewers alike.
She got out of the elevator on floor 42 and pushed through fancy glass doors into a contemporary reception area. Denver’s bare-knuckles criminal defense trial attorney, Anderson North, showed up almost immediately, introduced h imself with a white smile and wh isked her to a corner conference room with blue leather chairs and floor - to - ceiling windows that framed Denver below and the mountains not-so-below .
“Thanks for coming,” North said. “Nice disguise.”
She sat down.
The chair was soft but supportive.
“Actually, this is the reality,” she said. “The disguise is what you see on TV.”
He poured coffee into two cups and handed her one.
“Let me get right to the point,” he said. “You have a fan but I’m not sure it’s going to be one you want. It’s a guy who, if he’s to be believed, has killed a lot of people and isn’t done yet. He’s taken a liking to you.”
“Is he a client of yours?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your source of information?”
North got somber.
“I have a good friend who’s a lawyer out in L.A.,” he said. “The killer is his client.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
North frowned.
“He’s asked me to keep that confidential,” he said. “Here’s what’s going on. His client—let’s just call him Mr. K for a moment—wants to start a dialogue with a homicide detective here in Denver by the name of Nick Teffinger. Do you know him?”
No, she didn’t personally.
“I know of him,” she said. “I’ve seen him on TV. I also know this, if this guy really is a killer and actually starts a dialogue with Teffinger, then he’s out of his mind. Sooner or later Teffinger will find a way to rip off his head and pee in the hole.”
North
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