Twice To Die

By R.J. Jagger

In this edgy thriller from acclaimed author R.J. Jagger, Denver homicide detective Nick Teffinger finds his life shaken to the core as he hunts two criss-crossing killers, one of which may be targeting one of Teffinger’s former lovers, and the other of which may be in a unique position to actually help prevent the kill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thriller Publishing Group, Inc.
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781937888497

R.J. Jagger

Author of over twenty hard-edged thrillers, R.J. Jagger is a trial attorney who lives in Colorado. In addition to his own books, he also ghostwrites books for a popular bestselling author. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers and The Mystery Writers of America. All of Jagger's novels are independent of one another and complete within their own four corners. Read them in any order. RJJAGGER.COM

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Praise For The Author

I love the way this man writes! I adore his style. There is something about it that makes me feel as if I’m someplace I’m not supposed to be, seeing things I’m not supposed to see and that is so delicious.

Rebecca Forester, USA Today Bestselling Author

This book is creative and captivating. It features bold characters, witty dialogue, exotic locations, and non-stop action. The pacing is spot-on, a solid combination of intrigue, suspense, and eroticism. A first-rate thriller, this book is damnably hard to put down. It’s a tremendous read.

ForeWord Reviews

A terrifying, gripping cross between James Patterson and John Grisham. Jagger has created a truly killer thriller.

J.A. Konrath, USA Today and Amazon Bestselling Author

As engaging as the debut, this exciting blend of police procedural and legal thriller recalls the early works of Scott Turow and Lisa Scottoline.

Library Journal

The well-crafted storyline makes this a worthwhile read. Stuffed with gratuitous sex and over-the-top violence, this novel has a riveting plot.

Kirkus Reviews

Verdict: The pacing is relentless in this debut, a hard-boiled novel with a shocking ending. The supershort chapters will please those who enjoy a James Patterson–­style page-turner

Library Journal

A clever and engrossing mystery tale involving gorgeous women, lustful men and scintillating suspense.

Foreword Magazine

Part of what makes this thriller thrilling is that you sense there to be connections among all the various subplots; the anticipation of their coming together keeps the pages turning.

Booklist

This is one of the best thrillers I’ve read yet.

New Mystery Reader Magazine

A superb thriller and an exceptional read.

Midwest Book Review

Verdict: This fast-paced book offers fans of commercial thrillers a twisty, action-packed thrill ride.

Library Journal

Another masterpiece of action and suspense.

New Mystery Reader Magazine

Fast paced and well plotted . . . While comparisons will be made with Turow, Grisham and Connelly, Jagger is a new voice on the legal/thriller scene. I recommend you check out this debut book, but be warned . . . you are not going to be able to put it down.

Crimespree Magazine

A chilling story well told. The pace never slows in this noir thriller, taking readers on a stark trail of fear.

Carolyn G. Hart, N.Y. Times and USA Today Bestselling Author

DOUBLE

DARK

Thriller Publishing Group, Inc.

DOUBLE

DARK

R.J. JAGGER

Thriller Publishing Group, Inc.

Double Dark

Thriller Publishing Group, Inc.

Golden, Colorado 80401

Copyright©201RJjagger

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Thriller Publishing Group, Inc. hardcover edition

July 2018

Library of Congress Control Number: Available

ISBN 978-1-937888-47-3 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-937888-48-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-937888-49-7 (eBook0

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

For Eileen

DAY ONE

July 8

Tuesday

1

Nick Teffinger, the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit, parked the Tundra in front of a hooker bar on south Broadway and crossed the street to Tokyo Jack’s. Inside, pre-lunch, the place was dark and the customers were few. A waitress pouring coffee at a booth spotted him, came over and put him in a full-length squeeze with the pot still in hand.

Her touch was as he remembered.

She led him to a red vinyl booth in a dim corner back near the restrooms and said, It went down right here.

Okay, walk me through it.

It’s pretty simple. A guy came in, sat back here and ordered a cup of coffee, she said. This was last night about seven. There were hardly any customers at the time. It was about like it is now.

You were his waitress?

Right.

Describe the guy.

He was black, somewhere in his mid-thirties and dressed really nice, in a suit, she said. His hair was short but it was dyed blond. He had sort of a jet-set look to him, if you know what I mean. He had a tan leather briefcase that he kept on the table right in front of him.

Okay.

Nick, I haven’t taken any drugs in over a year.

I know.

I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.

That’s not true. Tell me what happened next.

She ran a finger down his chest.

I never showed my gratitude. I get off at eight tonight. We could get a room or something.

He squeezed her hand.

Be careful or I’m going to call your bluff one of these days. What happened next?

She focused and then said, He was here for about ten minutes and then a blond woman came in and joined him. She was like a goddess, Nick, honest to God. You’ve seen all those models on the covers of those magazines? She blows them away.

So she was nice, huh?

Let me put it this way, she said. Don’t look her in the eyes, Nick. You’ll be ruined if you do.

Ruined? That’s a pretty strong word.

Yeah but that’s what you’ll be. She had a tattoo on her neck. It was some kind of Kanji thing. I have no idea what it meant. Anyway, she ordered coffee, which I got, and then I was over there in that area where I had two other tables going, sort of keeping an eye on them in the mirrors.

Show me.

She took him across the room and showed him how a mirror by the bar angled into another one over by the restroom and reflected into the booth.

I use the mirrors sometimes to keep track of things, she said. Anyway, the man opened the briefcase. It was pointed away from the main room but into the mirror behind him. It was filled with money and I mean a ton of the stuff. On top of it all was a picture of a woman.

Did you get a look at her?

No. I could tell it was a woman but that was it, she said. Anyway, to me it looked exactly like the kind of thing that someone would give to a hitman. My curiosity went through the roof. What I ended up doing was going through the kitchen and around to the restrooms the back way. I hugged the wall right around the corner. Let me show you where.

She took him over.

Her position was five or six feet behind the table, out of line of sight.

They talked about the woman taking the mark by Friday night at the latest. Mostly they used the term the mark but at one point the man said her name, which was Susan Smith.

Susan Smith.

Right.

She was the mark?

Right, Susan Smith. Anyway, ten minutes later the little goddess left with the briefcase. The man stayed for another five minutes, finished his coffee and left.

Teffinger nodded.

Did he leave you a tip?

Yes, five dollars. You want to put it towards that room?

2

Outside the July sun beat down with every ounce of scorch it had, intent of wringing the last living drop of juice out of every person and plant and dog and bug in the city.

It felt good for the first thirty steps.

By the time Teffinger got to the Tundra he’d had enough. He cranked over the engine, turned the AC on high and dialed Sydney Netherwood, the newbie. As it rang he pulled up an image of the woman’s taut African American body and her smooth mocha skin.

That call this morning is legit, he said. The mark is someone named Susan Smith. Find everyone in the city who has that name and get me what you can on them.

A beat.

What’s in it for me?

Same as me. A paycheck at the end of the month.

I get that without dropping everything, she said. You want me to drop everything, right?

Right.

So, what’s my motivation?

How about saving someone’s life?

Susan Smith’s?

Exactly.

I don’t know the woman, she said. What else you got?

He exhaled.

Okay, lunch.

That’s better. See, you can get to the right answer if someone gives you enough time.

He pulled into Broadway traffic, cut over to Santa Fe and swung north back into the guts of the city, punching the buttons in hopes of getting a Beatles or Beach Boys song only to find that Sydney had set all the presets to hip-hop.

50-Cent’s In Da Club came through.

He let it play.

The bass twisted into his brain.

The hitwoman—the goddess—was from out of town. Denver didn’t have the depth to support a hit person, not to mention that a woman that riveting would have come across Teffinger’s line of vision sooner or later. The caveman genes in the back of his skull would have made him focus at her. He would have memorized her every detail. He would have seen the tattoo.

No, she wasn’t from here.

She was from out of town staying at a hotel.

That’s where he’d find her, in one of the better ones.

Goddesses don’t live low.

He found her on the fourth try, registered at the 1,000-room Sheraton strategically located in the heart of the matter, mere steps from both the 16th Street Mall and the financial district. According to the guy working the reception desk—a college-looking kid with a Bob Baxter name tag—the woman’s name was Portia Montrachet. She was staying in 1215, booked through Saturday morning.

Teffinger pulled a fifty out of his wallet and pushed it across the counter.

It’s important that she doesn’t know anyone was asking about her.

Bob shoved the bill in his pocket.

Teffinger was halfway across the lobby when he had an idea and turned back.

I wanted to ask you one more thing, he said. Is she with anyone?

No.

How about a black guy with blond hair?

No.

You haven’t seen a guy like that around?

No.

Okay, thanks.

He headed across the lobby and out the revolving doors. Then he went back in.

Bob, stop making me leave before I ask all my questions. Did she rent a car?

Let me check. The man punched buttons on a computer screen and nodded. She rented a black Mustang. You want to the plate number?

Sure, why not?

He wrote it down.

Then he walked away.

Hey, Bob said.

Teffinger turned.

Aren’t you going to ask me the next question?

Don’t have one.

You will.

You’re probably right, Teffinger said. Don’t ever get as old as me. The mind stops working in a straight line. He drummed his fingers, trying to remember what it was that he was supposed to remember. Then it came to him. Is the room next to Ms. Montrachet’s available?

I told you you’d have another question. Let’s see; 1214 no, 1216 yes.

Teffinger rented 1216 through Saturday morning under the name North Reynolds, not really having a plan for it yet but reasoning it couldn’t hurt.

Then he left.

Back at homicide Teffinger headed for the coffee and from there over to Sydney who had eight or ten fresh stacks of papers on her desk.

So far I have eleven Susan Smiths, she said.

Eleven?

She nodded.

Teffinger picked up the nearest pile.

On top was a printout of a driver’s license for one Susan Smith, a 32-year-old who lived west of Colorado Boulevard. Below that was her rap sheet, fairly clean except for a few minor alcohol-related infractions. Below that was her Facebook page, dated today, with a photo that matched the driver’s license.

The other piles were similar.

Our hitwoman is someone named Portia Montrachet, Teffinger said. She’s staying at the downtown Sheraton, room 1215. Do me a favor and run that name to ground. I’m sure it’s a fake but I don’t want to find out later that it isn’t.

Sydney gave him a look.

When do I get that lunch?

Next week.

That’s what you always say.

Teffinger shrugged.

It’s not my fault that when next week comes, it’s now this week instead of next week.

So under your reasoning, next week never comes.

He nodded.

Precisely.

That’s pretty tricky reasoning.

It doesn’t come easy. I have to work at it.

As Sydney worked the computer for Portia Montrachet, Teffinger told her about the black man with the bleached hair. We’ll run him down, he said, but my guess is that he’s not the one who wants the mark hit. He’s an intermediary.

What makes you say that?

The system is built in layers, he said. No one who wants someone dead can just look in the phone book under hitmen. They have to leak their desire to someone, who knows someone else, who knows someone else. It’s all smoke and mirrors. The black man is a link in that chain but isn’t the start of that chain. Even if we find out who he is, working upwards from there will be difficult. He’ll be smart enough to cover his tracks.

Sydney frowned.

So far no one named Portia Montrachet exists, she said. She’s not in any of our databases and Google never heard of her. She must have used a credit card to register. Maybe we could get a lead from that.

Teffinger didn’t answer.

One of the Susan Smith piles on the desk had his attention.

He picked it up and couldn’t believe what he saw.

3

What he saw on the top of a Susan Smith pile was a face he recognized, intimately recognized to be precise. Looking into those eyes again for the first time in over two years, a memory flashed in his brain with such vividness that he might was well have been right there.

He was in Razzle.

It was Saturday night.

The bodies were sardine tight and every inch of the club dripped with smoke and perfume and sex and wild abandon and pounding bass. He was leaning against the bar with three Buds in his gut and a fourth in his hand, watching a pretty little thing gyrate on the dance floor and imagining what it would be like to slip his hand up between her thighs.

It was then that something happened.

A woman appeared from out of nowhere, her face suddenly in front of his, close, dangerously close, so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath. She rubbed her stomach on his and gyrated to the beat, letting her long raven-black hair swing from side to side.

She said nothing.

Her eyes said it all.

Her hips said it all.

Ten seconds, that’s how long it took before Teffinger was addicted. Her face was dark and mysterious and filled with lust.

Her eyes came close.

Her tongue licked his lips.

Nick, are you okay?

The words came from Sydney.

The memory flashed off.

He tapped the pile and said, I know this woman. Her name’s Del Ray Rain. She’s a flight attendant.

Sydney’s face washed in confusion.

Her driver’s license says Susan Smith. Her website says she’s a lawyer. What’s going on?

Teffinger shuffled through the pile.

In it was a printout of the front page of a website for Susan A. Smith, Attorney-At-Law. The photo of the attorney unquestionably belonged to Del Rey Rain, the flight attendant. He rolled the papers up, tapped them on the desk and said, I’ll be back.

Where you going?

To talk to the mark.

You think she’s the one?

I’m positive of it.

How?

I don’t know. I just do.

The woman’s office turned out to be an old but still-standing brick structure on the less-trendy edge of Wazee, three or four blocks from Coors Field in LoDo. It probably started life as a store or small manufacturing facility of some sorts before decades of abuse dragged it to near-death. Now, like more buildings than not, it was patched, upgraded, converted and reinvented. Burnt-orange designer awnings framed a weathered oak door. What the address lacked in prestige was balanced out with sunlight, parking and reasonably priced eateries.

Some day the area might be trendy.

That day wasn’t quite here yet.

Fire shot through Teffinger’s veins as he walked to the front door.

The woman’s eyes were dangerous.

They could shift his world.

They could make him be stupid.

They could make him do things.

They could make him feel things.

Screwed into the front door was a tasteful brass plaque:

Law Office of

Susan A. Smith, Esq.

The brass was darkened with age. It had been there for years, including the period two years ago when the woman was busy telling Teffinger she was a flight attendant.

He turned the knob and stepped inside.

What he expected was cramped dark wood, half-dead ferns and saggy bookshelves. What he got was a vaulted foyer, sunlight streaming from a skylight and rich Delano oil paintings on textured vanilla walls.

A contemporary receptionist desk was unoccupied.

Fresh tulips poked out of a crystal vase.

Anyone home?

No one answered.

He eventually found her in the upper attic storage area, sitting on the carpet with her back against the wall and her legs stretched out. A large storage box was at her side, pulled off a shelf of more of the same. The top was opened and several files were out. A band of sunlight sprayed through an open window, striking her thighs. She had her skirt hiked up to catch the rays.

She was shuffling through papers in a manila folder.

So, you’re a lawyer, Teffinger said.

The woman looked up.

Her eyes locked on his, first hard, then like a watercolor.

Nick.

Not that it matters much anymore, he said, but why’d you keep it from me? The fact that you’re a lawyer?

She set the file down.

I’m sorry about the way things ended, she said.

Don’t worry about it.

Her eyes darted.

Do you hate me?

He thought about it.

The answer surprised him.

Sometimes, he said. But only in the middle of the night.

I almost called you a hundred different times, she said.

Why didn’t you?

Do you want the truth?

He smiled.

The truth in a lawyer’s office? Is that physically possible?

She stood up, hesitated, and took a step to him. She put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his neck. She smelled like an oasis and the pressure of her thighs against his shot fire through his veins.

Not calling you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Then why didn’t you?

Because you scared me, Nick.

Bullshit.

I don’t mean in a mean way, she said. I’m talking about the opposite.

4

g

Teffinger sat down on the floor, leaned back against the wall and said, Technically I’m here on business. We have credible reasons to believe that a hitman—a hitwoman, actually—is in town to kill a target by the name of Susan Smith. We know of eleven women in town by that name and there are probably more. What I want to know from you is whether you’re the one she’s here for and, if so, why.

The woman smiled, waiting for the punch line, then got somber.

Are you serious?

Yes.

He was.

No, she said.

You’re not the one?

She shook her head.

If someone wants you dead, that’s the kind of thing you can feel.

Teffinger shrugged.

Maybe yes, maybe no, he said. Maybe it’s a brother or a girlfriend of someone you didn’t get off.

You mean revenge?

Sure, why not?

She chewed on it.

It doesn’t fit, she said. Revenge would come with warnings. It would be like headlights coming up a dark road.

Teffinger raked his thick brown hair back with his fingers.

It immediately flopped back down.

You’re a lawyer, he said. People tell you things they don’t tell anyone else. Maybe someone’s reconsidering whether they want someone running around who knows something about them.

The woman shook her head.

Theoretically it’s possible but I can’t think of any real life fits.

Maybe it’s not law related. Maybe you saw something you shouldn’t have.

No.

Did you take something?

No.

Are you into drugs?

Nothing you don’t already know about.

Do you own anyone money?

Yeah, Visa.

Are you pressuring anyone about anything?

No.

Did you break anyone’s heart?

She paused and sighed.

I’m not the target, Teff, she said. I’ll keep my eyes open but you’ll be better off on concentrating on the other Susan Smiths. A beat then, Tell me about the hitwoman.

He told her.

She was going by the name Portia Montrachet.

She was attractive, blond, and had a Kanji tattoo on her neck.

He didn’t have a photograph yet but would by the end of the day.

Where’s she staying?

Teffinger frowned.

I don’t want you trying to make contact with her.

I won’t.

Good.

What’s your plan to stop her?

That’s still a work in progress.

Let me help.

No.

Come on—

It’s a police matter.

It’s also a matter for Susan Smith, she said.

You already said you’re not the one.

True, but we both know I can make mistakes. Just being on the list gives me some entitlement, don’t you think? Besides, it will give us a chance to get reacquainted.

Back at homicide, Sydney had collected even more information on the Susan Smiths. With coffee in his left hand, Teffinger went through the files one by one, looking for a situation or personality trait or occupation that could possibly trigger a hit.

A few red flags rose.

The 28-year-old Susan Smith who lived on Clarkson was one. She had some minor scratches in her record, including a few that had landed her free room and board at the public’s expense for a short period of time. Currently employed as a Merry Maid, it was possible that she snooped around when she should have been cleaning and ended up taking something. Or maybe she found a more interesting kind of dirt, the kind that could be used for blackmail. It would be interesting to know whose houses she’d been in recently and whether any large sums of money had mysteriously appeared in her bank accounts.

He handed the file to Sydney.

Take the lead on this one, he said. See if she got herself in over her head on something. Get her to say something that would support a warrant to get into her bank records.

Sydney took the file.

You’re weird today, she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

Meaning what?

Meaning your old flame.

He shrugged.

She said I scared her.

Sydney wasn’t impressed.

You’re a lot of things, Teffinger, but scary isn’t one of them.

Two more files caught his eye.

One was a lawyer who had been disbarred for three years for putting retainer funds into an operating account and then drawing on them as a loan, allegedly with intent to repay it next month. She was in year two of her disbarment period and, apparently, was talented enough to land an interim job as a legal assistant at one of Denver’s largest law firm, Tracer & Banks. In that position she’d have access to a lot of confidential information.

The other file of interest was for a model. Teffinger recognized her from some of the clubs around town. The word was that she had a cocaine habit and a penchant for screwing powerful people.

He handed the files to Sydney.

Two more.

She made a face.

What are you going to be doing while I do all the work? Repeat, all the work.

He stood up and headed for the coffee.

I’ll be doing something I shouldn’t.

5

Working the net, Teffinger found a real-life New York limited