Next To Live

By R.J. Jagger and Jim Middle Hansen

In this pulse-pounding thriller set under sizzling tropical skies, Denver homicide detective Nick Teffinger finds himself pulled to the Caribbean in search of someone who is trying to kill him, only to be swept into the dangerous world of a exotic island woman .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thriller Publishing Group, Inc.
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781937888589

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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NEXT TO LIVE

R.J. JAGGER

Copyright©RJJagger

DAY ONE

August 4

Saturday

1

August 4

Saturday Morning

Under the yellow spray of a flashlight, the victim turned out to be a white male with thick blond hair, early-to-mid-thirties, in the driver’s seat of an older model Camry, slumped forward into the steering wheel. He wore all things black—a black long-sleeve shirt, black pants, black socks and black shoes. His hands were cuffed behind his back. The skin that showed—the hands, the face, the neck—were all incredibly muscled. The right side of his face was swollen to a massive proportion, nearly doubling the size of his head. The eye on that side was squeezed shut with the swelling. The other was full open, staring at nothing. The pain of the man’s demise was still etched on his face.

Sydney directed her flashlight to a burlap bag lying limp on the passenger seat.

Check this out, she said. The bag had a rope drawstring at one end. Watch.

With that, she eased up the opening with the butt of her flashlight. Inside was the body of a rattlesnake, about two feet long.

The reptile had no head.

It had been cut off.

The head’s not in there, she said. It’s not visible anywhere else in the car either. I don’t think it’s here.

Nick Teffinger, the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit, tried to focus, but he couldn’t shake the image of leaving the club last night, crawling into the back of a taxi with the little Brazilian cutie, Savanna, and letting her straddle him with a hiked-up skirt as the cabbie pointed the headlights into the thickness of an ugly thunderstorm. He had no recollection of getting out of the cab or paying for the ride, and now checked his wallet. There was a lonely twenty and a handful of ones left. He’d started the night with over two hundred.

What are you doing? Sydney said.

Just checking something. So what’s your theory?

The woman shrugged.

From what I can guess, someone was in the back seat waiting for the victim. When he got in, whoever was in the back forced him to put the handcuffs on. He undoubtedly had a gun or knife on the victim at that point, because the guy wasn’t knocked out or anything—there’s no trauma to the back of the head or neck. At that point, the person in the back seat opened the sack and swung it over the guy’s head. The rattlesnake was inside and very much alive at that point and bit the guy’s face, which resulted in all the mess. Then the person in the back cut the snake’s head off, took it and left.

Teffinger chewed on the logistics and said, How do you cut a rattlesnake’s head off?

I don’t know. Maybe he killed it first. I guess the bigger question is, why did he cut it off? I mean, the guy’s already dead at that point. Mission accomplished. Why not just leave the snake as is? Just open the door, step out and be gone. Why go to the bother and risk of killing it or even worse, cutting its head off while it was alive, if that’s what happened?

Teffinger frowned.

Why use a snake at all? If you’re right and he already had a gun to the victim, why not just pull the trigger?

I don’t know, Sydney said. Maybe he was trying to make a statement.

Saying what, exactly?

I don’t know. I don’t know who he was saying it to, either.

Teffinger stored the thought away. It might make sense at some point but right now it was just jumble.

Do we know who the victim is?

Sydney shook her head.

No. I’m waiting for the Crime Unit.

Coffee, Teffinger said. I need coffee.

As the seconds and minutes and chunks of time fell off, they documented, photographed, and unwrapped the scene one careful layer at a time, bagging anything and everything that might have relevance. With the body so fresh, they were able to pinpoint the time of death with a high degree of accuracy, namely 2:00 a.m. give or take a little but not much; ironically the exact time Teffinger was doing what he was doing to the pretty little thing from Rio.

Sydney was right, the snake’s head was nowhere to be found. According to Kwak, the Crime Unit king, it looked as if the snake was still alive when the head was cut off, which impressed even him.

You got to admire the handling.

You think the person’s experienced?

Either that or he has more intestinal fortitude than you and me and ten more just like us put together.

The man’s pockets were empty, except for $500.00 in twenties. He had no wallet or cell phone. The car keys were on the floor, no doubt dropped when the man was confronted. There were only two keys on the chain, both for the car, meaning no house key.

The license plates turned out to be stolen.

They belonged to a boat trailer.

The owner didn’t even know they were gone.

It was all strange and even intriguing to a point but not terribly gripping until they opened the trunk.

Whoa, baby.

Inside was a rifle case.

Inside that case was a loaded sniper rifle, scope and ammo.

Under the case was a manila folder.

Inside that folder were several photos of none other than Teffinger himself, taken at different times and locations; driving, walking, and the like. There were also several photos of his house, taken from both the street side and the open space behind his yard.

God, Nick, Sydney said. This guy was out for you. You don’t know him?

Teffinger swallowed.

No.

Are you sure?

He nodded and said, No. Someone hired him.

Who?

Teffinger racked his brain.

He had enemies, lots of them, because he did his job well. People went to prison because of him. Some of them were already out. Most had relatives, and more than one of them was crazy. A few people had put Teffinger in a situation where he had no option but to kill them. And there were some people still on the run, some of whom might conclude that only Teffinger had the skills and tenacity to put them away; they’d be free if he was dead, and they were tired of running. Names and faces flashed but none stood out.

No one’s jumping out, he said.

Well, you better start thinking. I don’t want to have to break in a new boss.

He smiled.

You have me broken in?

Yeah. You didn’t know?

No.

Well, pay attention.

He walked around to the driver’s window and took another look at the freak of a face slumped into the steering wheel. Then he turned to Sydney and said, I definitely don’t know him. Hopefully his fingerprints will tell us something.

They won’t.

Why not?

You didn’t notice? He doesn’t have any.

She was right.

The tips of the man’s fingers had the smoothness of twenty-year-old liquor.

Whoever’s trying to kill you has money, Sydney said. Guys like this don’t come cheap. Maybe Michael Northway.

Teffinger hadn’t heard that name spoken out loud for over a year. Northway, a fancy-schmancy lawyer, had been the founder and managing partner of Denver’s most feared and prestigious law firm. Now he was just a dirtbag on the run and the firm was a broken pile of imploded dust. Northway had been forced to escape quickly, before he could get his hands to his money. But he also had the tenacity and charisma to make more, not in the legal system of course—that was forever over—but in Hong Kong real estate or the black market or some equally obscure thing. Teffinger could never picture the man living cheap and dirty.

Still, even if Northway found his way into new money, he didn’t feel right.

I don’t think Northway would mess with me, even second-hand through a hitman, Teffinger said. He wouldn’t like the risk and he’s the kind of guy who’s more focused on the future than the past. I don’t think it’s Tarzan, either. If Tarzan was out to kill me, he’d do it with his own two hands and a crazy-ass grin on his face. He wouldn’t hire someone.

Who then, Teff?

I don’t know.

She came in close and said, You smell like perfume.

2

August 4

Saturday Morning

You smell like perfume.

Teffinger winced, already full-well knowing that he was boxed in by his only two options; either give her the details now without further pain, or get pried open over however long of an agonizing period it took.

Is it a black girl?

No.

It’s never a black girl, Teff. You don’t have to be afraid of us. We won’t bite.

I’ve had what you’re talking about.

And?

And they were all fine. I have no complaints. This one just happens to not be black. She could have been though. I met her by accident.

He must have had a look on his face because Sydney got a look on hers and punched his arm.

This isn’t just one of your wild rides to nowhere, she said. You actually like this one.

He went to deny it but didn’t.

It’s too early to tell. I’ve only known her one day.

You picked her up at a bar?

No, I met her yesterday morning.

Where?

He exhaled.

Then he flashed it back for her.

* * *

Friday morning everything in his life changed. It happened on Lincoln in thick stop-and-go traffic in the middle of the financial district when the traffic in front of him came to a stop and he continued on with a go. It happened when he reached for the radio to get a Beatles song and the front end of the Tundra rammed into the back of another car and made that terrible sound that only gets made when metal meets metal.

The whole thing, from the time he smashed into the poor soul in front of him to the time he got to a stop and maneuvered his six-two frame out the door, was only a second, or two or three or four at most.

The other vehicle turned out to be an older vintage Karmann Ghia, ’59 or thereabouts, red, a convertible, not a trailer queen by any stretch but a nice driver and the kind of car that shouldn’t be sitting there right now with a contorted bumper and an accordion trunk.

Teffinger’s Tundra, by contrast, hardly had a mark.

The driver was a woman, possibly a little wild judging by the way she didn’t care about how her hair blew.

She didn’t get out.

Her left hand dangled out the window as Teffinger approached. Up top was an expensive white blouse. Down below was a pinstriped skirt, riding high. Smooth mocha legs stuck out. On the passenger seat was a subtle leather briefcase, the same midnight-black as the woman’s hair.

Are you okay?

The woman turned her face to him and removed her sunglasses.

It was at that exact second that everything changed.

She had that kind of exotic, hypnotic, love-me-do or love-me-don’t face that could make a man do stupid things. It was the kind of face that could steal the soul out of the sky or break a man at will. She was at least part Hispanic but blended with something else—Portuguese, maybe, or possibly even Asian. Whatever it was, the combination was most definitely more than the sum of its parts. Teffinger immediately warned himself not to fall in love with her.

It was already too late.

I’m fine, she said. You?

Her voice was a song.

There was a light touch of an accent.

Yeah, fine, he said. It was my fault. I have insurance. I’ll get you fixed up.

She studied him.

I have money, she said. Don’t worry about it.

Are you sure?

A song came from the woman’s radio, something raw and edgy, with a ’60s British invasion vibe.

Well baby used to hang out all night long

She made me cry, she done me wrong

Teffinger had never heard it before but already needed to hear it again, he needed to memorize it and roll it around in his brain until it was etched in and became an automatic part of his tapestry. Traffic skirted around them, brushing close, not caring, having places to go and really not needing someone right there smack dab in the lane in front of them.

Hurt my eyes wide open, that’s no lie

Tables turn, it’s her turn to cry

The woman slipped the sunglasses back on and said, I got to go.

Aren’t you going to look at your car?

Later.

I can’t let you leave, Teffinger said. Not without paying for it.

The woman studied him closer. Then she wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

You want to make things right? That’s my number. Take me out.

When?

She shrugged.

Tonight.

Where?

Wherever you want. Surprise me.

She took off.

The song weaved behind her like smoke.

Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now

Yeah I used to love her, but it’s all