Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain Page B
Authors: R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain
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no freedom of movement.
Each brushstroke had been perfectly planned, too perfectly planned.
He kept hoping to find a wild stroke, a rogue splash of paint, a surprise color, something—anything—to show that the person holding the brush was an actual living human being.
There was none.
He sat down next to Leanne and said, “The people who painted these things should have been engineers or doctors.”
Leanne shrugged.
“They look okay to me.”
Two minutes later they were escorted to the office of Mark Remington.
THE ATTORNEY HAD A PLEASANT FACE and looked a lot better in person than he did in the photo on the firm’s website. For someone who rode a desk, he managed to stay in shape. He wore his tie loose and his hair shaggy. Instead of wingtips, he had soft leather loafers.
As they sat down he said, “I’m at a loss as to why you’re here.”
“Then thanks for seeing us,” Teffinger said. “There was a man on your street last night, a Frenchman by the name of Boudiette. Do you know him?”
For a heartbeat, Teffinger thought he saw something flicker in the lawyer’s eyes, but couldn’t be sure.
“No,” Remington said. “Who is he?”
Teffinger took a sip of coffee.
“The word is, he was scoping out your house,” he said.
“My house?”
Teffinger nodded.
“Why would a Frenchman be scoping out my house?” Remington asked.
Teffinger narrowed his eyes.
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
Remington laughed.
“This is nuts,” he said. “Did one of my partners put you up to this?”
Teffinger shook his head.
“From what I understand, you do international law.”
“That’s correct.”
“When was the last time you were in France?”
“France?”
“Right.”
The lawyer searched his memory and said, “Twelve years ago, thirteen maybe.”
“That’s a long time,” Teffinger said.
Remington nodded.
“My next-door neighbor goes there all the time,” he said.
Teffinger raised an eyebrow.
Really?
To France?
“He’s an interpreter. Big international companies hire him to be sure there are no miscommunications when deals go down.”
“What’s his name?”
Reynolds.
Pete Reynolds.
Peter, actually.
Peter Reynolds.
AS SOON AS THEY STEPPED OUT of the building an RTD bus sprayed them with a plume of diesel. Leanne grabbed Teffinger’s arm and pulled him back.
“So what do you think?” Teffinger asked.
“I’ll run down this Peter Reynolds just so the file’s complete,” she said. “But Boudiette was scoping out the lawyer’s house, not the one next door.”
“How can you be sure?” Teffinger asked. “That street was pretty dark.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m not positive.”
“No one could be,” he said.
But he had already lost interest.
This wasn’t his fight.
He needed to get refocused on Tessa Blake.
Right now.
This second.
31
Day Five—June 15
Friday Afternoon
JEKKER DIDN’T HAVE A GUN OR A KNIFE with him—they were in the middle boxcar—but he did have 209 pounds of ripped muscle as he trotted up the dirt road to the boxcars. He hoped he didn’t have to kill anyone.
He really did.
His head pounded with too much beer pain to deal with the hundred little details of the aftermath.
When the boxcars came into view, his worst fears came true. A young woman was at the door of the boxcar that held Tessa Blake, trying to pry the padlock off with a stick. On the ground not more than two steps away sat a backpack and a large plastic bottle of water. She wore green hiking shorts and a sun visor. Jekker slowed to a walk, concerned about spooking her. When she spotted him, her face twisted in fear.
Be cool.
Just be cool.
Be another hiker.
“Hi,” he said with his best smile. “Is this the way up to Lake Jackson?”
She looked apprehensive, as if she sensed a trick, but she didn’t bolt.
That was the main thing.
Jekker concentrated on not scaring her as he closed the gap.
“I think I might be lost,” he said.
Each brushstroke had been perfectly planned, too perfectly planned.
He kept hoping to find a wild stroke, a rogue splash of paint, a surprise color, something—anything—to show that the person holding the brush was an actual living human being.
There was none.
He sat down next to Leanne and said, “The people who painted these things should have been engineers or doctors.”
Leanne shrugged.
“They look okay to me.”
Two minutes later they were escorted to the office of Mark Remington.
THE ATTORNEY HAD A PLEASANT FACE and looked a lot better in person than he did in the photo on the firm’s website. For someone who rode a desk, he managed to stay in shape. He wore his tie loose and his hair shaggy. Instead of wingtips, he had soft leather loafers.
As they sat down he said, “I’m at a loss as to why you’re here.”
“Then thanks for seeing us,” Teffinger said. “There was a man on your street last night, a Frenchman by the name of Boudiette. Do you know him?”
For a heartbeat, Teffinger thought he saw something flicker in the lawyer’s eyes, but couldn’t be sure.
“No,” Remington said. “Who is he?”
Teffinger took a sip of coffee.
“The word is, he was scoping out your house,” he said.
“My house?”
Teffinger nodded.
“Why would a Frenchman be scoping out my house?” Remington asked.
Teffinger narrowed his eyes.
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
Remington laughed.
“This is nuts,” he said. “Did one of my partners put you up to this?”
Teffinger shook his head.
“From what I understand, you do international law.”
“That’s correct.”
“When was the last time you were in France?”
“France?”
“Right.”
The lawyer searched his memory and said, “Twelve years ago, thirteen maybe.”
“That’s a long time,” Teffinger said.
Remington nodded.
“My next-door neighbor goes there all the time,” he said.
Teffinger raised an eyebrow.
Really?
To France?
“He’s an interpreter. Big international companies hire him to be sure there are no miscommunications when deals go down.”
“What’s his name?”
Reynolds.
Pete Reynolds.
Peter, actually.
Peter Reynolds.
AS SOON AS THEY STEPPED OUT of the building an RTD bus sprayed them with a plume of diesel. Leanne grabbed Teffinger’s arm and pulled him back.
“So what do you think?” Teffinger asked.
“I’ll run down this Peter Reynolds just so the file’s complete,” she said. “But Boudiette was scoping out the lawyer’s house, not the one next door.”
“How can you be sure?” Teffinger asked. “That street was pretty dark.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m not positive.”
“No one could be,” he said.
But he had already lost interest.
This wasn’t his fight.
He needed to get refocused on Tessa Blake.
Right now.
This second.
31
Day Five—June 15
Friday Afternoon
JEKKER DIDN’T HAVE A GUN OR A KNIFE with him—they were in the middle boxcar—but he did have 209 pounds of ripped muscle as he trotted up the dirt road to the boxcars. He hoped he didn’t have to kill anyone.
He really did.
His head pounded with too much beer pain to deal with the hundred little details of the aftermath.
When the boxcars came into view, his worst fears came true. A young woman was at the door of the boxcar that held Tessa Blake, trying to pry the padlock off with a stick. On the ground not more than two steps away sat a backpack and a large plastic bottle of water. She wore green hiking shorts and a sun visor. Jekker slowed to a walk, concerned about spooking her. When she spotted him, her face twisted in fear.
Be cool.
Just be cool.
Be another hiker.
“Hi,” he said with his best smile. “Is this the way up to Lake Jackson?”
She looked apprehensive, as if she sensed a trick, but she didn’t bolt.
That was the main thing.
Jekker concentrated on not scaring her as he closed the gap.
“I think I might be lost,” he said.
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